Page 10 of Bonfire with Beckett
We keep going—playing cornhole, splitting a funnel cake dusted with too much powdered sugar, listening to the bluegrass band while she claps along. I let myself laugh when she trips on the edge of the hay bale, and she laughs harder when I catch her around the waist to steady her.
By the time we reach the square, I’ve almost forgotten I came here against my will.
She sips the last of her cider slushie and tips her head, studying me. “Okay, Mr. Fire Marshal. Serious question.”
I brace automatically. “Shoot.”
“What is your favorite thing about fall?”
It should be simple. A dozen safe answers sit on the tip of my tongue—cooler nights, hunting season, the smell of woodsmoke.
Instead, the truth slips out is. “Caramel apples. And going on the Ferris wheel at the festival.”
Her mouth curves slow, wicked and sweet. “Then we have our next mission.”
Before I can argue, she ducks to a nearby booth, returning with a paper tray loaded with caramel apple nachos—slices drizzled in caramel and chocolate, topped with crushed nuts. She thrusts it into my hands, her grin triumphant.
“We’ll need it for the ride.”
“Ride?” I echo, already knowing where this is going.
She jerks her chin toward the glowing wheel on the edge of the square, its lights blinking against the dark sky. “We’re going on the Ferris wheel. Obviously.”
I don’t stand a chance of saying no.
The ferris wheel looms ahead, rim lit with white bulbs that blink against the night sky. The air smells like fried dough and kettle corn, the music from the square fading as we step into the line. Families chatter, couples lean into each other. I shouldn’t be here. But with Willa’s shoulder brushing mine, I can’t think of one reason to leave.
She bounces slightly on her toes. “You don’t look excited.”
“I’m assessing the mechanics,” I deadpan, eyes on the metal arms, the operators checking safety bars.
She smirks. “You’re making it very hard to believe this is one of your favorite parts of fall.”
“It is.”
“Then act like it.”
Before I can reply, the attendant waves us forward. We climb into the seat, the safety bar clanking down. The bench sways, pulling her closer to my side. Her thigh presses against mine, warm through denim.
“You okay?” she asks, her grin teasing.
I arch a brow. “You worried about me?”
“Maybe.”
The ride lurches, gears groaning, and we rise above the square. Lights scatter below us—orange strings, glowing booths, the shimmer of the lake at the edge of town.
Willa sighs, soft and content. “See? Is there anything more beautiful?”
I glance at her instead of the view. She’s framed in the glow, hair catching the light, eyes wide with wonder. Nope. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than her.
Halfway up in the air, she digs into the tray of caramel apple nachos she insisted on bringing. She offers me a slice. I shake my head.
“Suit yourself,” she says, popping one into her mouth. Caramel glistens on her lips. She licks at the corner, missing a spot.
Before I know what I’m doing, I reach over and brush my thumb across her mouth, wiping it away. Her breath stills. Mine does too.
My gaze drops to her lips.
