Page 67 of Love You Truly

“I thought you said this one was sneaky, designed so the rings bounce.” Indeed, the rows of milk bottles mostly have rings lodged between bottlenecks rather than encircling them.

Dash nods but seems intent on trying. He hands the last of his tickets to a guy in blue-striped pants and a matching jacket and waits for him to retrieve a stack of rings. “Good luck,” he says, presenting Dash with five rings.

“Okay, it just takes a bit of finesse,” he says quietly as though giving himself instructions. The sign over the game says he only needs to ring one of the bottles to get a prize, which tells me it’s designed to be difficult.

Dash holds the ring like a Frisbee and lets it sail free. The first one goes sailing over the bottlenecks and banks off one before settling into the crack between two bottles. Same result on the second try.

“It’s supposed to be hard,” I say encouragingly, feeling in my purse for more tickets in case Dash wants to keep going after this round. From what I know of him, he doesn’t like to lose, so I doubt he’ll walk away without a victory.

“Yeah.”

The third ring hits the mark, landing cleanly around a bottle. The fourth misses.

I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath. Exhaling, I look at the sign, reassuring myself that one ring wins a prize.

“One more,” Dash mumbles, eyes focused on the field of bottles, which feel like they’re taunting us. He seems to be taking this so much more seriously than all the others, where we laughed and talked smack as we squared off against each other. It’s like he has a personal vendetta against the man in the striped suit. Or these three dozen bottles.

I want to ask why he’s so intent on winning at this particular game, but I don’t dare disrupt his concentration.

With a final skillful toss, Dash rings a final bottle, bringing his score to two. He stands up straight and looks at the row of prizes hanging at the back of the booth. I’m more interested in why he chose this game for some kind of personal showdown, so I don’t focus on his conversation with the booth operator, who goes to the back with a hook and takes a prize down.

But then Dash turns and holds his prize out to me. It’s a Rosie the Riveter lunchbox.

At first, I’m baffled. It seems like an odd choice for a guy who doesn’t need to bring lunch to work since there are two restaurants at Buttercup Hill and a catering staff.

“It’s symbolic. For my badass future wife who plans to grow an empire. I don’t want you skipping lunch.”

The breath leaves my lungs. I feel dizzy at the thought of this man caring enough to win me a lunchbox. And not just any lunchbox—one with the baddest badass of all emblazoned on the front.

My heart, which was already so full after spending the day here with Dash, now pushes its very boundaries in my chest. So much so that I put a hand against my sternum as though I can keep it from bursting.

“Dash…wow. That’s so incredibly thoughtful.” I feel tiny pinpricks of tears at the corners of my eyes, which is silly because it’s just a nice gesture. I shouldn’t be getting so emotional about it, but I can’t help it. “Seriously, thank you.”

I stand on my toes to reach his lips. It’s a kiss that has nothing to prove except how much I like him. Unlike all the ones for show, this one feels like it’s just for us.

Best kiss of my life.

CHAPTER 25

Three Weeks Later

Mallory

Beatrix had to scramble to pull off a wedding in record time, but she said she likes a challenge.

“I can’t believe you’re really going through with this,” Mary stage whispers from a chair next to me, where she sits in a peach-colored bridesmaid dress and black cowboy boots.

It’s my own fault. I specified that the bridesmaids should wear light colors, but I didn’t say anything about shoes. I, Mallory Rutherford, forgot to specify shoes. Falling for my fake fiancé has made me go soft.

“Excuse me, I believe it was your idea.”

She snorts. “Sure, it was an idea. I have lots of ideas, very few of them good. But look at you, you ran with it.” Then her squinty smirk turns to a real smile, and she kisses my cheek. “Are you nervous?”

“No,” I insist.

“Yes,” I admit a second later.

I shouldn’t be nervous about a fake wedding.

---