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A harsh laugh scrapes out of my throat. “A glory hole won’t exactly be the appropriate solution for the problem I’m having.”

His lips twitch. He steps back, pulling the door wider.

I take the invitation, walk inside, and drop into one of the chairs at the small dinette. Rowe opens the fridge, pulls out a brown glass bottle, and slides it down the faux-granite table. I snatch it out of the air before it shoots off the edge.

“I’m completely gone over Sloane,” I say pathetically.

Rowe rests his hips against the kitchen counter, crossing his ankles. “I figured. The real question is why you’re wearing out the dirt in front of my door and not hers.”

I peel the condensation-soaked label off the glass with my thumbnail. “She has walls. Ten-foot-high steel barricades. She shies away from any kind of sexual touch.” I lift my gaze, meeting his steady stare. “In a way, she reminds me of you.”

Rowe goes perfectly still. He takes a moment, letting the comparison settle into the quiet space of the trailer. He doesn’t look offended. He just looks observant.

“You obviously won’t be able to seduce her with physicality.”

I throw my free hand up in the air. “I don’t know any other way to seduce a woman. I operate entirely on physical contact.”

Rowe tilts his head. “Have you ever tried talking to her?”

I pop the cap off my beer, flick my wrist, and launch the metal disc straight at his chest.

He bats it away, unfazed.

“Genius,” I bite out, the sarcasm dripping off every syllable. “Pure brilliance. How did I never think about that?” I drag a hand down my face, the frustration burning in my chest. “She avoids me. The second the act ends, she bolts. I only see her when I’m throwing sharp objects at her face. I can’t exactly ask her out on a date while aiming for her nose.”

Rowe hums, a low, rumbling vibration in his chest. “Order some flowers. Get a bottle of champagne.”

I stare at him.

“Wren and I will make sure she’s at the Big Top tomorrow night.” Rowe tosses the dish towel onto the counter. “There’s no show. You be ready. Set up a table. Bring Deke’s finest cooking, the champagne, and the flowers. Ambush her with a quiet dinner. Then it’ll be up to you to convince her to stay and give you a shot.”

I let the plan turn over in my head. It lacks the theatrical chaos I usually bring to the table. It forces me to stand still, bare my neck, and ask for her time without a crowd to hide behind. It strips away the knife thrower and leaves just me.

“That actually works.” I stand up, gripping the neck of my bottle. “Thank you, brother.”

Rowe closes the distance between us. His large hand lands on my shoulder in a firm, heavy clap.

The weight of it seizes my windpipe. A year ago, he couldn’t stand the brush of a sleeve. A year ago, contact sent him spiraling into the dark. Now, he offers comfort without a flinch, his touch solid and grounding. The sheer magnitude of his progress burns the backs of my eyes.

I nod, unable to push any more words past the sudden knot in my throat.

I step out of the trailer and into the crisp night air. Then I pull my phone from my pocket, open a delivery app with my thumb, and set a course straight for the cantina. Deke is going to complain bitterly about cooking a private meal. I plan to bribe him with whatever it takes.

The wait strips years off my life.

I stand in the center of the Big Top, the massive canvas walls swallowing the silence of the empty lot. Overhead, string lights cast a warm, golden glow across the sawdust ring. Matt owed me a favor, and he delivered.

Right in the middle of my performance space sits a small circular table draped in crisp white linen. Two place settings. Crystal water glasses. Champagne flutes catching the light next to a silver ice bucket chilling a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. In the center, a silver dome covers the plates Deke threatened to stab me over before I bribed him with a handle of rare bourbon.

My knuckles ache from gripping the bouquet. No standard red roses for Sloane Archer. I hunted down a florist three towns over to find these. White anemones and sharp blue thistles. Beautiful, striking, and a little prickly if you hold them wrong. They remind me exactly of her.

Gravel crunches outside the canvas.

“Cole?” Sloane’s voice echoes into the cavernous space. “Wren said you need me.”

She steps through the flap, bringing the crisp night air with her. Her sneakers hit the sawdust, and then she stops dead.

Her icy blue eyes sweep over the string lights, the set table, the ice bucket. Then her gaze lands on me. I ditched the performance leather for dark denim and a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows.