Page 8 of Carnival Master

“I wish everything was simpler.” I take a bite of thelasagna, savoring the rich flavor. “Like your cooking. It’s straightforward, honest, perfect.”

She sits across from me, her wise eyes studying my face. “Life is rarely simple, my dear. But that doesn’t mean we can’t find joy in the complicated parts.”

I try to focus on my food, but Tyson’s face keeps appearing in my mind—his intense gaze, the way he moved confidently. I shake my head, attempting to dispel the thoughts.

“You’re thinking about him again,” Nonna observes.

“I’m trying not to.” I take another bite, letting the familiar taste of her cooking ground me. “It’s just whenever I close my eyes...”

“Some people leave an impression on our hearts, whether we want them to or not.” She reaches across the table, patting my hand. “But remember who you are, Sofia. You’re strong.”

“I know.” I manage a small smile. “This lasagna helps. Everything seems clearer when I’m here with you.”

“Then stay for dessert too. I made tiramisu.”

I laugh. “You’re spoiling me, Nonna.”

“That’s what grandmothers are for.” She stands to get the dessert, and I try once again to push thoughts of Tyson from my mind. But even surrounded by the comfort of Nonna’s kitchen and her incredible cooking, his image lingers like a shadow I can’t quite shake.

5

TYSON

Ipace my office trailer, unable to focus on tonight’s carnival preparations. My phone buzzes with a message from Phoenix, including a video link. My breath catches when I click it.

There she is. Sofia. Sprawled across her bed in tiny sleep shorts and a tank top, completely absorbed in her book. Her red hair fans out on the propped-up pillow like liquid fire.

“Fuck.” I adjust my stance, already hard just looking at her. The camera angle from her iMac gives me a perfect view of those curves. Her full chest moves up and down with each breath, and how her teeth catch her bottom lip when she reaches an interesting part.

My fingers trace the screen, imagining touching her soft skin. I shouldn’t be watching her like this. It’s crossing a line. But I’m already too deep, consumed by thoughts of making her mine.

She shifts position, stretching like a cat, and my grip tightens on the phone. Those little shorts ride up,revealing more thick, creamy thigh. I groan, picturing how it would feel to run my hands up those legs and hear her gasp my name.

“You’re going to be mine, baby girl,” I murmur to the screen. “Whether daddy dearest likes it or not.”

I should be focusing on tonight’s carnival. On the shipments coming in. On literally anything else. But I can’t tear my eyes away from her. The way she absent-mindedly twirls that red hair around her finger. How she occasionally smiles at something in her book.

Phoenix came through with this feed. I’ll have to thank him later. Sitting at my desk, I airdrop the feed link to my Mac and then open a new text message to Sofia.

Baby girl, I’ve been thinking about you.

I press send, then watch as her eyes flick down to her phone. She furrows her brow, then picks it up.

Her confused expression turns to one of annoyance as she reads my message.

Who the hell is this?

Her reply comes a few seconds later, and her voice carries a hint of irritation as she speaks aloud through the iMac microphone.

I almost feel bad for a second—almost. I type my response back.

You know who this is. Your favorite carnie.

Her eyes widen at the response, and I hear her annoyed huff through the iMac. I want to see that flush on her cheeks, how her chest rises and falls faster with each message.

I know you want me. Admit it, baby girl.

I send, then watch with a smirk as she hurries to respond.

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