Page 23 of Break Point

“You have to stand right on top of it to get the perfect view,” Bryson explains, suddenly an expert on beanbag flipping rules. I take a few steps back and pinch the bridge of my nose. I can’t believe this is my life right now.

“A standard beanbag flip would be measured by the percentage of the side’s surface showing,” he muses, his hand scratching at his chin.

I squint at him.

“Really? A standard beanbag flip?” I can feel my eyes pulling together, the dent between my brows turning into a canyon.

“Yes, Crash. Now, let the expert work.” He waves me off, and I fume quietly as I walk in a small circle with my back to them.

“Yeah, see . . . It’s right here where she has you,” Ashton says. “Clearly the entire logo is showing, and it’s a much greater percentage than the tails side.”

I turn around to find them both kneeling, Ashton pointing at his findings with a fork he must have snagged from a nearby table.

“You know what? It’s fine. You go second,” I say, my tummy starting to tighten from frustration.

Bryson stands and meets my gaze. I feel my nostrils flaring as his lips form a wider grin. He’s loving this. Provoking me.

“Well, now I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want it. How do I know you didn’t set this up as a psychological advantage to trick me into going second?”

We stare at each other for a beat as he blinks a few times, that stupid smirk coming back into play. I can feel my facial muscles tic, the desire to flap my lips and roll my eyes strong. I don’t give into it, though. Instead, I march over to the tossing line and go first, sinking a bag without it touching the wooden rim of the hole. And that seems to knock his cocky smirk down a smidge.

“Your turn.” I step back from the line and usher him in.

He eyes me skeptically as he gathers three bags in one hand and loosely grasps the single in the other. He glances toward the cornhole, then brings his gaze back to mine as his arm begins to swing. He tosses the bag, and for a tiny moment, my body flutters with adrenaline that he might sink his bag without looking. That fear is dashed a second later, though, when it lands on a nearby high-top table, knocking over a full pitcher of beer along with the stacked platter of nachos a server just set down.

“Wow.” My jaw goes slack, and my mouth hangs open as the four of us watch the two skinny guys wearing replicas of Bryson’s football jersey dab at the mess that was sent flying into their laps.

“I am so sorry!” Bryson says, dropping the remaining bags to the floor and swooping up a stack of napkins from our table.

“It’s cool,” one of the guys says, his voice wavering from nerves, or maybe embarrassment. It’s obvious that the guy is a fan, waving Bryson off while he apologizes for being in the way.

“Are you kidding me?” I mutter to myself.

I feel a cool arm loop through mine, and I turn to look at Amelia as she slides in next to me.

“He was showing off for you. Look at this video.” She holds her phone out and replays everything that just went down. She was keen enough to get a close-up of Bryson’s face, the sureness in his eyes and the obvious performance for my benefit. I’m not sure it was flirting, but I can see how she can sell it that way in a post for the app.

“It’s almost better this way. It’s funny, and that’s going to get us a ton of views,” she says as the video ends.

I look back at Bryson, cringing as he unfolds, then drops layers of napkins on the unsuspecting fans’ laps. They’re laughing at whatever he’s saying, which of course they are—he’s Bryson. I guess he’s lucky it was two fans he slopped beer and nacho cheese on. A few feet to the left and he would have disturbed a very intense cell phone call a man is having in front of his open laptop, which is precariously perched at the table’s edge. Of course, because it’s Bryson, I’m sure somehow the guy would end up buying him a pitcher and asking for an autograph.

After snapping a few selfies with his new friends, Bryson rejoins us just in time for our food to be delivered. I drag two slices onto a plate and carry them to my seat at the end of the table. I blow on the steaming layer of cheese before testing the temperature with my fingertip.

“You better not pull out a knife and fork for that. We don’t use forks on pizzas around here,” Bryson says, sinking into the chair directly beside me. I glance from his plate to his face. So much for me getting some space.

He smirks as he lifts a slice up to his mouth.

“You should let that cool or you’re going to—”

Without hearing me out, Bryson chomps off the end of his slice and instantly drops the rest back to his plate so he can fan the inside of his mouth with his hands. He chews every few seconds between blowing out the occasional “ooo” and “ah, ah, hot.” I shake my head as I reach across him to grab a knife and fork set rolled into a napkin.

“You never listen,” I say as he continues to battle his way through his first, scalding bite. I bet he has a blister on the roof of his mouth.

I cut a piece to stab with my fork, then blow on it one more time before pushing it into my mouth. It’s perfect, and I rub things in by chewing slowly through a closed-lip smile.

“Mmmm mmmm,” I remark.

“Fine,” Bryson grumbles, snagging his own set of silverware from the pile as Ashton and Amelia do the same.