Time to sass him.
I smirk. The effect might be more powerful if I weren’t covered in food, but I don’t care. My face is a Jackson Pollock, but I will speak in my native tongue. “I do. I’ve got a hunch you showed up late to try to get out of pieing me.”
He scoffs, chasing a chuckle. Then he unleashes a deep, satisfying sigh. “Oh, Nate. Be careful what you wish for.”
“I’ve got a lot of wishes, Hunter.” A lot of naughty wishes. I tip my forehead to the ticket taker for this booth. “Better go put your money where your mouth is, mister.”
He steps closer, so he’s a foot or two away from me, then drops his voice to a dirty whisper. “I know where I’d like to put my mouth.”
Yeah, baby.
“What do you know? Me too. Now, go. Do it,” I taunt.
He turns on his heel, giving me the chance to admire his fine ass as he walks away. He heads to a volunteer and buys up the rest of the pies.
Oh, shit.
I didn’t see that coming.
Nor this—Hunter’s walking back toward me, his arms laden with about eight desserts. “Put myself through uni as a server. I know how to carry pies.”
“Did they teach you to hurl them too?”
“No. Some sports I’m just naturally good at. This’d be one of them.”
He sets down the pies at a table near me, grabs one, then backs up a few feet. He grips it just so in his palm, then stares at me with narrowed eyes, the tip of his tongue wetting the corner of his lips like he’s assessing the angle, then the launch trajectory.
Lifting a pie like a deadly weapon, he aims.
And . . . fuck.
My face is covered in cherries. Ugh. Warm cherries.
I wipe them off, then resume my standard mode of operation. “Barely got me,” I taunt.
His grin is pure cheek. “I better try harder then.”
“You do that.”
Another cock of his arm. Another fire of the cannon. And . . . hell. I’m gooped once again.
Dragging the heel of my hand across my eyes, I wipe some of the mess away, then smile through the cutout hole. At least this hole kept the pie entrails off my hair for the most part. “Maybe someday you’ll hit me,” I tease.
His smirk is wider as he bends, grabs another pie, and weighs it in his palm. “I just don’t know if I can get you, Nate.”
“I’m a hard one,” I joke.
“You don’t say.”
Bam! Mister Guns for Arms pies me. Then he does it again, and again, and again. Until he’s pie-less, and I’m a certified mess.
But, hallelujah!
No more pies. We are dunzo.
I walk around the pie booth, grab my towel, and wipe the filling from my face so that I’m not covered in sticky stuff. Then I drag the towel over my hair, getting any remnants from my locks. I’ll need a shower, but at least I’m no longer a sideshow. Hunter watches me, then steps closer. “I think you missed a spot,” he says, gesturing at my cheek.
“I bet I missed a lot of spots,” I say, coasting the towel over my cheek as my gaze roams up and down the man. “Looks like you’ve got a bit of collateral damage, though.”
I reach out, pluck at the cuff of his shirt, mottled with cherries. “Seems you were caught in your own crosshairs.”
Hunter’s dark eyes drift down to the schmutz on his shirt. “How about that? I’m a bit of a mess too.”
That gives me a brilliant idea. “You know, cherry stains can set in right away unless you put on stain remover. And wash it.”
“You know quite a lot about laundry.”
“I do. Because I was a good boy and listened when my mama taught me how to make my bed, wash my laundry, and clean my dishes.”
“And a good boy turned into a self-sufficient grown man,” he says drily.
“Bet you’d be impressed by my laundry skills,” I say.
A smirk is his reply. “Nate, are you trying to tell me you want to do my laundry?”
I wave in the general vicinity of the Marina, away from the water. “I live nearby. I have this killer washing machine. I can have your shirt done like that,” I say, snapping my fingers.
The air crackles between us. The flirt and innuendo practically vibrate at a low hum. “But we don’t have to do it . . . like that,” he says, repeating my words slowly, snapping his fingers like I did. “We can take our time . . .” He lets the words draw out, all slow and enticing, “. . . with the laundry.”
And everything else, you sexy beast.
“Let’s go have a laundry date, hottie,” I say.
“First time for everything. Including laundry dates,” he says, his grin all kinds of delicious. I want to kiss it off him really fucking soon.