Page 29 of The Waiter at Table 6

He leans forward and bites the rest of the Oreo out of my hand. “No idea. Math was never my best subject.”

I shake my head with a smile. Then I pop an entire Oreo into my mouth.

Ryder quirks an eyebrow at the action. “And let that be the last time you question my food judgment.”

I roll my eyes playfully. “I promise, O God of Food.”

Sighing, he throws an arm around my shoulders and moves me back toward the game we just came from. “Who knew fried food would make you so sassy.”

When that triggers a fit of giggles, I have a fleeting thought that I’m experiencing a sugar high for the first time in my life.

“Don’t act so innocent—that’s exactly what you wanted it to do,” I say through my laughter.

His lip curls in amusement as he looks down at me. “Guilty as charged, babe,” he says after a moment.

“Alright, folks, step right up for some water gun fun!” The carnival employee points at Ryder. “Test your aim and win a stuffed animal for your girlfriend, sir.”

The rush of pride comes on suddenly, so much so that I can’t stop the smile from tugging on my lips.

But then Ryder slides his arm from my shoulders, and the resulting chill against my skin brings with it a harsh dose of reality. Because I’m not his girlfriend. And that’s my fault.

The bounce from one emotion to the other gives me such whiplash, I feel dizzy as I quickly pull some cash from my wallet and hand it to the guy behind the counter. There’s a ringing in my ears as I say, “Excuse me, but I’m getting him the stuffed animal.”

The guy doesn’t even bat an eye, he just takes the money and sets up whatever he needs to set up behind the scenes. “Even better. We’re all about equality here.”

“You’re going down,” Ryder whispers from beside me. “And when I win that stuffed animal, I’m keeping it.”

“Whatever you wanna tell yourself, babe,” I say with a wink.

His eyes widen slightly before he shakes his head with a smile. “No more fried food for you.”

“Okay, who’s going first?” the guy asks, holding a water gun out in front of him. “Tradition or equality?”

“He can go first,” I declare. “I want to see what I’m up against.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, handing Ryder the water gun. “You get five shots. If you hit four targets, you get your choice of prize.”

I vaguely hear Ryder grumble something about “stupid carnival odds.” But then he’s taking aim and pulling the trigger.

He gets three of the five. When his last shot—and his last chance at a prize—misses, he sighs and lowers the water gun. “I don’t care what you say. You’re bad for my ego.”

“I haven’t even beaten you yet!” I exclaim defensively.

Ryder hands the guy the water gun. “And are you going to?” he asks me.

I shrug. “No idea. I’ve never held any kind of gun in my hand.”

“Same rules, miss. Whenever you’re ready.”

Taking a deep breath, I lift the water gun to eye level. It takes me a second to figure out how to line up the bump at the end of the pistol with my target, but by the time I squeeze that first shot, I’m fairly confident I’m at least aiming in the right direction.

Bull’s eye. Plastic duck goes down.

Another breath, another moment to concentrate, another target down.

And then another. And another.

A breathed “dude” is all I hear out of Ryder. And suddenly, winning a bigger stuffed animal by hitting my fifth shot becomes less important than squeezing as much enjoyment as humanly possible out of my time with Ryder.

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