Page 38 of Fairground

And smell you. You smell like sweet sex and cherries.

“Ugh, fine…” she says, her voice quiet, still clearly rattled. I glance at her neck and notice the goosebumps that have broken out across her skin. She’s trying so damn hard to play it cool, but her body betrays her. She feels this too. Whateverthisis.

I lean back slightly, but only to bide my time. I’ve been patient. I’ve been a good boy, waiting for her to let me in.

But tonight? Tonight, I’m done waiting. Tonight, I’m making a move.

Chapter 15: Rae

It’s been a full hour of Cash leaning over my shoulder while we painstakingly go through last year’s fair entertainment lineup and my carefully curated suggestions for this year. All of it the result of my pre-drunk and post-drunk research binge last night.

To his credit, Cash looks genuinely impressed by the effort I put in—which, yes, was probably overkill considering he’s done this before, and I could have just asked him. But that’s just how I operate. I research obsessively, cover every angle, and make damn sure I’m never the one playing catch-up. Especially not when it’s my first time helping plan the fair.

It’s the same approach I used running the mayoral campaign in Charlotte. And honestly, it’s what it takes to manage something as massive as a state fair.

Even with this inconvenient, slow-burn attraction I have to Cash Marshall, I’m still convinced I’d make the better mayor. Symbolic position or not, I have the skills and the experience. He just has the charm, the quick wit, and the frustrating ability to win over every last person in this small Southern town with nothing more than a crooked smile.

What Iwishhad happened when I’d gotten here is that he’d just agreed to all my suggestions and moved on. But no. Of course not. Instead, he’s made me go over everything twice so he can“understand it in detail”and“look prepared if he gets asked questions by Mrs. Mayberry.”

Meanwhile, his warm breath keeps fanning over the back of my neck, his sweat-and-pheromone-laced scent is invading my personal space and clinging to my skin, and his low, throaty, ridiculously sexy voice is doing things to that I didn’t think were possible.

I swear he’s doing it on purpose.

Every time I lean back to create some distance, hoping he’ll get the hint and pull away, he leans in, grinning like he knows exactlyhow much he’s affecting me. At one point, I swear he scooted his chair even closer to mine though I’m not sure how that’s possible considering our knees are already touching underneath the table.

And as if that’s not bad enough, today I'm ovulating. Of all the times. My traitorous body is practically in heat, betraying me with every interaction, every murmur of his voice. I can feel myself getting embarrassingly wet, my body priming itself for fertilization by one of Cash’s imaginary—yet somehow vividly detailed in my mind—“meaty, greedy” sperm. Because that's what they have to look like, right?

Do I evenwantkids? No clue. I like my life the way it is. Okay, not exactly the way it is. It'd be nice to not be unemployed and living in a town I don’t consider home, but none of that seems to matter right now. My nipples are rock hard, my chest feels permanently flushed, and my brain can’t stop spiraling with each brush of his fingers.

Did I mention he’s wearing a backward baseball cap today? Or that same dirty, ripped, white T-shirt and light-washed jeans he always wears?

He dresses like he doesn’t give a damn, and yet here I am, reduced to a puddle because somehow, he manages to make sweat look—and smell—good. If working all day with chickens was supposed to deter me, it doesn't. And yes, I know I'm being completely over the top obsessive right now, but this is how I get when my body temperature increases by a single degree, and an egg is scooting out of my fallopian tube doing a happy line dance to some oldShania TwainsingingMan! I feel like a woman.

“Okay, so that’s it then,” I say, turning off the tablet and quickly wiping my sweaty palms down the front of my joggers.

He nods. “Looks real good, Rae.” And finally—finally—he leans back and gives me some breathing room.

I should feel relieved, but somehow the air between us feels hotter and heavier than before. This tent is massive—big enough for the petting zoo animals that we’ll house here in just a few short days—yet Cash insists on sitting as close as possible. I don't get what his angle is here.

“So, we’ve got the animals, rides, local bands, a comedy show, a dunking booth, and go-kart races,” he says, his voice still in that lazy drawl. “We’ll need the committee to handle the permits, hire the inspectors, secure the animals, and make sure the vendors for the rides are locked in. That just leaves one thing.”

I glance up at him, trying to focus and not get lost in those warm hazel eyes or the smile that he wears so easily.

“What’s that?”

“The headliner,” he says, leaning back in his chair like he’s got all the time in the world, while my brain screams at me to keep my composure.

“I’m telling you, Macie is good. I know you didn’t get to hear her last night, but she’s at that perfect tipping point—small enough to be affordable but just on the edge of breaking out. I think we can secure her. I just need a little more backing to get a response from her manager. Maybe your brother, Troy, could reach out to her talent management team?”

Cash rubs his jaw thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing slightly like he’s already running through a plan. “I believe you that she’s good. Let me see what I can do.”

“Awesome,” I murmur, my voice a little too soft, a little too breathy.

I glance toward the open tent flap, the early evening light streaming through in long, golden stripes across the grass. The air outside looks cooler now. I pull in a breath, trying to ground myself with the crisp, autumn air and try to reorient myself. We’ve been in here for hours, and somehow it feels like five minutes and forever at the same time.

“You did good, little Darko.”

I groan, snapping my attention back to him. “Seriously?”

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