The situation hits me fully. We’re dripping wet, fully involved in an open and shut case of public indecency, ducking though bushes in the middle of an amusement park, hoping not to be seen. This is not my life. This is the kind of shit I save people from.

  But here I am.

  And I’m not regretting it. In fact, I’m trying to not laugh at the crazy predicament that all started with something as normal as a kiss on a bridge.

  We pop out of the bushes, and thankfully, there’s no one in line to use the huge dryer. We step into it, and the machine turns on, nearly blowing me back with its roaringly loud warm air. I peel my tank top from my skin, hoping it’ll dry a bit faster that way, and Carson pulls his shorts out so you can’t see how much he’s tenting them.

  Our eyes meet, and then we both burst out laughing. “You think anyone saw us?” I manage to bark out between laughs, hoping the answer’s no. “Anyone with a phone, at least?”

  Carson looks at me incredulously. “Jayme, everyone saw us. But the funny thing is, I don’t think anyone cared about who I am. They were just laughing along with us.”

  “Shit. I’m so getting fired,” I tease.

  “Maybe next time we go out, we wear something a little less see-through?” he suggests, moving in close to block me from any passerby’s view. “The souvenir shop does offer this stuff in blue.”

  “Hey! You bought it for me. Maybe this was your grand plan all along?” I joke, knowing full well that he had zero intention of flashing my nipples or his dick to the entirety of Americana Land. Then what he said hits me. “Next time?” I echo with a sly smile, letting my fingers trace over the bumps of his abs that I can still see through his shirt.

  “The Americana Land charity event. Would you be my date?” Carson asks formally.

  This is more than a simple question. Potentially, Carson won’t be my client by the time the event happens in two weeks, so any appearance together would be acceptable. But depending on how the numbers from yesterday’s festival pan out, I might still be needed as a PR consultant for Americana Land, which would make a public outing like that a bad idea. Today, running around the park together is one thing, but an event like that will have photographers and media, and we’ll be labeled as a couple simply by walking in together. Either that, or they’ll imply that Carson is on such a short leash that he can’t attend an event without a chaperone to keep him on the right path.

  I don’t know what to do. Obviously, I want to go with Carson. But I have to put his well-being first. Mine too, though that’s secondary at best.

  “I don’t know what people will say about us,” I confess, wanting him to understand that I’m not hesitating because of us, but rather because I’m worried about our images.

  “When have I ever given a fuck what they say?” he observes baitingly. “Come on, live dangerously, Jayme. Gamble on me this time.”

  He makes zero debatable points, but nevertheless, he wins me over easily.

  “I would love to.”

  CHAPTER 22

  CARSON

  I order in a full celebration spread for our Monday meeting—bagels, muffins, donuts, and even some bacon, egg, and cheese biscuits. Plus high-octane coffee, of course. Even though it’s early, everyone rolls in with smiles and excited greetings. They know the Freedom Fest was a rip-roaring success too.

  “Please help yourself to breakfast,” I offer. “It’s a small token of appreciation for all your hard work on the Freedom Fest project. I can’t wait to hear everyone’s take on how it went.”

  My team fills their paper plates and finds seats around the conference table, where I’m sitting with Jayme to my right and Spencer to my left, with a blueberry bagel of my own. When Spencer came in this morning, she informed me that she’s going to bank the day off I offered, and I immediately agreed. “Thanks for coming this morning. I know it was a long weekend with a lot of mental and physical work, so I’m glad you’re here.”

  There’s a murmur of agreement.

  “I’m going to turn the floor over to Spencer because she was the one leading the charge from the get-go on this.”

  I gesture to Spencer, who dips her chin at the recognition. She pushes her blue frames high on her nose and shuffles her notes. “Thanks, Carson. The festival itself went smoothly as far as implementation goes.” She runs through a laundry list of items, each with a virtual check mark of success. “So, from set-up to teardown, I felt like it was a solid plan that was workable and manageable.”

