Love Me: The Complete Series (22 page)

“They’re just trying to protect you.”

“Maybe.” She leveled her eyes on his. “I could use someone to have a thread of faith in me right now. You know, faith I can do this. I want to be successful so bad I can taste it. Maybe I don’t need a rich boyfriend to survive, even though they struggle to believe it. I mean I’m smart. Capable. Can’t they see that?”

Wow, were her parents really that backward thinking? It never occurred to him her family wasn’t in her corner, rooting for her success.

“Trust is a hard thing for most people.” He wasn’t referring to her parents either—he was as guilty in that respect as they were. His adult life had been riddled with women and friends that said one thing and did another—people that hid the simplest of things rather than expose themselves to potential pain.

• • •

Abby’s heart toasted her insides a bit. He sat, beer in hand, and drank in silence, watching the crowd move around them. She was worn out from all the confusion but even tired, she wanted to wrap her arms around his neck. Which really pissed her off. She should have never gone to Sotby’s that night and she definitely shouldn’t have answered the texts. Or let Caroline do it on her behalf.

“Look, I haven’t got a clue what you’re doing here, but it’s wrong.” His voice was more a growl than words. So much for the warmth she’d briefly felt.

A popping noise caught her attention and she shifted to look behind. “How are you with a shotgun, Carter?”

“Huh?”

She hooked a thumb at the toy gun booth. Sure, it was set up so kids had entertainment while their parents shopped, but why not? “Want to take a little target practice? We can pretend the targets are each other. Winner has to spill their guts. You up for it?”

“Spill their guts? As in what?”

“Honesty. Tell something totally honest about themselves. Think you can handle it?”

“You’re serious? I’d think that was way too close to the fire for you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She lifted a brow and had the familiar urge to touch him.

Carter shrugged. “Honesty doesn’t seem to be your thing, but I’m game if you are.” He rose and strode toward the small counter. A row of pop-guns sat waiting for takers, each with a small rope anchoring it to a makeshift tripod.

A comment like that should have burned because she always thought herself incredibly honest. Under the circumstances, she had little defense. How could she blame him for his thinking? Still, she’d set him straight and give him a chance to vent in the process.

The entire exchange was destined to be indelibly imprinted on her mind; the monotonous carnival music chorded as a set of fake birds flitted across the backdrop. They disappeared, only to return seconds later and repeat their route. She had been preoccupied, thinking of the right way to say what she’d so completely botched before. Over and over. Now, studying his clenched muscles, she had to admit—he was hot, in multiple ways. His anger, the humid day, and just watching him made her temperature spike.

When Carter bent to aim the pop-gun, his back hip taunted her with memories of being locked against that hip. His T-shirt stretched up and bared the indention of his lower spine just above the waist of his shorts that hung loose on those delicious hips. She wanted to reach out and touch that spot, stroke a circle around the slight hollow, then follow it to other even hotter spots. She bit her lip, clenched her fist then started—to—reach.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

The sound jolted her from the daydream as each pop was followed by a ting sound. He turned and grinned. “I hope you brought your A-game. You’d better get started—I’m already up by two hundred points.” He swung the gun barrel at his score, displayed in red lights on the wall above the birds under the words
Player A
. Then he proceeded to lightly pummel the trigger until he’d sprayed the targets and drove his score up higher.

She let out a sigh and laughed. “Oh, I brought it, all right. Prepare to be blistered into submission.”

He darted a raised brow at her over the barrel then, without turning back, flipped the trigger three more times. Hitting something each time. Should she be intimidated? Not unless she was concerned about winning, which she wasn’t. In fact, she planned to lose.

Abby plunked two quarters into the slot and picked up the pop-gun. She leaned over at the waist, knowing her shirt had dipped as his did and revealed even more skin. She hoped it affected him as much.

He sucked in air. “I am sooo going to whip your ass, Abs. So, do I get to pick the subject of this honesty exposure or are there certain things off-limits?”

She pulled the trigger five times, speaking as the two targets flopped down. “No limits.”

He kept shooting right along with her. She missed. He hit. She hit. He hit. Seconds ticked along until his rapid-fire trigger clicked, signaling the end of his turn. He set the gun down and came up behind her. Leaning over her back, Carter’s entire body weighed against her, hard and warm. “Don’t choke,” he whispered in her ear.

