We make our way back to the picnic tables, Harper waiting with her hands on her hips. “Finally! There’s a three-legged race starting and we need more teams. Get ready.”
Gray laughs, glancing at me. “You up for it?”
I nod, my heart still fluttering from the quiet moment under the trees. “As long as you don’t trip me.”
“No promises,” he grins.
Chapter 20
Gray
Harper doesn’t give anyone time to think before she’s tossing a strip of neon orange fabric at us. “Here. You’re paired up. Get to it.”
I glance down at it, then up at Ivy. “Wait, now? We don’t get to practice or?—”
“Nope,” she chirps, already moving on like she’s running the church Olympics.
I look at Ivy, raising a brow. “You ever done one of these before?”
She laughs. “Not since like...middle school. And I think I fell three times.”
“Perfect,” I grin. “We’re setting the bar nice and low.”
She crouches down to tie the strip around our ankles—my left to her right—but fumbles with the knot. I kneel beside her, gently nudging her hand. “Here, I got it.” My fingers graze hers as I pull the fabric snug, double-knotting it for good measure.
“There,” I say, standing and testing the tension. “We’re locked in.”
Ivy scans the field and nudges my arm. “Look.”
I follow her gaze—and sure enough, Harper is already paired up with Micah.
My eyebrows shoot up. “Well, well. Look who’s making friends.”
Micah’s saying something to Harper, all smug confidence. She rolls her eyes, arms crossed, but there’s the faintest smile playing on her lips.
I let out a low whistle. “Should we be worried?”
Ivy snorts. “I’m worried for him.”
Up front, the announcer waves everyone toward the starting line. We shuffle forward, awkwardly tied, and I reach for her waist to help us balance.
“You ready for this?” I ask, my voice low so only she hears.
She glances up, eyes catching the sunlight. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
The whistle rises.
“On your marks...get set...go!”
And all at once—chaos.
We take off at the whistle, but Ivy’s half a beat behind me, and we lurch forward in a tangle of limbs. She stumbles, and my arm shoots out instinctively, wrapping around her before she face plants into the grass.
“Easy there,” I say, laughing as I steady her. “Left, then right. Got it?”
“Got it.”
We try again. Left, right. Left, right. It’s awkward at first—she’s laughing, and I’m trying not to trip over my own feet—but eventually, we find a rhythm. Not a graceful one, but it works.