  She glances to Kyleigh, who’s sitting slightly behind her and confirms the assessment with an eager nod. Kyleigh’s also banking her day off, and I’m proud of her. She’s going to learn a lot working with and for Spencer.

  “We did have one issue with a nervous artist, but it was resolved and the show began on time. It actually gave us an opportunity to have Toni Steen dance onstage, which was an unexpected bonus that brought an extra touch of that Americana Land family feeling to the festival.” She smiles at me, making the near catastrophe sound like a prize toy in a cereal box. “And that section of the show was a complete hit.”

  I note that she leaves out any mention of Taya and her fierce pep talk, which I appreciate. Taya’s see nothing, hear nothing, know nothing proclamation still stands.

  “Any feedback on event implementation?” I ask the table.

  Stephanie raises her hand the way she always does when she’d like to contribute. “I was on the frontlines with the vloggers I was hosting. The only thing I noticed in particular was the water supply. I think we would’ve been better off providing free small cups at water stations throughout the park in addition to the water bottles we sold. I understand the profit margin is higher on sodas and bottles, but with the heat and dancing, I think we should consider safety first, and dehydration could be a potential concern. This is something I’d recommend adding to our summer concert series as well, especially given those attendees are . . . uhm . . .” —she clears her throat uncomfortably before finishing carefully— “a potentially more at-risk demographic.”

  I make a note of that on the yellow pad in front of me because it’s a great point. The Freedom Fest attendees were young, but active. The summer concert series guests are usually older, and though they rarely dance, the heat is significantly more serious during those months. “I agree. I’ll make sure that gets on their project notes.”

  Stephanie smiles. “Thank you.”

  “Okay, well as Maury would say, ‘the results are in’. Padma, can you go over the analytics with us?”

  She glances down to a yellow Post-It note, and it strikes me as a bit sadistic that my fate, as well as that of Americana Land, can be reduced to a few numbers on a piece of paper that’ll end up in the trash. Hopefully, that’s not a bad sign.

  She rattles off a bunch of metrics about site visits, engagement on social media posts and pictures, clickthrough rates, and hashtag usage. But all that detail obscures the bottom line until Jayme interjects. “Really? Great! What about the user generated content from the festival?”

  Padma grins, leaning forward as though she and Jayme are having a private conversation. “I was saving the best for last! We’ve had so many posts, photos, and videos that we’re filtering them into a separate section on the main website, and we added a tab on the blog header specifically for the festival because the video of Jazmyn Starr and King’s Krossing . . .” She pauses dramatically, looking around the table to build anticipation. “It went viral!”

  “What?” I’m shocked. I got online yesterday before going to Jayme’s and saw the positive outpouring of comments about the festival, but I never dreamed any portion of it would go viral. “What does that translate to numerically?”

  Padma flips her Post-It note over. “As of an hour ago, the video had seven million views in just over twenty-four hours. 7,200,018, to be exact.”

  Jayme jumps up and dashes around the table to Padma’s side. “Can you pull it up now? What are the real-time numbers?”

  Her eyes are bright with excitement as Padma clicks on her laptop to refresh the figures. “An increase of sixty-three thousand in an hour, give or take. Would you like the percentage change?”

  I bet Padma could probably do the math on that in her head, or maybe already has, but Jayme shakes her head. “That’s okay. Because those numbers are crazy good!” She points at Padma’s laptop excitedly. “Any brand recognition or impression stats?”

  Xavier clears his throat. “I won’t speak to the online portion of that, but I can tell you that I interacted with hundreds of guests on Saturday as I escorted the photographer around. Every single person we talked to was absolutely thrilled to be at Americana Land and called the festival some version of brilliant.” He throws his hands wide to encompass all the positive feedback he heard. “If each of those people posted one thing about the festival, the reach and impact for our reputation will be exponential.”

  “We did it,” Jayme says quietly. Looking around the table, she meets everyone’s eyes. Just her glance feels like praise and approval when she repeats, “We did it!”

