The Date Mistake by Susan Hatler

Author:Susan Hatler [Hatler, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-10-15T18:28:07+00:00

Once Turner got behind the wheel of the go-kart, it all happened so fast. The manager spit out a mouthful of seeds—ew—, the light flashed green, the go-kart rocketed forward, the wind whipped my hair back, the go-kart bounced against the tires at the curve and then bounced against a wide-eyed competitor’s go-kart, and we zipped around the track again and again until the checkered flag waved.

Turner skidded the go-kart to a halt, jumped out of the go-kart at the same time I did, and we threw our arms around each other. Then, he picked me up, twirled me around as I squeezed him close enough to smell his shampoo, tight enough to feel his heart beating against mine, and my huge, unstoppable smile brushed against the warmth of his neck.

Like I said, it all happened so fast. The whirlwind of events that had lasted only five minutes suddenly crashed over me like a wave I hadn’t seen coming. When Turner lowered me to the ground, I stepped away with my hand at the back of my neck and my cheeks hot from something that felt like wind chap. My legs were wobbly and my heart thrashed around in my chest like my ribs were race tracks lined with rubber.

“Stay right here,” Turner said, setting a hand on my shoulder briefly, a casual move that sent delicious sparks across my skin.

When he returned, I was still trying to catch my breath and, more importantly, my self-control. I lifted my head to find Turner grinning at me, holding up a little plastic trophy. My reflection flashed in that faux-gold trophy and I jumped back in horror.

“I need a brush,” I blurted, throwing my hands over my wild hair. A brush would be good. A brush would be something I could control. A brush would be steady and slow and my world didn’t spin and twirl and rush with a brush.

“Martina, you’re fine,” Turner said, pulling me close to him and brushing a piece of hair back behind my ear.

“I look like a mess,” I said, laughing nervously.

“You look beautiful,” he said, his blue eyes fixed on mine.

“My hair is out of control,” I said, waving a hand at the frizzy, poofy mess. “I look like I just got out of bed.”

“You look like you just won a race,” he said, lacing his fingers through mine and tugging me toward the other drivers who were climbing out of their go-karts. “Now, let’s go take our trophy and rub it into those kids’ faces.”

He had been joking, apparently, because he merely led me to the little frozen ice cream stand. Vanilla for me, wild berry for Turner, go figure. We climbed up to the top of the little set of bleachers—I proposed the bottom step, but since he won he got to choose—and admired our little plastic trophy that sat between us as we licked our cones while watching fresh go-karts whip around the course. My heartbeat slowed until it rested at a calm, steady pace.

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