“That seems harsh.”
I hugged the elephant. “Thank you for Failure. He’s perfect.”
We walked through the carnival with me carrying Failure and Michael looking unreasonably pleased with himself. People moved around us—families with children, teenagers in groups, couples like us trying to pretend carnival dates weren’t slightly absurd when you were in your late twenties.
“Cotton candy,” Michael said, steering me toward a stand.
“I haven’t had cotton candy since I was a kid.”
“Exactly. That’s the point.”
He ordered the largest size without asking, and handed me a cloud of pink sugar bigger than my head.
“This is excessive,” I said.
“This is a carnival. Excess is required.”
I pulled off a piece. It dissolved instantly on my tongue, pure sweetness that made my teeth hurt in the best way.
Michael grabbed his own piece and somehow got it stuck in his hair.
I stared. “How did you manage that?”
“I don’t know.” He tried to pull it out and made it worse. Pink sugar was now thoroughly tangled in his dark hair. “This is more complicated than it looks.”
I reached up to help, standing on my toes. He bent his head automatically, and I realized this was the most relaxed I’d seen him since I’d woken up in his penthouse.
At home he was always slightly tense. Always watching me. Careful in a way that suggested he was constantly weighing risks I couldn’t see.
Here he was almost playful.
“You’re different tonight,” I said softly, working the sugar out of his hair.
“Different how?”
“Less tightly wound. You usually watch me like I might spontaneously combust.”
His eyes found mine. We were close enough that I could see the way the carnival lights reflected in them. “I worry about you.”
“I know. But I’m okay.” I pulled the last bit of cotton candy free. “See? Not combusting.”
He caught my wrist gently. “I’ve been terrified I’d mess this up somehow. Push you too hard and you realize you don’t actually want this. Being with me,”
I was about to respond, to tell him how wrong he was when a loud voice called in our direction.
We both turned.
A woman was walking toward us, hand raised in a wave. Tall, elegant, wearing jeans and a silk blouse that looked effortlessly put together. Her smile was warm and a little curious.
“Michael.” She stopped in front of us, her eyes moving between us with something like understanding dawning on her face. “I thought that was you.”
“Hannah.” His voice was warm, friendly. And yet a little awkward.
She looked at me more closely now, like she was confirming something. “And you must be her.”
I blinked at her. “I’m sorry—have we met?”
“No, actually.” She laughed softly. “I’m Hannah Pierce. Michael and I…” She glanced at him briefly. “Michael and I… know each other through family… and he’s mentioned you.”