  She punches the air over her head, doing a weird shimmy shake of excitement that’s accented with a few whispered yes, yes, yeses. Then our eyes lock, and I want to cross the room to hug her. I want to kiss her. I want to tell her thank you by writing the Declaration of Independence on her clit with my tongue, curlicued cursive and all.

  But what I say is, “Thank you so much, Jayme. You rescued not just me, but Americana Land with this idea.”

  I hope she hears the truth, that she’s done much more than help restore my reputation after the unfortunate Abby Burks incident. She’s made me see myself in new ways, shown me a clearer vision of Dad as a human being, and given me hope for a future that includes her in it.

  She clears her throat, sounding on the verge of tears. “It’s been my pleasure, Carson, to work with each and every one of you.”

  She looks around the room once more, and it hits me that in succeeding, she’ll be leaving. I’m sure there’s someone else fucking up right this moment as we’re sitting here, and they’ll need Jayme’s specialized help, so she’ll be off to the next assignment. That’s what she does, over and over. Rescue, restore, move on.

  The idea makes me sad for her in a way. Always jumping from one crisis to the next, never knowing if the next one is going to be unfixable. Also, the idea of her being on a different assignment soon makes me miss her even though she’s still here.

  On the other hand, she’s been worried about our dating while I’m her client. With the festival and our reputation repair being a complete success, I’ll no longer be a client, allowing us to date freely. And that is something I’m very much looking forward to. I want her by my side, publicly and proudly claiming me as I do the same with her.

  “I think we’ll call this project a complete victory,” I say, wrapping up the project review. “Keep an eye on your areas, and let me know of any wins that should be highlighted.” I don’t even mention potential losses, not wanting to jinx it, especially when there’s always someone willing to shit-talk Americana Land.

  After wrapping up the team meeting, Jayme and I head straight to Dad’s office to catch him up.

  “Hi, Boston,” I tell Dad’s assistant. He’s wearing a lime green polka-dot bowtie with a navy vest and slacks today. “Dad around?”

  I want to ask him where he gets his unique combinations, but Dad opens his office door as if he was waiting for me to appear. “Hey. We just wrapped up post-project analysis, and I figured you’d want all the details.”

  “Absolutely,” he agrees. We follow him into his office, where he sits down at his large desk. The windows behind him overlook the park, which opened a few minutes ago and is starting to fill with weekday visitors. Jayme and I sit in the chairs opposite Dad, looking out at the rides that fill the blue sky beyond the glass.

  I remind myself of what Jayme said about him and steel myself.

  Benefit of the doubt. He’s coming from a good place. He’s a bad communicator, but don’t make it even worse by jumping to conclusions and getting butthurt when he doesn’t mean it the way you take it.

  I’m not going to let anything Dad says knock me off the high I’m on right now, I vow.

  It works . . . all through the numbers and statistics, feedback, and blog. He even watches the viral video of Jazmyn Starr and King’s Krossing, giving my phone screen a faraway smile. “Toni really is something, isn’t she?”

  I laugh, realizing he didn’t pay the slightest attention to the big star or the popular dance group. All he sees is his little girl all grown up and commanding the stage with her performance.

  “Toni’s amazing. She really helped save the day, and I think she had a lot of fun yesterday, playing ambassador.” It’s a new tactic. Normally, I would’ve taken Dad’s compliment of Toni and run with it, assuming he was comparing us and that I was coming out on the unfavorable end. But I can see where that’s not what he means at all. He just loves Toni, as he should.

  And he loves me. He’s just shit at showing it, but he’s making an effort and that’s all I can ask. And I can return the favor, making an effort of my own.

  “Excellent.” He hands me back my phone and catches my eye to say seriously, “Good job, Carson.”

  There he goes, making those efforts again. He did hear me.

  To Jayme, he remarks, “Seems like you had a winning idea. I definitely had doubts.” He laughs lightly. “But you pulled it off.”

  “The team did,” Jayme corrects. “Carson and I worked hard on getting the talent signed on, but there were a number of people doing the important work of making the festival a success,” she adds, claiming credit but also giving it where it’s warranted.

