Page 92 of Red Zone
We’ve played everything—air hockey, pop-a-shot, skee ball. He’s annoyingly good at all of them.
But the claw machine? That’s my machine.
“You’re terrible,” I say, watching the stuffed giraffe slip from his grasp again.
“Rigged,” he mutters, dropping another token in.
“No, you’re just bad at it.”
“You think you can do better?”
“I know I can.”
“Prove it.”
I slide in front of him, take the controls and, on the first try, snatch the giraffe clean.
His jaw drops as I hold the prize up triumphantly. “Told you.”
He shakes his head, smiling wider than I’ve ever seen him. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Better than being bad at claw machines.”
He leans down, close enough that I can feel his breath on my ear when he murmurs, “Careful, Princess. You keep running your mouth, I might have to shut you up.”
I freeze.
Because suddenly the air between us feels very different.
And judging by the heat I see burning in his blue eyes, I can tell he feels it too.
It’s freezing when we step out of the arcade. My hands are still warm from the hot chocolate we got, my stomach sore from laughing, but the night air cuts through all of it.
Carter’s carrying the ridiculous giraffe I won in one hand, keeping his fingers laced through mine with the other.
We reach his Jeep, parked under a flickering light at the far edge of the lot. He stops at the driver’s side, leans back against the door, and watches me with that infuriatingly lazy confidence.
I cross my arms. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“That little thing you do,” he says, nodding at me. “Like when you’re trying not to smile, but you can’t help it.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re imagining things.”
He shakes his head, lips curving into a grin that’s all teeth. “Nah. You’re cuter than you think.”
Before I can fire back, he grabs my hand, tugging me closer until I’m standing between his legs, pressed to him.
His hands settle on my hips, warm even through my jacket. He tilts his head slightly, his voice dropping low.
“You’ve been driving me insane all night,” he murmurs. “Y’know that?”
I swallow. “Not my fault you can’t handle losing.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes this time. “You keep running your mouth…”
“And you’ll do what, Hayes?” I whisper.
His grin sharpens. “Shut it for you.”
