Libby drew last. She read the name on her page, cocked her head to the side—and then a stream of red liquid hit her, right in the chest. She’d been shot. With festive, red liquid. “Hey!” Libby said. “You drew my name.” Grayson, squirt gun still in hand, arched a brow at her. “Did you not?” Libby scowled at him. “There is no way you could possibly know that!” “Am I wrong?” Grayson’s tone made it clear: He knew he wasn’t.
