“You’re killing me,” Carson groans. “And you know it.”

  My lips twitch as I fight a smile, and when I look up, I see that he’s leaned back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest as he studies me. He’s dressed more casually than I've ever seen him, in athletic shorts, an Americana Land T-shirt, and tennis shoes. Carson looks amazing in a suit and sexy in jeans, but I think dressed-down Carson is my new favorite look. His legs look strong, his arms look like they could hold me up easily, and there’s a sharp edge to him that says he can not only manage a conference room, but also a ball field.

  Wait. That bag wasn’t there before. Carson must have brought it with him.

  “What’s that?” I ask. I set my coffee down, forgotten in favor of what looks like a present.

  “That?” Carson repeats, looking sideways at the red, white, and blue bag. “Just a little something I brought for you. I thought you could wear it today.”

  “You want me to change?” I ask, flirting with everything I’ve got. If he asked, I’d strip naked right here, right now.

  Hell, he wouldn’t even have to ask. I’m considering doing it myself and inviting him to christen my countertops with me. His phone dings in his pocket, and he sighs heavily. “I’d give anything to have a few extra minutes right now, but we’ve got people waiting on us.”

  “Who’s waiting, and where? For what?” I know there is nothing on my calendar today. I double-checked twice before falling into bed last night . . . or this morning, rather. The next appointment I have is the post-project evaluation at Monday’s meeting, and the top thing on my to-do list is emailing Patrick at Compass to catch him up on this assignment. Though that’s mainly so I can brag a bit and remind him of how lucky he is that I work for him.

  “You’ll see. Go change.” He holds the bag out, one finger hooked through the handles.

  I want answers, but given the sober look on Carson’s face, I’m only going to get them one way. I hop to it and run for the bag, snatching it and beelining for the bedroom. I reach in and pull out several pieces of Americana Land gear.

  As quick as I can, I get dressed. Wearing a special edition Freddy Freebird shirt, athletic shorts, and flip flops printed with a flag design, I look in the mirror and nearly scream. My hair looks like I brushed it with a fork. It’s a good thing my other assets were on display because hopefully, they were enough to distract Carson from this mangled nest on my head.

  There’s no time to wash it now, and if I’m right about Carson’s plans, my hair is going to be a bigger mess by the end of the day anyway, so I grab a ponytailer and twist my hair up into a messy bun. I then rush, furiously brushing my teeth, washing my face, and applying a quick but light bit of makeup, mostly mascara and lip gloss.

  “Ready,” I say as I walk back into the living room.

  Carson is sitting on the couch, typing on his phone, but when he sees me, he drops the device to his lap and stares at me slack-jawed. I grin, posing. “Thank you for the gear.”

  He finds his tongue and says, “You look gorgeous. Very well-branded.” He lifts a dark brow to see if I catch the phrasing.

  “Yeah, I’m a walking, talking billboard. I hope I’m not standing on the side of the street, though. I don’t think sign spinning is one of my many talents.”

  He rumbles, “That’s okay, you have many, many others.” He stands, guiding me toward the door. “I told Toni and the others to go on without us, so we can stay here all day if you want. But . . .”

  He drops his eyes, and I freeze, feeling in my gut that he’s about to say something important. Or difficult, at least.

  “Carson?”

  Lifting his eyes to mine, he confesses, “I’m excited to show you the park. To have a real day together, just us. You’ve done all this work to save it, but you haven’t gotten to really experience it beyond the website descriptions. I want to share it with you.”

  Americana Land is a part of him. It’s where he grew up, where he stayed even after becoming an adult, and what he’s dedicated himself to. It’s his past, present, and future. And he wants to share it with me.

  That sounds amazing. And honestly, I can’t remember the last time I had a day of relaxing fun.

  “I would love that,” I tell him seriously, letting him know that I understand how meaningful this is. Brighter, I add, “Let’s go! I want to ride the Founding Fathers Carousel first!”

  “Starting off easy, huh?” he teases. “I prefer going straight for the coasters.”

  “Of course you do.”

