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Get it together, Cate.

The first game was ring toss.

Megan was terrible at it. Enthusiastic, but terrible.

“You have to aim!” I said, demonstrating with my hands. “Like this—arc it, don’t just throw it straight.”

“Like this?” She launched a ring with the force of a major league pitcher as it sailed over the bottles, over the booth, and nearly took out a teenager holding a corndog.

“Maybe... less power,” Gabriel said diplomatically.

I tried next. My ring bounced off a bottle and landed in the dirt.

“Okay, so maybe I’m not the best teacher,” I admitted.

“May I?” Gabriel stepped up, his arm brushing mine as he moved into position.

Oh no. Oh no no no.

He was close. Too close. Close enough that I could smell whatever cologne he was wearing, something clean and expensive that probably cost more than my freshman year at culinary school.

He picked up a ring, his movements precise and controlled, and tossed it.

It landed perfectly around a bottle.

Of course it did.

“Show-off,” I muttered.

His mouth twitched again. “It’s about trajectory. Angle and velocity.”

“Right, because that’s what everyone thinks about at a carnival. Physics.”

“You don’t?”

“I think about funnel cake.”

Megan giggled. “Cate always thinks about food.”

“It’s called having priorities,” I said defensively.

Gabriel won Megan a stuffed elephant. She named it Dr. Trunk and declared it her new best friend.

We moved to the next game... balloon darts.

I was slightly better at this one. Slightly.

“You’re aiming too high,” Gabriel said, suddenly right behind me.

Jesus Christ, does this man understand personal space?

“I’m aiming exactly where I want to aim,” I said, my voice coming out higher than intended.

“You’re compensating for a drop that doesn’t exist. The darts are lighter than you think.”

“Are you seriously mansplaining carnival games right now?”

“I’m providing constructive feedback.”