Her pulse jumps. “How very noble.”
“Answer the question.”
She tries to tug her wrist free, but I hold firm. Not tight enough to hurt, but enough to make my point. We stare at each other in the shadows behind the funnel cake stand, sexual tension crackling between us like a live wire.
“Creative differences,” she finally says.
“Bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
“Creative differences is what you tell civilians. It's the polite mask fiction performers use when the real story's too ugly for public consumption.” I lean down until our faces are inches apart. “Try again.”
Her jaw sets, stubborn. Damn, even pissed off she's gorgeous. “The last place didn't feel right.” She meets my gaze, but there's something careful in how she chooses each word. “Sometimes you know when it's time to move on.”
Truth wrapped in omission. I recognize the dance—I've performed it myself more times than I can count. The pulse beneath my thumb stays too quick, too uneven for someone telling the whole story.
“How long were you there?” I press.
Her eyes narrow. “What are you, a cop?”
“Do I look like a cop?”
“You look like someone who asks too many questions.”
“And you look like someone with too many secrets.”
She laughs, but it's sharp at the edges. “Everyone in this business has secrets.”
Fair point. But the way she deflects, turning my questions back on me—that's not just a desire for privacy; it’s evasion. The kind you learn when staying means more than just a bad review or a personality clash with management.
“How many carnivals?” I release her wrist but don’t step back. “Before this one.”
“Enough to know what I'm doing.”
“That's not what I asked.”
She tilts her head, studying me like I'm a lock she needs to pick. “Why does it matter? You checking references? Want to call my previous employers, see if I played well with others?”
The derision in her voice can't quite mask something else. Fear? Not of me—she's standing too close for that, letting her body brush mine with each breath. Fear of what I might find if I dig too deep.
“Maybe I'm just curious why a talented escape artist needs to find work at a new carnival on such short notice.”
Her chin lifts. “Maybe I heard you were the best show in three states. Maybe I wanted to work with performers who actually give a damn about their craft.”
Flattery. Another deflection. She's good at this, keeping me off-balance with those eyes and that mouth and just enough truth to make the lies taste real.
“Or maybe,” I say slowly, watching her face, “you're running from something.”
The mask slips for just a second. Something vulnerable flashes across her features before she catches herself, schooling her expression back to defiance. But I saw it. That moment where the performer's bravado cracked and showed the woman underneath.
Scared. Desperate. And definitely lying about why she’s here.
3
NOVA
“What's your name?”
