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What the heck is going on here?
Are they exhibiting, or serving drinks?
I wait and watch, and then I notice many other people are watching and waiting too.
A crowd of overgrown man-boys gathers, keenly interested in the two pairs of gold hot pants bent over a giant ice chest.
I don’t like this vibe. I don’t like this at all.
I move around the table, trying to simultaneously block the view of the overheated pervs while helping the ladies unpack and set up whatever it is they’re setting up.
I feel like a buffalo on roller skates around these two as they shout out directions and move around me.
I’ll do whatever I can to discourage those idiots from ogling them.
“Put me to work, ladies.”
The loud one gestures toward a box, suggesting I start opening packages of spoons and cups.
The ladies fill the cups faster than I can unpack them, and soon I’m given the new task of handling the merch. Basically, the bonehead job.
I’m so glad I paid for a degree in marketing so I can fan out brochures and stickers. But I do a good job, and I hope this earns me a sample of whatever that delicious, booze-scented ice cream is they’re serving.
When I finish that task, I stand watch—part bodyguard, part hypnotized dumb-dumb. The girls sweep around me, generally putting up with my presence until they complete their set-up.
Before long, I hear, “Take some free dessert or don’t, but if you keep staring at me like that I’m going to call upon my black belt skills.”
“Huh?”
My five-foot-two dream girl looks up at me with an expression reminding me of a teacher scolding me. The sexy teacher vibe does nothing to diminish the growing stiffy inside my trousers. In fact, she’s making it worse by being annoyed with me.
I beam down at her scowling face.
“Well?”
My dream girl holds out a cup filled with something decadent and sweet looking, accompanied by a little red spoon.
It’s all over for me. She may as well be proposing marriage to me, using whatever is in that cup.
“Uh, thanks,” I mutter, taking the cup from her and trying to stay cool.
I taste it as I stare at her, while Summer hobbles.
Cutting my eyes to the other one, I ask if she’s alright.
“Fine,” Summer says, plastering on a smile. “I’ll ice my ankle when I get home.”
I turn my attention back to…shit, I still don’t know her name, do I?
This is where my personality usually kicks in, and I say something funny or cute to put a person at ease.
But my future wife has turned everything upside down. Those deep, golden eyes and curious gaze have me begging for mercy.
“So…any feedback, or are you just going to stand there and stare at me like a serial killer mug shot?”
“Serial killer?”
She waves her hands around in a “wrap-it-up” gesture.
