The Redo (Winslow Brothers #4) (96)

“Balloon pop,” I murmur, spotting a booth with brightly colored balloons and a patron throwing darts.

Flynn shakes his head in the negative, and the twins turn up their noses via annoyed whines.

Message received, fellas. That’s not the one.

Cruising a little farther, we hang a left to the main aisle of the carnival. Dead ahead, a huge, rectangular ring toss booth sports hundreds of goldfish in adorned fishbowls spinning and swirling in the center. A dad is there, bright-white Reebok sneakers on his feet and a baby on his chest, and immediately, a feeling washes over me.

And I’m not the only one. Flynn jerks up his chin, remarking simply, “This is the one.”

The twins perk up, their heads swinging in the direction of the booth and their sweet baby eyes going alert. Izzy nuzzles into my chest, playing it cool.

The dad makes a move to toss the ring at the center, missing completely and splashing it in the water. Frustrated, he tries again, landing it on the second to highest level of points.

Flynn and I glance to each other, and even with our sunglasses on, the mood is palpable.

It’s on.

Forward and then into a divide, the two of us split the booth and circle it like a couple of sharks. The dad notices fairly quickly, and the corners of his eyes wrinkle up with the intensity of his squint.

His baby is asleep in the carrier at his chest, but almost as if he senses the change in his dad’s intensity, he wakes up and scans the area for threats.

Ah, a worthy opponent. I lean down to whisper conspiratorially to Izzy. “We got a battle on our hands, Iz. But don’t you worry. Uncle Flynn and I are going to take them down in the end. I promise.”

Stalking and prowling around one another, the three of us move to different sides of the fish table and jerk our chins up at the attendant wearing a bright-red golf cap. It’s clear he’s a little intimidated by our friendly competition, so he does his best not to show favoritism, going to the other dad first simply because he’s a returning customer.

“I’ll take five more rings,” the Reebok-wearer declares, raising his voice in a way I just know is done for Flynn’s and my benefit.

When the attendee heads to Flynn, he jerks up his chin for the same, officially calling the other dad’s bet.

Five rings, it is. May the best man-baby duo win.

Both Flynn and our new rival wait impatiently for me to get my weapons, their rings on the counter surface in front of them, their fingers wiggling for a quick draw—at least, figuratively.

Flynn’s still got his arms full of babies, but I can tell by the way he’s standing, he’s ready to set one on the counter and rapid-fire toss when he needs to.

The attendant places my rings in front of me and scrambles out of the way, rushing to the end of the booth unoccupied by our standoff.

I glance from our opponent to Flynn and then down to Izzy, and then, after one last, final deep breath to prepare, I nod my okay.

A silent countdown commences, and as soon as three seconds are up, the three of us are tossing.

I hit with my first and miss with my second, and a bead of sweat builds on my brow at the fact that I’m now down by one. I grab the next ring and toss, cheering, “Yes!” in a burst of triumph that makes even Izzy throw up her arms when it lands on the most prized of targets in the center of them all.

Flynn points at me in that special way that says I’m the man and then scoops up his eight-month-old baby Roman before he can crawl right off the counter into the rocks.

The attendee works diligently to fill my bag with two fish while we toss the rest of our rings rather carelessly, and the other dad stares daggers into my soul.

I’m wearing my protector Izzy, though, and she shields me perfectly from any of his rage.

His baby fusses slightly at his chest, so he pulls a binky out of his fanny-pack pocket and plops it in his son’s mouth expertly. It’s pretty incredible how good his aim is, considering he hasn’t taken his eyes off me, and I have to give him credit.

I dip my chin, and his eyes narrow. Okay, then. Not open to friendliness yet, I see. Losing so quickly and after having far more practice than Flynn and I is a hard pill to swallow, so I’ll allow it.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, so I pull it out to read it quickly.

Maria: How’s it going? Is Izzy okay?

I smile.

Me: Oh, it’s going fantastic. Izzy and I are champions.

Maria: Okayyy… I don’t understand what that means, so I’m just going to tell myself it means you’re good. LOL. I have to run into a showing right now, and then right into another, but I’ll let you know when I’m done.

Me: No worries. Take your time.

We’ve got shit to do anyway.

I take the two bagged fish from the attendant and round the booth to Flynn, who jerks up his chin in congratulations. I grin like the victor I am. “It was all Izzy, dude. She gave me the perfect center of gravity.”

“Fuck,” Flynn replies with a smirk. “That must be why I didn’t get it. I’m used to holding two, and I only had one.”

“For sure. Your equilibrium was all off.” I nod fervently. “Where to next?” I ask, subtly checking to see if the other dad is still mentally spearing me. He’s moved on to feeding his kid a bottle, but I can tell he’s lingering on purpose—giving his best impression of an undercover agent, casing our whereabouts.