Chapter 22
Clara
I don’t know where tonight will end.
But I know one thing. I don’t want to spend it alone.
The thought settles in my chest like a quiet truth.
Not dramatic. Not reckless.
Just honest.
We’ve wandered to the darker edge of the carnival again, where the lights blur and the music softens into a hum. I can feel him beside me—solid, steady, warm.
“You’re thinking again, Trouble,” Greyson says, low and knowing.
I glance up at him. “I was just wondering.”
“Wondering what?”
I inhale.
And because I am thirty-five years old and not a lovesick teenager, because I’ve done the cautious thing and the practical thing and the socially acceptable thing, because I’ve already been humiliated and survived it—I decide to be bold.
“Well, I was wondering if I go home with you,” I ask evenly, “will you kick me out before breakfast?”
He stops walking.
Actually stops.
The carnival noise keeps moving around us, but he goes still.
His dark eyes lock onto mine.
Heat climbs up my spine, but I don’t look away.
“If you come home with me,” he says slowly, “I guarantee not to kick you out before breakfast.”
There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“And after?” I press.
His jaw flexes once.
“After,” he says, voice rougher now, “we can go slow as you like.”
Slow.
The word surprises me.
“Are you sure,” I ask, tilting my head slightly, “you can handle a grown-up relationship with me?”
His brows draw together—not offended. Focused.
“As long as we manage expectations, Trouble, I think we can do this,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, for starters, I’m not asking you to change for me. I’m not asking you to give up your work or your lifestyle.”
“Good,” I reply lightly. “Because I like indoor plumbing.”
He almost smiles.
Almost.
“I’m just asking for tonight,” he continues. “And tomorrow. And maybe the next day. I don’t know what this is going to be yet. But I know I don’t want to run from it.”
That.
That right there.
It hits harder than any polished promise ever could.
Geoffrey used to talk about five-year plans.
About joint investments.
About how our brands would align.
Greyson is talking about the next sunrise.
And somehow that feels more real.
I look down at the ridiculous plushie he won for me tucked under my arm.
At the cotton candy stick tangled between my fingers.
At my navy dress dusted with sugar—and maybe a drop of pizza sauce.
At the man in front of me who looks like he’s bracing for impact.
Like I could break him.
Maybe it’s better to live in the moment.
Maybe the point isn’t guaranteeing my heart never gets bruised.
Maybe the point is letting it beat.
“I don’t know what this is yet,” I admit quietly. “But I don’t want to run from it either.”
His shoulders drop just slightly, like he’s been holding tension he didn’t realize was there.
Relief flickers in his eyes.
“So,” I say, forcing some playfulness back into my voice because if I don’t, I might start crying and that would be wildly inconvenient in front of a ring toss booth, “I say we stop trying to forecast the emotional climate and just enjoy the fair.”
His mouth curves slowly.
“You’re choosing the moment,” he says.
“I am.”
He reaches for my hand this time without hesitation.
His fingers lace through mine.
Warm. Solid. Real.
Not grabbing.
Not forcing.
Just holding.
We walk back toward the lights, toward the noise, toward the smell of fried dough and laughter and small-town joy.
A little girl nearly runs into us, clutching a stuffed bear twice her size. Teenagers shriek near the tilt-a-whirl.
And for once—I don’t feel like I’m curating an experience.
I’m not wondering how it photographs.
I’m not calculating how this looks.
I’m not performing.
I’m just here.
With him.
Alive in my body.
Alive in the night.
And tonight?
That’s going to be enough for me. For us.