I Knew You Were Trouble - Cassie Mae Page 0,34

stupid gawk and a lifetime ban on seeing his apartment.

“Just how many houses do your parents have?” he manages to get out.

I sink lower behind the barrels. “Too many.”

“You were so specific with your twelve and three months.” He smirks, and that’s his teasing smile. Good, I can deal with that look. “Can’t give me a number?”

“Eleven.”

“Which one’s the biggest?”

“They’re all about the same size.”

“Which one’s your favorite?”

A slow smile spreads on my face. I didn’t expect the question or the interest. “Idaho.”

He makes a face, and I punch him.

“It’s a gorgeous place, you butt.”

“I’m sure it is.” He rubs his arm out. “Lots of potatoes.”

“Is that all you know of Idaho?”

“That’s all anyone knows of Idaho.”

“Careful.” I pat my paintball gun. “I’ve got a weapon. Badmouthing my hometown will get you a paintball to the rear.”

“Please,” he says too loudly, and I try to shush him, but he spreads his arms out and doesn’t lower his voice. “I’m begging you to take a shot at me.”

“We’re on the same team, weirdo,” I say, imitating his voice pretty badly.

He chuckles and stands up. I grasp the loose material on his thigh and tug.

“Get down!”

“Shoot me.” He sets his gun aside, leaning it against the barrels. “Go for it.”

“No.”

“Break a rule, Candace.” His smile transforms before my eyes, from teasing and playful to hopeful and excited. “Get messy. Make a mess.”

I shake my head hard, biting on the inside of my cheek. I can’t shoot him. One, we’ll get disqualified. Two, his coveralls were just washed, and watching paint splatter all over the fresh material may put me in a panic induced coma. And three, getting paint on him will in no way help me get Zach. Zach has already seen me dump paint everywhere and it impressed him zero percent.

Pete cocks his head, dropping his arms. They hit his sides with a flop, his coveralls loose on him. “Really? I’m giving you a chance to shoot me, and you’re not gonna take it?”

Okay… his point is incredibly good. If the roles were reversed, I know I’d already be covered in paint from hemline to collar.

Something floods through me, like fresh paint oozing from a brand new bottle. Excitement pumps my heart, and I envision all sorts of playful scenarios that mix art and fun and mess. There’s paint spatter over every inch of the arena. Blue and green and orange and yellow and pink and white and gray all mix together in a permanent memory of teens battling it out, first dates, birthday parties, and ugly sweater parties. Pete suddenly looks completely out of place, standing there without any paint on him.

Pop!

Pete jerks backward, losing his footing for a split second. His eyes burst wide, and I feel mine form perfect circles, too.

A white paint glob that looks very close to bird poop covers his upper right shoulder. His eyes pull from the stain to me.

My finger shakes against the trigger, my weapon aimed right at him. I honestly don’t remember making the decision to do it.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. His proud smile pops onto his face. “You actually shot me.”

“You said I could!” I shout, scrambling to my feet, knowing what’s coming. I grapple for his weapon at the same time he lunges for it.

His elbow gets me in the shoulder. My hip pushes into his stomach. We’re a tangle of limbs and laughter as we fight for the gun. Paint pops around us, our weapons going off as we tumble and wrestle.

He smells like paint and mint and amusement and friendship, and my cheeks hurt from smiling, my voice turns sore from squealing.

“Give it!” Pete shouts.

“Never!”

His hand traps my wrist, and my helmet clocks his chin, sending a dull zap of pain through my brain.

“Oy… sorry.” I twirl around to inspect his chin, and lightning strikes in my abdomen.

His face is inches from mine—prime kissing position given anyone else. His goggles flipped off at some point during our wrestling match, and his light brown eyes crinkle in the corners. He’s still got a grip on my wrist, but he’s slowly moving his hand down to meet mine, palm to palm.

“You okay?” Holy cow, when did I get so out of breath?

He winces, moving his jaw with his free hand. “I’ll live. How’s the noggin?”

“If I get a concussion, I’m suing this helmet company,” I tease, and when his laughter escapes him, I get a fresh wave of his minty breath. He must’ve brushed his teeth recently. Maybe after