  We ride Carson’s motorcycle to the park, the trip seeming faster riding behind him instead of in my car. And I notice that he has a helmet just for me now. It’s not quite a key to his place, but it means something to me, and I know it means a lot to him. We skip the entrance lines and go straight into the park.

  The photographers gathered there politely attack like seagulls at the beach. “Would you like a photo?” Carson looks at me in question, and I nod, so we pose for a couple of shots. The photographer hands us a ticket. “They’ll be available after four at the photo booth.”

  And then the fun begins.

  We ride the Founding Fathers Carousel first as I requested, but then we park hop around to hit other attractions. We ride the Twisted Tracks locomotive that reaches speeds of forty miles an hour, which might not seem fast, but when you’re surrounded by ‘steam’ from the hot engine, it feels wildly fast. The Runaway Mine Car has an unexpected dip into darkness before shooting you out of the ‘mine’ into the bright day as the ride comes to an end with a loud quitting-time bell. We even take a break at the Boston Tea Party snack shop.

  “Want a tea slushie, regular tea, or hot tea?” Carson asks without looking at the menu.

  “I think I’ll take a Georgia Peach Tea Slushie,” I answer, scanning the options. “Oh, and a butter cookie. I don’t think I’ve ever had one of those.”

  Carson orders our food. A moment later, the clerk hands me a small cup with what looks like a brown ICEE in it, except there’s a straw with two peach ring candies threaded onto it.

  “Oh!” I exclaim, surprised. In contrast to the small cup, the cookie is huge, easily the size of my hand and covered in a yellowy glaze with salt sprinkles. We find a bench in the shade and make quick work of the cookie, sharing the delicious, not-too-sweet treat. In contrast, the tea is super sweet.

  “Oh, my God,” I groan with the first sip, immediately pressing my hand to my forehead. “Brain freeze and sugar rush all at once.”

  Carson laughs. “It’s the best, right? I started drinking those when I was a toddler. I don’t know what my parents were thinking, because I swear they’d make me hear colors, and I remember running around like a maniac until I crashed. They’d chase me all over, and when I got caught, they’d plop me on Dad’s shoulders until we got to the next ride.”

  I laugh at the idea of Carson as a little boy, ducking and diving through the crowds on a sugar-fueled mission to get to the bumper cars that look like miniature fifties classics. “Probably because of the full night’s sleep after a sugar crash like that,” I suggest.

  It’s the first time he’s said something positive about his childhood, especially a happy memory with both his mom and dad. It reminds me of my phone call with Mom this morning and how I never had to worry about her and Dad. They were busy, but they always made time for us kids when there was something important going on, and I have loads of memories of happy holidays, game nights, and dinners around the kitchen table. Fresh appreciation for them fills my heart.

  I take a few more sips of the slushie but leave the majority of the sweet drink to Carson.

  “Okay, I think I’m ready for the roller coasters now,” I tell him, and he grins happily.

  “Let’s do it!”

  He takes my hand and leads me through the park to the red, white, and blue loop-de-loop monstrosity I saw on the day I first arrived. The sign proclaims it The American Revolution and is decorated with LED light fireworks. Ahead, I can hear riders screaming with each roaring pass of the car.

  Nervousness zings through me. “I haven’t ridden a roller coaster since my high school swimming team trip to Disney,” I confess. “What if I throw up cookie and sugar syrup all over you?”

  Carson shrugs. “Let’s hope you don’t. But if so, I’ll grab a new shirt at one of our conveniently located souvenir shops,” he answers, sounding like a two A.M. infomercial as he points out the three within viewing distance.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” I caution, but I smile. His light sarcasm feels good, another lens into him and a sign of just how deep we’re getting. It’s one thing to work together, another to give into sexual chemistry, but to actually enjoy each other’s company and have fun doing silly activities and making jokes is a whole different thing. Especially for me. I’m not used to letting people in. In fact, I usually keep my walls solidly fortified, but Carson’s burst through them, not like Taya did with a battering ram, but rather, with brutal honesty, an open heart, and hard work.

