“Stick with me. I don’t start what I can’t finish,” he says, tipping his hat like he’s escorting me into a ballroom instead of a dusty parking lot.
“So where to, cowboy?” I ask.
“Follow me.”
I trail after him as he leads the way, then he stops at one of those rigged carnival games—the kind where rows of lopsided stuffed animals hang like trophies. Trouble leans against the booth, casual as ever. “First, you pick what you want. Then I get it for you.”
I snort. “Everyone knows these games are a scam.”
He smirks. “Girl, don’t you know who I am by now? I make things happen.”
“I sorta know about you.” I tip my head, letting the tease curl off my tongue. “Mostly just what your brothers say—that Danger calls the shots, and you just follow his orders.”
For a split second, his swagger slips. “What? They said that?”
I burst out laughing. “No! But God, your face—all the color, gone! Like somebody just stole your favorite horse. Do it again.”
Trouble shakes his head, but laughter rumbles out of him, low and genuine. “Alright, you got me. Now quit distractin’ me and pick somethin’ out.”
I scan the wall of stuffed animals, pretending to deliberate. “Fine. That sweet little pink horse. Think you can handle that, cowboy?”
“Consider it yours, butter knife girl.”
I laugh. “I haveneverseen anyone actually win one of these.”
“It’s all about the illusion,” he says, rolling the baseball in his hand like he’s studying it. “You don’t aim for deadcenter—that’s where they want you to aim. You hit the edge, knock the balance out. Then it all comes down.”
And damn if he doesn’t prove it. First throw, the bottles crash to the ground.
The carnie blinks like he just witnessed a crime. Trouble turns back to me, that slow, self-satisfied grin spreading across his face before he tells the man which prize he wants.
He hands me the pink horse, and I squeeze it, trying not to let the grin slip too much. Okay… he’s smarter than he looks, and somehow he makes this look effortless. And really, no one should be able to look that good throwing a baseball—but somehow, he does.
He flashes that grin again. “Alright… you ready for my favorite part?”
“Let’s hear it,” I tease, already curious.
“The food,” he says, simply. “Go sit your pretty self down at that picnic table over there. I’ll grab it.”
“I can help you carry it.”
He leans in just enough to make his voice heard, yet still playful. “Sit.Now.”
I roll my eyes but smile. “Fine.” I make my way to the table and settle onto the bench. The breeze stirs my hair as the laughter and music from the fair surrounds me. People move past, happy and carefree. It’s almost peaceful. More peaceful than what I’m used to in Chicago.
I hear it before I see him—a slow, gravelly voice takes me by surprise. "This seat taken?"
I playfully roll my eyes—basically a reflex at this point. He’s probably used to it. That cocky grin of his doesn’t offend me like it usually does. Neither do those knowing eyes that always look like they’re two seconds away from calling me out.
“Actually… yes,” I lie effortlessly. “It is.”
He sets the food down, and my eyes widen. Plate after plate, he has a stack of BBQ, golden corn dogs, crispy fries, a funnel cake dusted in sugar, and some fried Twinkie-looking thing I don’t even have words for. And somehow, his gaze never leaves mine. That slow, just-him smile—dangerous in its calm.
“Taken by who?” he asks, head tilted just enough to be cocky, every sharp angle of his face daring me to say the wrong name.
“Chase,” I say, plucking a name straight out of my ass. “Very… protective.”
His smile twitches, darkening. “Chase,” he echoes, like it offends him just to say it. “Let me guess—he opens doors, asks permission to kiss you on the cheek, and is way too fucking respectful.”
