For the next two hours,we bounce between rides and eating our weight in grease and sugar.
Rowan said he doesn’t do dunk tanks, but I somehow convince him to do the log ride. We stumble out of the exit, drenched from head to toe. I tug my wet V-neck from my body and shake some of the water away. Rowan’s hair drips from where it curls out from under his hat, hungry stare directed right at me.
His attention is a blaze of fire raking over my body. The wet hair stuck to my forehead I sweep away with the back of my hand. The shirt clinging to my stomach. The water droplets cascading down my legs from the frayed edges of my denim cutoffs.
A group of kids crying out for money from their parents interrupts the moment, abruptly ending his perusal. I force a small chuckle as the tiny humans whizz past us toward the games. Otherwise known as the money pit by which these carnivals stay afloat.
Rowan coughs once, clears his throat. “Let’s play,” he rasps. Then he grabs my hand and pulls me into the crowd.
He vehemently opposes my desire to win a goldfish.
“What the hell are you gonna do with a fish?”
I pull some damp cash out of my back pocket. “I’ll give it a nice home for the three days it lives and then I’ll move on with my life. It’s not that deep. It’s the thrill of winning, okay?”
He shoves my hand away when I hold out a five dollar bill for the game attendant, passing over his own money instead. It’s about the seventeenth time he’s done that tonight, and I’ve lost the will to fight him on it. I’m also just a girl standing in front of a boy who insists on paying for everything, and he’s gorgeous and big and strong and sweet and…well, feminism kind of loses its luster around him.
I walk away sans goldfish, and Rowan loses fifteen dollars in the process.
“My turn to pick,” he declares, curiously eyeing the plethora of options until he strikes gold. “That one.”
Rowan drags me behind him until we’re standing at a table in front of a wall of bullseye targets.
“Ten dollars for seven shots,” the young carnival worker explains. Holding a long wand, he points to the stuffed animals framing the booth. “Three bullseye hits gets you something from this section. Five gets you a medium prize. Hit all seven and you win one of these,” he finishes, slapping his pointer to the colossal stuffed animals clipped to a wire overhead.
Calm and unfazed, Rowan hands over the cash in exchange for a pellet gun loaded with seven rubber pellets. He turns the toy weapon over in his hands. With expert precision, he folds his left palm around the grip and places his right hand on top, tucking his pointer around the trigger. His face is stoic, fully focused as he positions the gun just right.
His determined eyes lift to mine from under the brim of his hat. “Pick a prize, runaway.”
I bite my lip against the wave of butterflies in my chest. Dipping my head side to side, I pretend to consider my options for a second. “The life-sized teddy bear, obviously.”
“Obviously,” he parries, stepping closer. “A little space?”
A snort bursts out of me. He pops a brow in answer. And, because I’m a brat, I clap my hands loudly and spin around, shouting like a circus ringleader. “Alright, people! Out of his way, out of his way. Give the man some space! History is about to be made!”
I whirl on him with a dramatic bow. He glares at me, tugs his hat a little lower, but I spy a hint of a smile there.
“Cute,” he quips, pretending not to notice the small crowd I’ve assembled for him.
He takes in a single breath before lifting the gun to take aim. The corded muscles of his forearms flex through the dark colorful ink of his tattoos. My cheeks flood with heat. I take a step back to give him the space he asked for, but also to breathe.
Not only does my big soldier man hit seven bullseyes. He hits seven bullseyes in under five seconds.
I think I just fell pregnant. A modern day immaculate conception.
For Rowan, it’s another day at the office. He sets the gun on the table and directs the attendant to collect my prize. If he notices the stares and audible gasps from the group of onlookers, he does a good job of hiding it.
Before the attendant can hand over the bear, a young boy breaks out from the crowd and runs to Rowan’s side. He can’t be a day over seven. Tugging on the hem of Rowan’s shirt, the kid looks up at him with awestruck eyes.
The moment Rowan turns his attention on him, the boy takes two steps back. He sloppily claps his feet together and pins his hand to his forehead in a soldier’s salute.
Rowan quirks a grin, steels his spine, and gives him a return salute.
My heart somersaults down to my stomach and back up my throat. This just in: Surprise! It’s twins. In my womb, it’s twins.
“At ease, little man,” the big guy says.
The boy points to Rowan’s hat where the word ARMY is embroidered boldly across the front. “Do you know my daddy?”