Abby choked. But not because she couldn’t shoot.

She squinted into the sight, tried calming her jangled nerves, and sprayed the remaining shots across the terrain of targets. When her gun clicked, she set it down. The score glared at them in red lights. Player A: 1150, Player B: 650

“You cheated.” She feigned a protest.

“How can you cheat at pop-guns?”

His body pressed into hers and she swore she felt him breathe. “You’re distracting me. How am I supposed to hit anything when you plaster yourself against me every time I pull the trigger?”

He chuckled. “All’s fair in hate and war. You said no rules.”

“You misquoted that, didn’t you?” She pushed a hip back and forced him off her.

“I said what I meant. Exactly how are we going to do this honesty thing?”

She ignored his remark and turned to lean against the counter. Crossing her arms, she considered that question.
Haven’t really thought that far ahead.
“I want a rematch.”

Mimicking her, he crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. “I think I should probably tell you I used to hunt a lot with my dad. We also spent a lot of time at the gun range and, in case you didn’t notice, that score is pretty near perfect.” He pointed at the red light.

Yeah, she’d noticed. That and more.

“I think I should tell you I have a concealed handgun license.” Not that she ever used a handgun. She owned one and went to the range about once or twice a year, mainly because her father insisted.

He grimaced. “I should have known you’d welch.”

Okay, maybe baiting him when he was already angry probably wasn’t wise. “Okay, I was kidding—I meant it. Ask me whatever you want.”

He surveyed their surroundings. “Here? Now?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Unless you want to delay the agony?”

“Agony where you’re concerned sounds pretty good to me. So, it’s my choice? We can do this right here or whenever, wherever I want?” He looked surprised.

“I guess so, but why wait? Let’s get this over with.” She was ready. Apparently, he wasn’t.

He dropped his arms and slipped his hands into the pockets of his frayed shorts. “I’m trying to think which question to ask.”

He was making this ridiculously difficult. “You have that many? Why don’t I start then?”

“Hey, I won. Not you.
You
don’t get to ask anything.”

“What are you afraid of? I might ask something personal? Get under your skin?”

He shrugged. “Already did that, remember? Under my skin, on top of it, wrapped in it—you name it.”

Her face flushed when the booth attendant leaned over and pulled the shotgun from under her behind and handed it to a kid, apologizing. “Oh, sorry. We’ll move.”

The guy grinned. “I was enjoying it, but we’re kinda busy.”

Abby strode back toward the tables they’d vacated. “So, ask. Or lose your turn. This isn’t going on forever. There’s an expiration date.”

“On honesty? So there
are
rules now? Figures. Okay, here you go.” He grabbed her arms, spun her around, and dipped his head dangerously close.

Damned if his smell didn’t make her want to close the gap. If it weren’t for the red hot anger flaring in his eyes, she would have. Most likely an incredibly stupid move. He might have pushed her away.

He was driving her crazy. His chest grazed hers and, for a second, his wall of fury seemed to waver. He glanced down as her chest heaved with the breathing that came in gasps. Mainly because there was little more than a hair between them. “Do you think about me when you’re in bed with Jackson?”

“
What?
Are you serious?” She glanced around at the throng of people within earshot—at least three glanced their way. One of which was—Dr. Bernard.
Gulp.

“As a heart attack.” His nostrils flared and he leaned closer, seemingly unaware of their audience.

She bent backward as he loomed above, his hands clenching her arms. What a stupid thing to ask. In order for her to say yes, which apparently he wanted to hear, she would have had to been in bed with Jackson at some point. So, while she’d sworn honesty—she had to say … “No.”

He released her arms and she fell backward. Right on her butt. The gravel dug into her hip.
That’ll leave a bruise
. He turned and stomped toward the cars.

“Wait! Let me finish.” She crawled to her knees then lifted up. He was fifty feet past before she caught up.

He’d stopped abruptly at one of the craft booths and stared. “Abby, you ever wear one of those?” He pointed to something in a costume booth complete with ornate outfits from every century, cartoon, movie, or character.

