Page 106 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

People stare—but not in a bad way. More like they’re cataloging something new.

Greyson Cole. In public. With a woman.

Clara nudges me. “You’re being observed.”

“Let ’em,” I mutter.

She stops at a cotton candy stand.

“You ever had this?” she asks.

“I’m not twelve,” I reply.

She arches a brow. “That’s not an answer.”

I buy one anyway.

The vendor hands over a cloud of spun sugar the size of her head.

Clara tears off a piece, pops it in her mouth, and her face goes soft with delight.

“This,” she declares, “is happiness.”

I tear off a piece myself.

It melts instantly.

Sticky. Ridiculous.

She laughs at the sugar stuck in my beard.

“Hold still,” she says, reaching up.

Her fingers brush my jaw as she swipes it away.

The contact is small.

But it’s intimate.

I take a piece of cotton candy and hold it up to her lips.

“Open,” I say quietly.

She hesitates, then parts her mouth.

I feed it to her slowly.

Her tongue flicks out slightly to catch the last strands, and my brain momentarily shuts down.

She swallows, eyes darkening just a fraction.

“Careful,” she murmurs. “You’re playing with fire.”

I lean in closer. “I already did that.”

The sound of balloons popping from nearby catches her attention, and we wait for our turn to play.

The game goes fast, and Clara wins.