  Dad leans back in his chair, his elbows on the armrests as he steeples his hands. “I think you’d agree that knowing what a business or person needs” —he gives me a quick glance before refocusing on Jayme— “is a true talent. You were a real asset to the team to spark this idea.”

  My blood freezes in my veins at Dad’s tone—slightly distant, a touch snobby. I’ve heard it before in business meetings before he cuts someone off at the knees. But why in the world would he do that to Jayme? She’s done nothing but help Americana Land! And me.

  Though she did call him on his shit, which I’m sure he didn’t take well. But is he that angry?

  And why is he reducing her contribution down to the initial idea? It’s not like she could’ve made the suggestion and then bailed on us. We wouldn’t have been able to do this without her and her connections.

  “Dad—” I try to interrupt to prevent him from saying something he’ll regret, professionally and personally, because if he hurts Jayme, I’m going to have a hard time stopping myself from lunging over his desk to punch him square in the nose.

  He holds up a staying hand. “It’s okay, Carson. I have a few talents of my own, one of which is seeing others. And I see something special in you, Ms. Rice. That’s why I’d like to offer you a position with Americana Land.”

  The air is sucked out of the room, and time freezes. It’s not Jayme he’s blindsiding. It’s me.

  “What?” I mutter.

  “Pardon me?” Jayme asks.

  Dad smiles congenially as if he didn’t just detonate a bomb with his words. “A position with Americana Land. You’re something special. And I think you could take us to a whole new level. You’ve already shown that you’re capable of it. Think of what else you could do here.”

  Jayme turns her head and looks at me. “Carson, did you know about this?”

  I shake my head woodenly, my eyes still locked on Dad.

  “I see,” Jayme says before making a harrumph sound. “Ben, I’m flattered at the offer. Truly, I am. But my talent, as you called it, is in crisis image restoration, and I’m damn good at it.” The boast isn’t humble in the slightest, but there’s no need for it to be. Jayme’s claim is backed up with all the facts and figures we went over minutes ago. “I agree that what we’ve done here has made a major positive impact on your company overall, but you don’t need me beyond that. As I’ve said, you already have an amazing team that can be innovative, bring ideas to fruition, and implement continuous updates to keep Americana Land progressing with the times to be profitable and relevant. And it’s led by Carson. You don’t need me. You need to let Carson do what he does best.”

  Once again, Jayme is fighting my battle, saying things I’ve said to him or have wanted to say. But her filter is nonexistent. Maybe because she does come in, fix things, and go. It must give her a sense of freedom to not be accountable to a boss that way.

  Unfortunately, that’s not the case for me.

  But I’m done biting my tongue.

  “Dad, it’s grossly inappropriate for you to extend an offer like that without first discussing it with me. Unless your intention is to replace me?” I ask the question with a snarl in my throat.

  “What?” he exclaims, managing to look surprised, confused, and horrified all at the same time. “I would never do that! What are you talking about? You two worked well together, so I thought it’d be good for everyone if we kept that dynamic. That’s all.” He’s looking back and forth from Jayme to me as though he suggested something completely logical and we’re the weird ones making it sound vastly different. As though he suggested a simple brunch and we heard ‘a trip to Mars on flying horses’.

  I look to Jayme, who tears her glare from Dad to look back at me.

  Is he for real? her eyes ask.

  Unfortunately, yes, I answer silently.

  I sigh and spell it out slowly for him. “You basically offered her my job with me sitting right here. At minimum, you framed it as job sharing the single role. She’s a consultant. She consulted, and now it’s time for us to continue on as the Americana Land family we are.”

  I’ve realized something important through this mess. Dad really does have my best interests at heart. I’ve been reading so much into his every word and motion for so long that I’ve made him out to be this villain in my head, but the truth is, he’s not. And my making him one needs to stop. No more biting my tongue or assuming he understands what I want or think. I have to speak up, spell it out with hieroglyphics if necessary for us to understand each other.