I cross my arms. “Pretty sure you have to ask someone on a date, Carter.” “Eh, whatever. Ask, drag; it’s all the same.” 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!”