  Carson flashes the same pass he’s shown at every ride, and we walk onto the platform for the next ride. The people already loaded are chattering in excitement as they fasten their seatbelts. And then the floor drops out, literally. I reflexively take a step back, but it’s only the section under the riders. And with their feet dangling, they disappear through the opening into the sunlight.

  Another car shows up and it’s our turn.

  “You sure? You don’t have to do this, Jayme.” Carson says, suddenly serious.

  This is about more than a ride. It’s about trust . . . in him, in me. Hell, in the people who made this crazy-ass ride. If nothing else, Carson has shown me that I can trust him, and I don’t do that easily. I’m maybe even more untrusting than Taya, and that’s saying something. But where she’s loud about it, I’m quiet, just keeping my distance and not letting anyone truly into my heart. But Carson worked his way in there anyway, and this is one way for me to show him that trust.

  “I want to. With you.” He knows I’m talking about more than this roller coaster too and takes my hand as we step onto the seemingly secure platform.

  We sit in the seats, shifting around until the hard plastic is relatively comfortable, and then pull down the shoulder harness. The chest bar locks in place and then fastens between my thighs. Carson holds my hand while the workers do the safety checks. Suddenly, the floor drops out from beneath us. “Oh, fuck!” I instantly feel bad for cursing when there are kids in line and try to cover my mouth, but the harness prevents me from doing so. Thankfully, the kids closest to us seem to have not heard me and the parents are grinning at my surprised outburst.

  “We’ll be fine,” he promises. “Hang on to the handles on the harness.” He shows me what he means, and I copy him. The hard metal doesn’t give me nearly as much comfort as holding his hand did, though.

  But as soon as the car jerks forward, I grip them with all my might.

  Carson told me The American Revolution isn’t the tallest or the fastest hanging coaster in this part of the country, but it’s fast enough for me as it winds around and then jerks to a stop with our feet dangling over a man-made pond area. The track above us clicks and clangs as it pulls us up to the top of a seventeen-story hill, letting the anticipation grow.

  “Three, two, one . . .” Carson counts down, obviously having memorized the ride.

  “Ahhhhh!” I scream as we drop and my heart jumps up into my throat. It’s a steep drop as we accelerate to what I hope is our top speed before whipping into the first and largest loop. There’s no chance to recover because it’s a double loop, so we continue straight into the second one, and I feel myself lift out of my seat slightly. I grip the handles even tighter. We slide through a section with a few turns and then through a corkscrew.

  Next to me, Carson is yelling and laughing in delight, enjoying every second, and his happiness sparks my own, turning my nerves into bubbles as I laugh along with him.

  The ride is somehow both an eternity and over in a blip, and as we return to the platform and unload, my balance is completely shot. Staggering with my arm wrapped around Carson’s waist for support, I gasp out, “That . . . was . . . amazing!”

  His arm around my shoulder tightens. “I know. Let’s look at the picture.”

  “There’s a picture?” I ask.

  He stops at a kiosk outside the ride’s line and points at the television screen there. It’s flashing through each car, showing the riders’ faces. Some are terrified, some screaming in joy, and even a few look as though they could be chilling on the couch at home. And then our picture pops up.

  Carson is smiling happily, but he’s looking sideways . . . at me, as though he was making sure that I was enjoying myself. Something about that is very touching. Or maybe he’s making sure I’m okay, because my mouth is open in a scream, my eyes so wide that you can see the whites all around my irises. I’m one of the terrified-looking people. But I know I enjoyed the hell out of the ride.

  “We’ll take that one,” Carson tells the worker, and then he pays for the image.

  “Here you go, sir,” the kid tells Carson, giving him a piece of paper. “Scan this QR code and it’ll take you to the website. Put in this code, and the image will be there for you. You can print it yourself, send it to a printing place, or even send it to a smart frame. No need to carry a print with you around the park.”

  Impressive! That’s actually a great idea, I think to myself.

  We go for a less intense attraction that mimics riding on a Mississippi river boat on a much smaller scale and then battle it out in a shooting game where you have to hit the target to make your horse win the Kentucky Derby. Carson wins and lets me choose the prize. The adorable stuffed horse is fluffy and soft, so when I see a little girl making goo-goo eyes at it, I gift it to her, hoping she enjoys it.

