He threads his fingers through mine and hauls me forward. “C’mon, pip-squeak. Let’s go get our faces painted.” “I’m twenty-five. I’m not getting my face painted.” * * * I got my face painted. Honestly, I don’t want to talk about it. “You look so pretty.” “I have your damn jersey number on my cheek, Carter!” He folds his lips into his mouth in an attempt to hide his guilty smile. “So pretty.”
