Page 6 of Pure Bred

Sierra looks like she’s going to say something else, but then just nods and gives me a soft smile. “It was really nice seeing you, Logan.”

“It was really nice seeing you, too.”

My heart aches like a motherfucker as I watch her walk away. Logic tells me to let her go, to not get my hopes up. She was just being polite, stopping by like this to say hello and catch up for a few minutes. It doesn’t mean she wants to rekindle anything.

I know all that. And yet here I am, opening my mouth anyway.

“Hey, Adams?” I call.

She turns around, looking at me questioningly. “Yeah?”

“What do you say to an apple bobbing rematch?”

That Saturday afternoon, I pull up to Sierra’s parents’ house in my beat-up pickup. While waiting for her to come out, I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, nervous energy coursing through me. The front door of the house opens and I do a double-take. A woman who looks nothing like Sierra walks out.

She’s got mousy brown hair falling over her shoulders, and she’s wearing baggy jeans and an oversized sweater. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was someone visiting the Adams’ household.

But she slides into my passenger seat, grinning at my confusion. “What’s the matter, Magnuson? Cat got your tongue?”

I shake my head. “Damn. I almost didn’t recognize you. What’s with the get-up?”

She pulls down the sun visor, checking her reflection. “Trying to keep a low profile. I don’t want to cause a stir at the festival.”

“So you’re telling me that’s not your natural hair color?” I tease, putting the truck in gear.

She swats my arm playfully. “It’s a wig, smart-ass. Now drive. I’ve got an apple bobbing title to defend.”

The fairgrounds are packed when we arrive. The air smells like caramel apples and cinnamon, kids are running around with painted faces, and laughter mingles with the twang of folk music.

As we walk, Sierra’s eyes light up at all the familiar sights. “They still have the pumpkin catapult!”

“You want to give it a shot?” I ask, nodding toward the contraption. “See if you’ve still got that arm?”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Is that a challenge?”

“Maybe,” I say, grinning at her. “Unless you’re chicken.”

“Oh, it’s on.” She grabs my hand, pulling me toward the booth. Her touch makes my skin go hot, but I play it cool.

We each take our shots, pumpkins soaring through the air. Sierra’s lands just a bit further than mine.

“Ha!” she cries triumphantly. “Still got it!”

I shake my head. “Lucky shot.”

We continue walking through the festival, the air between us charged with a familiar electricity. It’s so fucking nice, being with her like this. It almost feels unreal.

“So,” Sierra says, bumping her shoulder against mine. “You ready to lose at apple bobbing?”

I scoff. “In your dreams, woman. I’ve been practicing.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Oh really? You spend a lot of time dunking your head in water?”

“Maybe I do,” I say. “You don’t know my life.”

She laughs, the sound warming me to the core. “Well, I hope you’ve been working on your breath control, because you’re going to need it.”

We make our way to the apple bobbing station, trading playful jabs the whole time. The competitive spark between us is as strong as ever.

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