Page 64 of Not Just a Trick Play

I watch her, hands in my pocket, as she begins to traverse the store, speeding up as she ducks in and out of aisles. Every time I catch a glimpse of her, the basket is fuller and fuller, until it’s weighing her down. “Stocking up for the apocalypse?” I joke, approaching.

“Of course.” She smiles gratefully as I grab it from her, but her brows furrow as she looks me over. “You’re not getting anything?”

I shake my head. Amelia’s expression is so woebegone on my behalf that I say, “How about a Hershey’s Bar?”

“You heathen.” She huffs, then rummages through her basket and retrieves an oval can of Maltesers. “Try this instead.”

She pops the lid and presses a piece to my lips. “Ahh,” she commands.

I dutifully open my mouth, even though candy’s never been my thing. Just the idea of all this sugary stuff makes my teeth throb.

Flavors burst on my tongue—rich, creamy milk chocolate that melts into a crunchy malt center, with honeyed undertones. It’s unexpectedly good.

She can tell, and is so thrilled at my enjoyment, I can’t help it—I tug her behind a stack of Twizzlers and capture her lips with mine. She gasps in surprise, and the soft moan she lets out goes straight to my cock. I ignore it and frame her face with my hands, resting my forehead against hers.

Amelia smiles against my lips before drawing back, her eyes bright on me. “See, I know what you like.”

You. I like you.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

JAKE

“Monster Mash”blasts at full volume when I arrive at the party. I push through a curtain of skull beads and step into the dimly lit room. Black velvet covers the tables, paper bats dangle from the ceiling, and cauldrons bubble over with dry ice. One whole side is dedicated to a dance floor that pulses under the DJ booth. Always have to admire Hunter and Milo’s commitment to the cause.

Logan and his girlfriend, Becs, hold court at the bar, abuzz with bodies pressing together. Laughter rings over the thump of the bass. I catch snippets of conversation, people complimenting costumes, already swapping stories of Halloween misadventures.

“Again?” I shout over the music as I approach, dodging a rogue Marshmallow Man. Logan’s dressed as Wolverine, claws out, broody superhero squint down. “What is this? The eighth year in a row?”

“Tenth,” Becs corrects, laughing. She’s Tinker Bell tonight with a sparkling wand and wings straight out of Neverland. She eyes me, grinning. “Nice top hat,” she says appreciatively.

I tip it. “Why thank you.”

We order drinks and dive into a round of “rate-the-costume.” The typical line-up of Amazon Prime rush jobs and some Comic Con-worthy ensembles are on display. A few ghosts in suspiciously dingy sheets drift by—surely last minute, likely unwashed.

Then there’s Milo, strutting his stuff as a mash-up ofGame of Thrones’s Shame Nun and Cersei Lannister—though his habit is cut so high it’s less “holy sister” and more “hello, Vegas!” A bald, naked Barbie hangs from a barbecue skewer somehow rigged to his chest, swinging back and forth while he chants, “Shame, shame, shame” with the gusto of a televangelist as he parades about. Three linebacker-sized Minions trail him, resembling giant, misplaced yellow and blue Easter eggs rather than cartoon characters.

Hate to say it—his might be the best costume of the night. But me? I’m not here to compete. There’s only one judge I want to impress.

When he spots us, he leads the entourage our way, and more drinks flow. After a round of toasts, I switch to a beer, figuring my liver will appreciate the breather.

“No Yvonne?” Milo asks, looking around as if he expects my sister to poof out of nowhere.

“She’s on backup trick-or-treat duty this year with the kids. Sleepover after. Someone’s definitely going to hurl after all the candy.”

“Yeah, probably happening here, too.” He nods at a guy in a piñata costume, tottering like he’s seconds from dropping an unplanned party favor.

“Fantastic,” I reply, half-distracted. Amelia’s just walked in. She’s in a wedding dress with a little white jacket and a veil of cheesecloth, “blood” spattered all over it, a whole Carrie-meets-Corpse Bride vibe.

When she spots me, her expression transforms from surprise to delight. Her face lights up with an incandescent smile, the kind that could brighten the creepiest of haunted houses. I knew she’d appreciate the effort. Grinning, I doff my top hat in her direction, earning a deep blush.

I’m about to thread my way through the crowd to her when Connor shows up beside me, decked out as Karl Lagerfeld, with Ella in tow as the beloved Choupette. “Nice.” I chuckle, giving them a once-over. “I’ve got to get a photo of you two for Carla. She’s obsessed with that feline.”

“Thanks, man. You wouldn’t believe the debate over who’d play Karl and who’d be the cat,” Connor replies. “I’d wanted to come as the guy from that mind-bending thriller everyone’s raving about.”

Ella rolls her eyes, her voice dripping with faux disdain. “As the late, great Karl would say: Trendy is the last step before tacky.”

I’m itching to join Amelia, but now that the team’s all here, Armaan insists on group photos before everyone gets sloppy drunk and loses half their costumes. I stick around, posing on demand, keeping an eye on the table where she’s laughing with Rani and Terri. They’ve settled at a high-top across the dance floor, empties already piling up in front of them.

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