Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56970 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56970 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
“And Damon?”
“Tell him the gals are thinking hard about what dirty things they want us to tend to.”
I race to the Four Square, buy three dozen ping pong balls, a black marker, and a fish bowl. I drop these to Mar on the sly and tell her, Tiff, and Gretchen to number the balls, then leave them hiding out in the supply closet and race to the library. There’s a printer there. All I have to do is print out fifty bingo cards. No problem.
Tai raises a brow at me, but leaves me to carry on. When I have the printed sheets, I run back to the hall. I’m panting, but damn, I did it. Okay, it’s not the gear Damon entrusted me with, but it’s something.
He’s on the platform in front of the crowd when I get there, bowed over the fishbowl, hand sifting ping-pong balls. All his angles scream perplexed, but also intrigued. Mar is murmuring next to him and he glances at her, a dimple quickly quirking his lip. I catch the tail end of their conversation as I approach. “. . . did he now?”
I stall on a nervous wee shiver and divert my attention to the gals—and guys—jabbering over foot-high table dividers, like this were an exam and they weren’t to peek at their neighbour’s card.
To be fair, it is a small town. Maybe the school used these tables for that exact purpose. I give everyone a card and a winsome smile and procrastinate heading over to Damon, who’s watching me with a quiet, contemplative smile. I wind around the tables again, like I’m double-checking everything is in order.
I pause next to Gretchen and Tiff, who’ve come in the pyjama pants I made them. “Looking good, ladies.”
They smile and tug me closer between them. “Any way you can make him pull out my numbers?” Tiff asks.
Gretchen hums. “Or mine. Tiff, you can come by my place to watch.”
For the first time, I really look at their cards—bright white with boxed black numbers, and—
I blink, rub my eyes, and look again. My pulse quickens with a skippy sense of doom. OMG. Oh fuuuuck. These . . . these cards . . . I thought I’d generated them on random. But Tiff’s and Gretchen’s . . .
“All righty then,” Damon calls from the platform. “If my adorable boyfriend would come join me, we can start this show.”
I pull away and glance at another card—
I shriek internally. This is . . . a mess. This is something I should fess up to immediately.
“Perhaps a little help from the audience to rush him up here, hmm?”
Grannies pretend to grab at me and I trot out of reach—but not exactly at speed—towards Damon and his fishbowl. Someone yells out, “I have to take my pills in half an hour, sweeties.”
Pearls of sweat trickle down my nape.
Damon’s eyes are on me, his head tilted, like he senses something’s off. I smile wanly, and that has his hand pausing in the bowl. Pretty sure he expects me to say something. Pretty sure I’m too tongue-tied to admit anything. I mean, it’s not like anyone will get hurt . . . just . . . their favourite evening . . .
“Anything you want to say, Leon?” Damon murmurs as I sidle next to him.
I open and shut my mouth and then flash him a grin. If admitting my mess-up is hard, letting these poor ladies go home without having fun will kill me. “Nope. Good to go.”
It takes seventeen minutes for the hall to erupt into a chorus of bingos and for me to lunge towards the exit, only to be thwarted by Damon, quick as lightning, grabbing the back of my shirt and hauling me against his firm chest. Hot breath skates over my ear. “Thought you were acting fishy.”
“That’s me. Fishy to the bone.” The hall is in an uproar but in his strong hold, it feels like just the two of us. His soft laugh puttering at my nape and my twitching lips. I turn in his arms and flash him all my teeth. I’m feeling a little silly inside, sheepish, but most of all safe. That I can be like this within our community. That I can be like this with him. I chuckle while he tuts and shakes his head with a smile of his own.
A curious, expectant crowd starts calling out all the tasks they have for us and I duck my head against Damon’s chest, peeking out at the sea of grey then up to hazel eyes. I laugh. Whatever. “You gotta love me?”
Warm hands shift over my back and pull me closer.
Our audience awwwws for about two-point-five seconds before Gretchen calls out, “My porch light went bust last night, would you two walk me home and fix it?”