Love on the Lake (Lakeside #2)(22)

I raise my hand. I don’t know why, other than the fact that I’m sitting at a table with four men who are salivating like a pack of starved wolves over the box Dillion is holding, and I’m in awe of the way Dillion seems to have control over them. I want to know how to do that.

Van nudges me with his elbow. “You don’t need to raise your hand, Teag.”

“I won’t have a fritter, so you can split mine in half so everyone gets two and a half, and then there’s just the one full one, so one person will get an extra half.” I clasp my hands on the table and grin, pleased with my solution and the fact that everyone gets more than they originally thought they would.

The table goes silent, and four sets of eyes land on me, mouths agape.

“You’re not giving up your fritters. You’re going to eat them,” Dillion says. It sounds a lot like an order.

I purse my lips to keep from frowning. “But I don’t want a fritter.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this.” Aaron turns and props his arm on the back of his chair. His gray eyes meet mine, and his tongue sweeps out to wet his bottom lip. It’s full, and it looks soft. Softer than his hands. Soft like a satin pillow and warm like fresh laundry. “You want them, Teagan.”

“I don’t—”

He gives his head a shake and lifts one finger, touching it to my lip. The contact is brief, but if I had any hair on my arms—I don’t because I wax them—it would be standing on end.

“Trust me when I tell you this, Teagan: you absolutely want them. Never, ever forfeit a Boones’s fritter.”

I nod once, feeling a lot like I’m under some spell. “Okay. I want you. Them. The fritters. I want them.” The words are barely a whisper, and I feel my face explode with color at the slip.

Aaron drops his finger, and that infernal lopsided grin appears again. “Yeah, you do.”

I swallow down my embarrassment and fight the urge to stare at the table. I try not to make direct eye contact with anyone, but I can feel my brother’s eyes on me, so I furtively glance his way. Except he’s not looking at me; he’s giving Aaron the raised eyebrow.

I have so many burning questions.

Like, what’s Aaron’s deal? And why has he chosen now to be flirty? I’d think it was because he wanted to humiliate or embarrass me, but it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to do that in front of everyone. Maybe it was a slip.

“I want the fritters,” I tell Dillion.

She’s smirking like she’s in on some secret. “Yeah, you definitely don’t want to pass these up.”

Aaron leans his chair back, balancing on two legs, and pulls the tray free from the printer. He grabs a piece of paper and folds it. He tears it into pieces and slides all but one across the table to me. I take one and pass the rest on. He writes down a number on his paper and passes it to Van, while the rest of us write numbers between one and a hundred on our slips of paper. He and Van sit with their arms crossed, looking dejected about the whole thing.

Whoever is closest to the number Aaron wrote down gets the final fritter. I don’t particularly want two fritters, let alone three, so I reluctantly take a pen from the center of the table and curve my free hand around my paper, covering the entire thing with my hair so no one can see what I’m writing down. I bump Aaron’s arm and mutter an apology.

I give him a furtive glance as I flip my paper over and cover it with my hand.

“You’re a lefty?” He nods to the pen still poised in my hand.

“Yup.”

“Okay, show me what you got!” Dillion says.

Dillion, Jack, Uncle John, and I flip our papers over. Dillion has number thirty-three, her dad has fifty, Uncle John has seventy-five, and I have one. Van flips the one Aaron passed him and reveals ninety-nine. I sigh in relief, because I did not want the extra one, but I didn’t think I’d be able to get out of participating.

I expect everyone to finally dig in, but instead, Dillion uses a pair of tongs to dole out the fritters, setting two on each plate except for the one for Uncle John, who gets three.

When they’re all plated, the guys lunge across the table for them, snatching them up like unfed hyenas. The room is suddenly filled with groans and chewing.

I sit there, looking around the table as these men and Dillion devour the fritters. I can’t help myself. I glance at Aaron and nearly choke on a laugh. He’s melted into his chair, head lolling back, cheeks puffed out because his mouth is full, groaning every time he chews.

“Jeez. You look like you just had a freaking orgasm,” I say without thinking.

His head lolls in my direction, and he lifts his hand in front of his mouth, since he’s still chewing and apparently he does have some manners. “It’s like an orgasm for your taste buds.”

Van nudges my arm and pushes the paper plate toward me. “You have to at least try one.”

I’ve spent my entire life telling people that I don’t like sweets or dessert. It’s untrue. I love sweets and dessert. I make them all the time. For other people. But I don’t eat them, because sugar is very addictive, and I already have enough vices, so I try to avoid it unless it’s in the form of an energy drink.

But everyone looks so happy.

And the fritters smell so good.

One little bite won’t hurt.