What? She focused, trying to understand the sudden change. “Huh?”

He pointed at the camera booth behind the outfits. “Let’s do it. Get a picture. What do you say? I’ll pick yours, you pick mine.”

First, he was mad and leaving, then he wanted a
picture?
What the hell?

“Have you lost your mind?”

Carter shook the hair surrounding that lost mind fervently. “Nope, but I thought it might be fun to see you wearing this.” He reached into a rack full of clothing and yanked out the dress on the end then turned it for her to see. A pilgrim-like dress of drab colors with a bright red A in cursive emblazoned on the chest.
The Scarlet Letter.
Seriously?
He raised a brow, mocking her.

“Oh. Yeah, I bet you would. Let me see. I’ll wear it, if you wear that one. She pointed at a hanger covered in bulky green bumps. It was shoved in the back, but she knew what it was right from the start. There was no way he’d wear that. Not ever. The big green machine? The Hulk? Not him. He was too seriously pissed off.

“Okay.” He shoved the hanger against her chest.

She rubbed where a bruise was sure to appear. “Seriously?”

“Afraid?”

Her? Afraid? Nope. “Not me, but once you get that on, I have to see it. No, I want a picture.” She walked to the green bumps, pulled them from the rack, and held it forward.

He chuckled. “No worries. I can rock this thing.”

Abby doubted that. No one looked good in green bulges. “Just curious—why’d you cave?”

“Nothing would make me happier than to see you in the costume that fits your true nature at the moment. You can probably wear the scarlet letter better than little Hester did. Too bad we can’t go back in time.”

Yikes. He wants to see me hang?

She stepped into a changing booth while Carter slipped the photographer some cash. She stepped out of her clothes and hung them on a hook then slipped into the dress. She smirked at the look. As she remembered, the girl in the book had a very high-necked, Colonial style dress. The dress in the mirror was nothing close. The dipped neckline exposed a fairly large amount of cleavage with the large red A strategically placed to point right to the darkness of the cleavage shadow. The back had a lace-up corset-style she hadn’t bothered to tie. Ridiculous. She shrugged and stepped out.

Plunk
. Her face smashed against the largest mass of green fabric muscles
ever.
Carter wrapped the fake bulges around her and squeezed so hard, she saw nothing but darkness. Green, dusty smelling, darkness.

“How’s that for muscle, Abs? Nothing like the Hulk. Man, I loved those movies when I was a kid. Check it out.” He stepped back—or rather waddled back—in the massive thunder thighs covered in a tiny pair of ripped jeans shorts. She couldn’t help but giggle. Carter held his hands out and flexed with gritted teeth.

“You look like a giant Brussels sprout.”

“Hey! Don’t hate the muscles. Look at my six-pack.” He thumped the over-inflated chest of the costume.

She wasn’t going to tell him the real one was better.

He frowned. “You look like—I expected.”

A girl in a barmaid costume patted him on the back. “Your face, sweetie.” She held out a tub of green goo. “Just wipe it on. It washes off.”

“Nah, this is good enough.” He held his palms up and tried to step backward but the giant nubs of his fake feet tangled and he fell flat. On his back.

Abby grabbed the tub and dove on top, sprawled eagle. “Oh, you’ll wear it, all right. I’ll put it on you myself. If you’re going to make me wear this, you have to do the full get-up.” She swiped his forehead and cheeks then smudged it around until his face was completely green.

Carter tried to put an arm around her but the bulging fabric muscles kept getting in his way. He was stuck flat on his back. “Think you could help me up?”

Abby rose and reached a hand out for his. He held up a green boulder-like paw and she pulled—the hand off. “Oh my God! Here, give me your hand. The real one.” She dropped the green glove and grasped his skinned fingers. She tried to pull him to his feet. No go. She straddled one of the green legs, bent her knees, reared back, and pulled with both hands. Then fell flat onto him again.

“Geez, that thing must weigh a ton.” Her over-exposed bosom smashed against his slimed-green cheeks. The slickness left a swath of green makeup up the side of her neck. Gross.

Abby tried to lift up. The bubbled fabric worked like pillows or rather wedges—to push down until her chest was planted across his—nose.