Page 67 of Fairground

He leads me through another door into a long alleyway lined with hens, each nestled comfortably in wooden enclosures behind plexiglass dividers.

“This is Henrietta,” he says, tapping on the glass near a pretty hen with soft gray feathers.

I snort. “Wow. Real original.”

He smiles. “And this,” he continues, pointing to an all-brown chicken, “is Chickaletta.” His tone is so affectionate, it’s ridiculous but also downright adorable that he’s named them.

“Chickaletta?” I repeat, raising a brow.

He grins sheepishly. “I watched a lot ofPaw Patrolwith my nephew Beckham when he was little.”

I snap my fingers, the memory clicking. “I knew that sounded familiar. That’s the mayor of Adventure Bay's pet chicken.”

He chuckles. “Exactly. Maybe when I become mayor of this town, I’ll carry her around in my purse like Mayor Goodway does. It feels like a rite of passage. Become mayor. Get a pet chicken.”

The mental image hits me so hard I burst out laughing. Cash, walking around town with a purse slung over his wrist, a chicken poking its head out? Priceless.

He grins wider, clearly proud of himself, and moves on. “And this one here is Chicken Little.”

I raise a brow at the hulking, orange chicken he’s pointing to. “More like Chicken Big.”

He crouches down, lifting a corner to open the glass case and then pets the massive bird gently, running his hand over her feathers like she’s a family pet and something precious. I swearshe clucks in pleasure like a cat, something I didn't think a chicken could do.

“She didn’t mean it,” he says softly, as if reassuring the chicken. “Rae’s new. She doesn’t know how sensitive you are.”

I roll my eyes. “Cash, she’s huge!”

“She wasn’t always. When she was born, she was so little we weren’t sure she’d make it. But she pulled through after a few sleepless nights,” he says, his voice warm with pride. I wonder if those nights were sleepless for her or him. “Now she’s one of my best foragers. Loves hunting down little critters in the fields like a tiny T-rex.”

As he straightens up and keeps walking, I find myself stealing glances at him. The way he talks about these hens, the care in his voice and the pride in his eyes—it’s ridiculously attractive in the most absurd way.

Did I ever think that I’d care this much about chickens? No. But being here, in his world, in the place he loves most, I can’t help but fall for them a little too.

For him.

When we reach the end of the row, he stops and turns to me, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “So, what do you think?”

What do I think?

I think it’s ridiculously sexy that you named your chickens and talk to them like they're family. I think it’s terrifying that you brought me here—the first woman to visit with you, by your own admission, to see this side of you. And I think I don’t know where this thing between us is going, but I want your hands and lips on me right now.

I don’t say any of that, though. Because before I can even open my mouth, he steps closer, his chest pressing against mine.His hand reaches up, his fingers catching a loose strand of my chestnut hair. He tugs on it gently, almost teasingly, before tucking it behind my ear. Then his hand shifts, cupping my face, tilting it upward like I’m something precious that he can't look away from.

I swallow hard because it’s always the simple things that undo me most. When a man actually takes the time to be patient with my tough exterior and see all that I have to offer. Now that I think about it, no guy has ever been this tender before. This patient.

“Why did you bring me here? To give me a lesson on the town’s booming economy?” I joke softly.

His eyes find mine and hold, steady, unblinking, like he’s rooting himself in me. Then he gives the smallest shake of his head, slow and certain. “No,” he says, voice quieter. “I brought you here so you could see every part of me.”

My lips part, the air catching in my throat as I try to digest that. It’s warm in here. Whatever system keeps the hens cozy through winter is still humming softly in the background, but my mouth is suddenly dry. Because who justsaysshit like that? Like it costs him nothing to hand over his insides. Like vulnerability isn’t something that scares him. He doesn’t even flinch. No second-guessing, no backpedal. Just… wide open.

Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Oh…”

He nods. “Yeah. Oh.”

And then he leans in and brushes his lips softly against mine. It’s tender, careful, and for a moment I’m transported back to that night by the river—the last time he really kissed me. Buttonight, the softness isn’t enough. Not after all the tension that’s simmering between us.

---