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Authors: Kate Ashton
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his arm around me. “How about some fried dough. You can add cinnamon and powdered sugar because I bet you’re the type of person who just goes for the powder.” The look on my face must give away that he’s right though it could’ve been a lucky guess.
“Wow. Now that’s excitement.” I see what he’s doing. This is honest, real fun, possibly something a small town girl like me had never experienced, but what he doesn’t realize is that I grew up in the Midwest where the nearest city was an hour away. The local arcade was a big favorite. “Then let’s play the car race games. I’ve always wanted to play that one.”
He winks. “Are you sure your ego can handle losing again?”
“Oh, I think so.” We leave the arcade and buy fried dough. I follow his advice and sprinkle on cinnamon and powdered sugar in small amounts.
“Okay. That is not excitement,” he comments after dumping cinnamon and sugar on his and then on mine too.
“It is for me, because as you say, I’m just a powdered sugar kind of girl.” I take a bite and notice the sugar below his lip. I fight the urge to lick it off.
We find a bench across the street. The crowd chatters around us and the silence between us is comfortable, except with the lack of distraction, I can’t help but think about the beach bag in my closet and the man’s words to me.
“So Chad, where do you work?” I ask, innocently.
“Tattoo shop.” Two seconds later, he smiles. “Kidding, but that’s probably what you were thinking. Right?”
“No.” I smile back. “But it would go with the whole biker thing.”
A shadow crosses his face and the natural shine in his eyes fades. “I work for my dad’s law office.”
“What do you do?”
Concern or worry is etched in the lines on his forehead but he quickly masks it. “You know, menial stuff like filing.”
“Will that get too boring?” Maybe that’s why they need my help, because they think he’ll quit the job from boredom.
“Definitely.” He confirms my fears.
“Just think about the future though. Maybe you can work for your father and eventually be a lawyer.” I hate out fake and forced the words sound coming out of my mouth.
He raises any eyebrow. “Now you sound like my father. Is he paying you or something?”
I laugh, a little too loud and a little too fake, but never answer because saying the words out loud and actually lying to him would feel worse. I recover fast. “Race you back to the arcade?”
“What?”
“That’s right. You heard me.”
“Aren’t we a little old to race?”
Obviously he needs some motivation. “Afraid to lose to a girl?” I dab his nose with the last piece of my dough that has a big blob of melting sugar and then take off sprinting.
“That’s right you better run.” His footsteps echo on the pavement behind me.
I giggle and run through the crowd, apologizing every time I bump into someone. I remember that he still has half his fried dough left, and I sprint into the arcade. The number of people has grown, waiting in lines, laughing, talking. I have a stitch in my side and lean against the back of a Pac Man machine to catch my breath.
Someone taps my shoulder.
I scream and turn, but see no one. People give me a strange look. I peek around the corner. The coast is clear. Time to make a break for it. As soon as I step away, strong arms grip around my waist.
“Gotcha!” He picks me up again and tries to carry me out. I fight but don’t have much strength as the laughter takes over. “Time for some sweet revenge, sweetheart.”
I squeal and kick my arms and legs. He stumbles and has to put me down. I try and run, but he drops me gently to the cement in the middle of the sidewalk. “What’re you doing? We’re in public.”
“Don’t worry.” He straddles me while I kick and punch him, laughing. I hit his arm and his fried dough goes back into his own face. I laugh and can’t stop.
“I was going to
“Wow. Now that’s excitement.” I see what he’s doing. This is honest, real fun, possibly something a small town girl like me had never experienced, but what he doesn’t realize is that I grew up in the Midwest where the nearest city was an hour away. The local arcade was a big favorite. “Then let’s play the car race games. I’ve always wanted to play that one.”
He winks. “Are you sure your ego can handle losing again?”
“Oh, I think so.” We leave the arcade and buy fried dough. I follow his advice and sprinkle on cinnamon and powdered sugar in small amounts.
“Okay. That is not excitement,” he comments after dumping cinnamon and sugar on his and then on mine too.
“It is for me, because as you say, I’m just a powdered sugar kind of girl.” I take a bite and notice the sugar below his lip. I fight the urge to lick it off.
We find a bench across the street. The crowd chatters around us and the silence between us is comfortable, except with the lack of distraction, I can’t help but think about the beach bag in my closet and the man’s words to me.
“So Chad, where do you work?” I ask, innocently.
“Tattoo shop.” Two seconds later, he smiles. “Kidding, but that’s probably what you were thinking. Right?”
“No.” I smile back. “But it would go with the whole biker thing.”
A shadow crosses his face and the natural shine in his eyes fades. “I work for my dad’s law office.”
“What do you do?”
Concern or worry is etched in the lines on his forehead but he quickly masks it. “You know, menial stuff like filing.”
“Will that get too boring?” Maybe that’s why they need my help, because they think he’ll quit the job from boredom.
“Definitely.” He confirms my fears.
“Just think about the future though. Maybe you can work for your father and eventually be a lawyer.” I hate out fake and forced the words sound coming out of my mouth.
He raises any eyebrow. “Now you sound like my father. Is he paying you or something?”
I laugh, a little too loud and a little too fake, but never answer because saying the words out loud and actually lying to him would feel worse. I recover fast. “Race you back to the arcade?”
“What?”
“That’s right. You heard me.”
“Aren’t we a little old to race?”
Obviously he needs some motivation. “Afraid to lose to a girl?” I dab his nose with the last piece of my dough that has a big blob of melting sugar and then take off sprinting.
“That’s right you better run.” His footsteps echo on the pavement behind me.
I giggle and run through the crowd, apologizing every time I bump into someone. I remember that he still has half his fried dough left, and I sprint into the arcade. The number of people has grown, waiting in lines, laughing, talking. I have a stitch in my side and lean against the back of a Pac Man machine to catch my breath.
Someone taps my shoulder.
I scream and turn, but see no one. People give me a strange look. I peek around the corner. The coast is clear. Time to make a break for it. As soon as I step away, strong arms grip around my waist.
“Gotcha!” He picks me up again and tries to carry me out. I fight but don’t have much strength as the laughter takes over. “Time for some sweet revenge, sweetheart.”
I squeal and kick my arms and legs. He stumbles and has to put me down. I try and run, but he drops me gently to the cement in the middle of the sidewalk. “What’re you doing? We’re in public.”
“Don’t worry.” He straddles me while I kick and punch him, laughing. I hit his arm and his fried dough goes back into his own face. I laugh and can’t stop.
“I was going to
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