  When we get in line for Bunyan’s Breakout, I’m thinking that this might be the best day I’ve had in a very long time. I’m always head-down working, so doing something strictly for entertainment, with no undercurrent of networking or image repair, is a luxury I don’t afford myself. But with the sun shining on my shoulders, a hot dog in my belly, and Carson at my side, I feel like I should indulge like this more often. It’s good, old-fashioned fun, and I’m having a blast with Carson.

  “Thank you,” I say quietly. “For today.”

  Carson tilts my chin up, his smile gentle and sweet. “No, thank you. For everything.”

  He presses a soft kiss to my lips, and though some innate part of my brain yells about appearances and public displays of affection, I easily tune it out. I want to be a normal woman on a fun date with a normal guy, enjoying each other’s company, and that includes a perfectly acceptable, sweet kiss.

  There’s a distant roar, and suddenly, we’re covered in water, soaked to the bone. I blink, sputtering as water drips from my lashes, nose, and . . . well, everything.

  “What the—” I laugh as I blink the water away and see that Carson is equally soaked, his hair swept over to one side haphazardly and droplets stuck in the scruff of his beard.

  “Bunyan’s Breakout!” a teenager shouts next to us, his arms thrown wide. He shakes his head like a shaggy dog, and water goes flying everywhere.

  Carson covers me as if a few more drops are going to make a difference. “I didn’t realize we were on the bridge,” he explains, though I have no idea what he’s talking about. Recognizing my confusion, he points behind us to where the rest of the line has stopped. “The line goes over the bridge, but if you don’t want to get soaked, you cross between logs.”

  Apparently, we didn’t cross in time with the ride’s logs dropping over the edge and creating a wave of splashing water. Instead, our kiss stopped us right in the water’s trajectory.

  “Come on!” Carson shouts, grabbing my hand and running for the far side of the bridge. It takes me a second to realize there’s another log coming, the kids riding in it already squealing in excitement. On the other side, Carson blocks me again, and I press my face into his wet chest, laughing. “You okay?”

  He’s worried, thinking I’m maybe upset or crying and not laughing, which just makes me laugh the harder. “I’m melting, melting! You’ve destroyed my beautiful wickedness,” I whine, adding a cackle at the end. “What a world, what a world!”

  He looks down at me, already smiling at my poorly quoted Wicked Witch impersonation. But then his smile falls and his jaw goes hard. “Shit,” he hisses, and then he takes my hand. “Excuse us, please.”

  He’s talking to the people around us in line as he guides me out of the back-and-forth que. “What’s wrong?” I ask, confused at his sudden change in demeanor. “Carson?”

  “Your shirt.”

  I look down to see that the white tank top Carson brought me has gone completely sheer, which wouldn’t be so bad if my bra weren’t also completely see-through. I’m currently dressed as a wet T-shirt contestant except there’s no contest! Then I realize that Carson’s shirt is sticking to him as well, showcasing the bumps of his abs.

  “Uhm, your shorts too,” I tell him.

  He’s still pulling me along, trying to get us out of public view, but that gives him pause. He glances down, seeing what I’ve already seen . . . the same way my shirt’s hugging my breasts, his shorts are highlighting the outline of his dick. And it’s apparent that my breasts and maybe that kiss are still having quite an effect on him.

  In a flash, my work brain takes over. “We just did damage repair on your reputation. We have to get you out of sight or the next headline’s gonna be ‘Carson Steen, pervert flasher,’ with a close-up of your dick.”

  He groans, covering himself with his other hand. “Stop talking about my dick so it’ll go down.”

  I can’t help but giggle. “You said ‘go down’.” Shaking my head, I say more seriously, “Not the time, got it.”

  “This way,” he says, leading me straight into a railing. But then he scoops me up and sets me down carefully on the other side. He hops the railing after me and explains, “There’s one of those big dryers on the other side of this line of shrubbery.”