The fairground was already packed when he pulled into the school car park, a chaotic mess of kids sprinting in every direction, harried parents clutching raffle books, and the distant sizzle of sausages on the barbie. A storm had been threatening all afternoon, but the heat lingered thick in the air, settling over the oval like a sweat-soaked blanket.
He hadn't wanted to come. Wouldn't have, if Mick hadn't badgered him about it all bloody week.
"C'mon, just show up for a beer and a snag. Cass reckons I never get people to these things. You don't even have to stay, just do a lap and piss off."
Dan had caved, mostly because it wasn't worth the argument. That, and a little part of him might've wanted to see Cass. She was easy company, always up for a laugh. Maybe there'd be a moment, just a bit of friendly teasing, a smile thrown his way. Not that he'd ever do anything about it. But thinking about it didn't hurt.
He stepped out of the ute, the late arvo sun still clinging to the horizon, casting everything in a golden haze. Gosford in February never really cooled down. His shirt stuck to the back of his neck before he'd even made it past the front gate, and the smell of cheap lollies and sunscreen mixed with the meaty waft of sausage sizzles and deep-fried god-knows-what.
"Oi, Dan!"
Mick's voice cut through the noise. He turned, spotting his mate standing beside Cass, who was balancing a baby on one hip and pointing frantically at something in the distance. Mick looked harassed. Which wasn't unusual, but this was next-level.
"Good bloke," Mick clapped a hand on his shoulder, already distracted, already sweating through his polo. "Knew you wouldn't let me down."
"Jesus, it's like a bloody war zone," Dan muttered, eyeing the swarm of sugar-high kids tearing past.
"Yeah, tell me about it," Mick groaned, rubbing his temples. "Listen, small issue. Ollie's just spewed his guts up behind the bake sale and I gotta get him home before he redecorates the car. Cass is gonna take them both, but that leaves,"
Cass shot Dan a bright, knowing smile. "We need someone to help out at the Snow Cone stall."
Dan frowned. "I was just,"
"You're a legend, mate, thanks." Mick was already backing away, already moving towards the car.
"Wait,"
"Oh, and Ms Wells is running it, so you'll have some company."
Dan barely had time to register the name before Mick and Cass disappeared in a blur of flustered parenting. He let out a slow breath, hands on his hips, wondering at what exact point he'd lost control of his own Friday night.
Snow Cones. Christ.
He was gonna kill Mick.
The school fair was winding down, the air thick with fried food, sugar, and the distant sound of kids losing their minds over glow sticks. Dan had been promised a quick in-and-out, grab a beer, make an appearance, fuck off home, but now Mick was gone, his kid having spewed all over him, leaving Dan standing here like an idiot in front of a woman who very much looked like she had better things to do than babysit some bloke who didn't belong.
Ms. Wells. He'd seen her before. Sexy, sharp, the kind of woman who could silence a room with a look. Now she was behind the snow cone stall, curls sticking to her temples, arms bare, forearms damp from condensation, an apron snug around curves that had his fingers twitching. She met his eyes, caught him mid-appraisal, and arched a brow.
"You gonna stand there looking pretty, or are you actually useful?"
Dan cleared his throat, shifting. "Ah, yeah, right. Mick said,"
"Mick said a lot of things," she cut in, handing him an ice scoop. "Now he's gone. Congratulations, you're hired."
He could leave. Could mutter some half-baked excuse and be done with it. But then she looked at him, waiting, unimpressed, and something about the challenge in her eyes made his cock stir in ways he did not appreciate in the middle of a fucking school fair. He sighed, stepping up beside her.
"Dan," he offered, reaching for a cup.
She smirked. "I know. You're Mick's mate. The builder, right?"
"Yeah."
"Figured. Not many blokes like you making snow cones."
"Yeah? And what kinda blokes usually do this?"
"The teenage kind. The reluctant kind. The ones who don't look like they could snap a syrup bottle in half by accident."
Dan huffed a laugh, grabbed a bottle of blue syrup, and squeezed.
Nothing.
He frowned, shook it. Squeezed harder,
WHOOSH.
A thick jet of syrup shot straight onto Ms. Wells' tits.
Dan froze.
She looked down.
Dan exhaled slowly. "Ah... shit."
She dragged two fingers through the sticky mess, licked them clean, then, without breaking eye contact, sucked the last drop from her fingertip.
Dan forgot how to fucking breathe.
"Bit eager there, aren't you?" she mused.
"Didn't mean to,"
"Relax." She grabbed a napkin, dabbed at the stain, utterly pointless. "If you're gonna make a mess, at least buy me dinner first."
Dan actually choked.
She laughed, tossed the napkin aside, and went back to work like nothing happened. Dan, meanwhile, stood there like an idiot, half-hard in a school fair, questioning every decision he'd made today.
The next half hour passed in a blur of sugar and sarcasm. They settled into a rhythm, her scooping, him drizzling (more carefully this time), both of them trading barbs and sizing each other up.
"So," she mused, handing a kid a snow cone, "you always this helpful?"
"Bloke owes me a beer."
"Oh, so you're in it for the alcohol?"
"Could be worse," Dan smirked. "Could be in it for the company."
