Love Redesigned (Lakefront Billionaires #1) by Lauren Asher

“People around here barely read the news, let alone gossip columns.”

“But I look like a hot mess.” I point at my swollen face.

He closes the gap between us and gently brushes his thumb beneath my right eye, wiping away a spot of mascara I must have missed during my visit to the bar’s bathroom. “You look beautiful.”

My head spins faster than the teacups in the distance. “You’re only saying that so I go along with your plan.”

“If I wanted you to go along with my plan, I would have told you about the competition I have planned.”

My ears perk up. “Did you say competition?”

His laugh acts like a shock to the system. “Told you.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“I’d rather show you.” Julian places his hand on the small of my back and pushes me in the direction of the entrance to the festival. I try to shake him off a few times and remind him of our established rules, but he chooses to ignore me while leading me toward the food area.

“Please tell me you’re not suggesting a food-eating competition.”

“No, but we should get you fed and hydrated.”

“I only had two shots of tequila before Henry cut me off.”

He shoots me a look.

“Okay. Three. But that’s it. I swear. See.” I walk backward in a straight line while reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.

Julian rolls his eyes as he steers me toward the barbecue tent. He stacks our plates to the top with enough food to feed a small family. I can barely eat half of it, although I do guzzle three cups of water to appease him.

My experience with casual relationships might be scarce, but I’m smart enough to know him comforting me like this isn’t standard protocol. Neither is me accepting it without putting up my walls.

I didn’t realize how much I needed to be taken care of until Julian showed me what I was missing, and I’m not sure how to process that information.

Luckily, Julian doesn’t let me get lost in my thoughts as he pulls me away from the food tent. With my stomach full and my head no longer feeling fuzzy from crying and tequila, he leads us toward the opposite side of the festival.

A ringing bell in the distance catches my attention. “Carnival games?”

He stops near a tent and turns to me. “I can’t think of a better way to have a friendly competition.”

“Is there such a thing as far as we are concerned?”

“I suppose not.”

“What are you thinking?” I ask.

“Whoever wins the most games is crowned the victor.”

“And what do we get if we win?”

He scratches his cheek. “I don’t plan on letting you win, so I doubt it’ll be much of an issue for you.”

I scoff. “Game on.”

Julian and I pick the tent closest to us, which happens to be one of my old favorites, the ring toss. He swaps a few singles for two sets of rings.

“Good luck.” He passes me the rings.

I roll my eyes and toss my first ring. It hits the side of the glass bottle before falling to the ground.

He goes next and tosses his ring in a way that comes off well-practiced with how it slides down the neck of the bottle perfectly.

My mouth drops open. “How did you get that on the first try?”

“Nico loves this game.”

My eyes narrow. “How many of these games have you played?”

“All of them.”

“You’re a cheat.” I shove his shoulder.

“Don’t be a sore loser.”

“I haven’t lost yet.”

“Emphasis on yet.”

I throw my next ring with a little more force this time. Unlike the last one, it hits the rim of the glass, although it never makes it around the bottle.

Closer.

Julian tosses his next two back-to-back, landing both of them like a show-off.

I turn to face him with a frown. “What do you want if you win?”

“When I win, I’ll let you know.”

Asshole.



Julian and I bounce between tents. Thankfully, he picks games that only require one good arm, although my relief is short-lived as he kicks my butt at the ring toss, the dunk tank, a milk-bottle knockdown game, and a shooting hoops game.

Much to his surprise, I win a game of Skee-Ball, balloon darts, shooting targets, and a match of cornhole.

After drinking some apple cider and snacking on a couple of Coney dogs, we arrive at the final competition with an even score.

“Feeling nervous?” I ask.

“Nope.”

“You’re mighty confident.”

“Because I already know I won.” He guides me toward the last game.

Someone slams the mallet against the plate, and the bell at the top of the high striker game rings like a death knell. This game was Julian’s favorite, so I usually passed on playing it solely because I knew I could never hit the bell like he did.

“I’m down one arm.”

“Is your good one acting up? It wasn’t an issue for the other eight games.”

My eye twitches.

“Do you want to go first?” He offers me the mallet.

“Take it away.” I motion toward the base. Despite knowing I lost, I plan on being a good sport about it and at least trying my hand.

He modifies his grip before slamming the mallet down against the metal base. To no one’s shock, the metal piece shoots up toward the top and smashes into the bell.