Aunt Naomi holds up her megaphone again and shouts at the crowd. “For this year’s race, participants will run in teams of two and have to complete three tasks.” She turns her attention to the teams. “Once you and your partner reach the bottom of the hay bale drop-off, you’ll run to your first task, where you’ll have to wrap each other in toilet paper from head to toe, with the exception of your face. When you’re both mummified, you can sprint to my favorite task—apple bobbing. As a team, you must retrieve five apples. Each teammate must retrieve at least one. The final task is a three-legged race. You will stand next to your partner, tie your inside legs together with a rope, and run to the finish line. If your rope comes untied, you’ll have to stop toretie it. The first team to smash their pumpkins at the end wins!”
The crowd whoops and applauds as we make our way to our starting markers—bales of hay stacked into climbable steps. I set my scarf in the leaves next to us, and the seven other teams step up to their bales. Sloane and Asher give each other a high five.
Cooper bumps my shoulder with his. “We’ve got this.”
I nod, forcing myself to focus on the obstacle in front of me instead of his amber irises.
“On your marks, get set…,” Aunt Naomi shouts, “go!”
Cooper bolts forward, his long legs taking the wobbly, makeshift steps two at a time. When he reaches the top, he extends his hand toward me instead of jumping off the ledge. I take it, and he pulls me up the last two steps and onto the landing with him.
“Pick up the pace, Mitchell,” he says, letting me go as he leaps off the edge and lands gracefully.
I follow him, tumbling into the leaves below with a thud.
“Are you okay?” he laughs.
“I’m fine.”
On either side of me, teams sprint away with a chaotic sense of urgency, everyone screaming at their partner to move faster.
I definitely underestimated how seriously people take this race.
“Focus,” Cooper says. “Eyes on the prize, not on the competition.”
My eyes fall on him.
Which is, of course, not at all what he means.
I stand and brush the leaves off my butt. “Right. Let’s go.”
We sprint to the first task, my trusty Frye boots slipping on the grass.
“Do I need to carry you again?” Cooper shouts at me over his shoulder.
“Shush. I’m not that slow,” I pant. He sprints ahead, leaving me trailing behind him. Because I actuallyamthat slow.
By the time I get to the pile of toilet paper rolls, Cooper is already waiting on a knee for me.
“We’re doomed,” he says, unrolling the toilet paper around my feet.
“No, we’re not. We’re going to win.”
“You’re delusional.” He makes his way up my leg with the toilet paper.
“No, I’moptimistic.”
“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Mitchell,” he says, pushing to his feet. “Now, put your hands up and spin. It’ll be faster.”
I twirl in circles while he holds the roll in place, unraveling the toilet paper around my waist and up my torso. A jolt of electricity zips through me when his hand skims my ribs, rousing every nerve ending and covering me in goose bumps. Then he grabs a new roll and starts on my arms, moving at an impressive speed. Standing this close, I take in his familiar scent—sugar, citrus, laundry detergent. It’s the scent of horseback riding and of homecoming and of his bedspread. I want to bottle it up.
Once my arms are done, he continues to my head, bringing the toilet paper around my forehead and down the back of my head, tearing the end and tucking it into the wrappedportion on my neck while I secretly memorize him.
“You’re up,” he says. “Maybe you’ll be better at this than you are at running.”
“Ha-ha,” I say, picking up a fresh roll of toilet paper. I bend down and start wrapping him up as quickly as I can—partly because I want to win this race but mostly to avoid looking at his very kissable face any longer.
The more I’m around him, the less I trust myself not to do something foolish.
