“Squirrels?”
He led her away from the food booths, and at that moment Hope would have followed him anywhere. “You want to shoot squirrels?”
“Yep.”
She would have followed him to the moon, the end of the earth, or shooting squirrels, but she had to admit that it was weird, and not a typical date. “I suppose they taste just like chicken,” she reasoned.
“I wouldn’t know.”
They moved down the midway, past the crowded food stands to the relatively deserted game booths. Most people had taken a break to eat, and the Shoot a Squirrel game was empty except for the carnival worker. She’d seen the booth earlier but had forgotten about it, because not only didn’t she have any desire to shoot a BB gun, each game cost the exorbitant price of two bucks.
She glanced at the five happy squirrel targets, then looked up at Dylan. One side of his face was lit by the light pouring from the booth; the other was covered in shadow. “When you said you wanted to shoot squirrel, I thought…”
“I know what you thought.” He removed his hand from the small of her back and pulled his wallet from his pocket. He handed the carnival worker, named Neville, ten dollars and was given two BB guns. “We’re going to have a contest,” Dylan said as he shoved his wallet into his back pocket. “I get two games and you get two. You also get a free practice round.”
She took the gun and held it at arm’s length. “What makes you think I need practice?”
“Just a wild guess.” He smiled, a slow and sensual turn of his mouth. “We’re also going to place a little side bet.”
“You don’t think I have a chance of winning do you?”
“Nope.”
He was probably right. “What’s the side bet?”
Dylan leaned his gun against the booth. Then, without a word, he stepped behind her and positioned her gun against her shoulder. He placed his warm hand over hers and positioned his finger over the trigger. “Now squeeze the trigger,” he said next to her right ear. She did and the BB hit the tarp behind the first squirrel. He folded her within the warmth of his solid chest, and the hairs on the back of her neck tingled as she fired again. The shot hit a bushy-tailed target happily munching on an acorn. “The secret to a steady shot is knowing how to handle a loaded weapon,” he said just above a whisper as he cocked the gun for her. “It takes a smooth motion of the wrist… and a slow, firm squeeze of the trigger.” The third shot hit the third squirrel with a loud ping that sent Hope’s nerves pinging through her body. “You look like a girl who’d be good at nice, smooth strokes and a firm squeeze.” The fourth target fell, and then the last. “Are you, Hope?”
Hope glanced at the carnie standing several feet away. He was watching them, but he couldn’t hear anything. She chose to ignore Dylan’s question, but that didn’t keep her insides from heating up and her nerves getting jumpy. She looked up into Dylan’s face and asked, “What’s the side bet?”
He stared into her eyes for a moment and then lowered his mouth closer to her ear. “When I win,” he said, “I get to lick you up like you’re ice cream.”
His breath on her ear warmed the side of her throat. “What happens if I win?”
He didn’t answer right away, as if he hadn’t considered the possibility. “You won’t.”
“What if I do?”
“Whatever you want.”
She tried to think of something to lighten the sexual tension, but her words came out sounding more sensual than she’d planned. “Like I could order you to come over and mow my yard?”
“That’s the best you can do?”
“Naked,” she added.
“Naked is good. Take out the part about mowing your yard and I just might let you win.” He brushed her arm with his hot palm and thought for a moment. “Nah, I like mine better. Maybe you should admit defeat right now and save yourself some embarrassment.”
“Do I have a choice?”
He dropped his hands and took a step back. “Hope, you always have a choice. I’d never make you do anything you don’t want to do. What’s the fun in that?”
She believed him. “I get to go first.”
He picked up his BB gun and handed it to her.
She waited until Neville had reset the targets. Under Dylan’s watchful eyes, she shot two of the five squirrels. “That was pretty good,” she said, proud of herself.
Dylan laughed, three low “huh-huh-huhs.” Then he raised his BB gun, squinted down the barrel, and knocked out all five targets in less than five seconds. He had that smooth squeeze motion down real good, an obvious expert at handling loaded weapons.
“I think I’ve been set up,” she said.
“You never stood a chance, city girl. I got my first BB gun when I was about four years old.” He lowered the barrel. “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. All or nothing, and in the next round, you only have to hit three, but I have to hit every shot to win.”
“You’re on.” As soon as the squirrels were once again standing, she took aim.
“Look down the sites.” Neville stepped forward to advise her.
Dylan turned a narrow gaze on the carnie, and Neville went back to his position at the side of the booth. At the end of the barrel, she noticed what Neville was talking about. She lined it up on a squirrel with a green bow tie. “Take that,” she said as the target fell. She missed the next two targets, but hit the fourth. She sited the last squirrel, wearing a pair of pink pumps. “I’m going to nail her good.”
“Now, there’s an interesting choice of words.”
She glanced over at Dylan, then back at the squirrel. “Don’t think you can distract me.”
“I’m not”-he paused to lower his voice a fraction-“but if I were trying, I’d probably just come right out and tell you I’m wondering about the color of your panties again.”
She shook her head. “Not even your juvenile attempt to distract me is going to work.” She hit the target, then blew on the end of the barrel as if there were smoke coming out. “Worried, Sheriff?”
“Honey,” he drawled as he shot and hit the first squirrel, “you’ve got me shakin‘ in my boots.”
Hope decided it was time to do a little distracting of her own. She leaned her behind against the edge of the booth and crossed her legs. Her beige skirt slid up her thighs, and she ran her gaze from his big belt buckle up his chest to his face. “Why don’t you tell me again how to handle a loaded weapon?” She licked her lips and lowered her voice to a seductive whisper. “Tell me about that smooth stroke and gentle squeeze.”
He shot and the second target fell. “It was ‘firm squeeze.’” The third squirrel went down and Hope straightened. “There’s a difference.”
“Pink,” she said, loud enough for his ears only.
He cocked the gun and looked across his shoulder at her. “Pink?”
“My panties are pink.” She raised a seductive brow. “Silky pink with little red chili peppers and the words ‘Warning: Hot Stuff ’ embroidered on the front.”
His gaze dropped to her crotch. “Really?”
No, not really. “Yeah.”
Ping. Ping. Ping. The rest of the targets fell and Dylan leaned the gun against the booth. “Well, look at that. I guess I win.”
Neville offered Dylan his choice of a rubber chicken, an assorted selection of fake vomit, a Corvette mirror, or a plastic hard hat that held a beer on each side. Dylan took the hat and placed it on her head. “For your next twofer night,” he said.
It was the first time in Hope’s life a man had given her a cheap carnival prize. The gesture touched her more than it should have, which she supposed was just one more reflection on her life. It was a pretty sad commentary when a beer helmet could make a woman feel sort of weepy.