Page 1 of One Night Forsaken

PROLOGUE

ALESSANDRA

Nothing like whirling around in speedy, dizzying circles for two minutes then stumbling to walk in a straight line. The cherry on top… I am not alone in my alcohol-free wobbly walk. Dozens of others walk on unsteady legs with their arms outstretched as they try to find balance. All in the name of fun.

How often do we have festivals in Lake Lavender? At least one per season, if not two. But after this centennial celebration, it wouldn’t surprise me if smaller carnivals or jamborees pop up.

I trail behind a couple and warm as I watch them. The way he laces his fingers with hers and strokes her thumb with his. The sporadic giggles as he leans in and kisses beneath her ear or nips at her earlobe. Their obvious love is coveted and adorable.

Deep in my bones, part of me wishes for romance. A love story of my own. For sweet kisses and morning cuddles. Someone to hold my hand and heart. To be my greatest cheerleader but also the one who picks me up when I fall.

In the same breath, I can’t picture it. Can’t fit these pieces into the busy puzzle I call my life. Love doesn’t seem to be in the stars for me. And over time, I have accepted this fact. Or so I keep telling myself.

No romance. Just fun.

Shifting my gaze from the couple, I steer toward the next form of amusement. And for the next fifteen minutes, I wander—and get lost—in the house of mirrors. Exiting, I peer over my shoulder at the tiny building and wonder how the hell I got disoriented in such a confined area. Maybe the inside is bigger than it appears.

After a handful of rides, I aim my feet toward my favorite part of the entire festival. The food tents and trucks. Not only am I eager to try one of everything, but I’m also excited at what ideas the fair foods will give me for Java and Teas Me.

I tug my jacket tighter as I peruse the onslaught of menus. Fried pickles, several types of flavored pretzels, chocolate-covered bacon, fried macaroni and cheese bites, corn fritters, kettle corn, every type of dessert imaginable—deep fried to perfection—and more.

Gah!I want to try one of everything.Damn, I should’ve brought a bag.If I had a bag, I’d fill it then take everything home to gorge in privacy.

As I survey the lines at the nearby tents, I spy a man at the fresh-made churro tent passing out bags to the customers after purchase. “First stop, the churro tent,” I mutter to myself as I shuffle toward the line.

I read the long list of flavors as the line inches forward. By the time I reach the vendor, I order three specialty churros. For myself. Although they’d taste best fresh out of the fryer, I plan to do my taste test at home.

Is it weird that I ask the vendor for an extra bag? He cocks a brow, subliminally asking why I need two large paper bags for three churros—which barely take up space in a single bag. I give a sheepish grin and he concedes with a shrug. Maybe he knows the method to my madness.

By the time I reach the last tent—number twenty, hence my need for an extra bag—my arms are weighed down with countless sweet and savory confections. A mountain of fried deliciousness. Enough to last more than a week and make me sick to my stomach just as long.

I couldn’t be happier.

When I reach the front of the line, I order the batter-fried corn on the cob and an octopus dog (basically, french fries stuck to a battered hot dog and deep-fried). I shimmy off to the side so others can order while I wait. But when the woman behind the table goes to hand me my order, life shifts into slow motion.

The bag in my hand slips. I lunge forward in the hopes of rescuing it while trying to simultaneously secure my order. It all happens so quick. As I watch the bag fall, the backs of my eyes sting.What a waste, I think as I witness this fried food catastrophe. On the cusp of tears, I prepare myself to break down in front of hundreds of festival attendees.

But my tears vanish when I glimpse him. The man crouched inches in front of me, rescuing my bag from certain death.

“Got it,” he states as he rights the bag and rises to his full height. His eyes widen as he peers into the sack. “Wow. Did you buy one of everything?” he asks as he hands over my goodies.

“Thank you.” I take the bag and add my recent order. “And no. I did order from each tent, though,” I add. Heat spreads across my chest and crawls up my neck. I clutch the bags closer, hoping to conceal my flush.

He steps to the side with me, smiling as I fumble to reorganize my bags. As I tuck the corn cob between the fried s’mores and Mexican street tacos, a thought pops in my head.

Should I offer him one of my confections as a thank-you? He did prevent tears. Plus, he lost his spot in line.

“Want to share my octopus dog and fried corn?”

The right side of his mouth kicks up in a half smile. The brow on the same side mimics the action. Heat flushes my skin as my eyes roam his expression. As his brow inches above his black-framed glasses, I notice he has a scar above his eye.

Cute.

“Sure. But maybe we should sit,” he suggests then points to a cluster of picnic tables nearby.

He takes one of the bags and we wander toward the table. Every other step, I spy him peeking in the bag and inventorying the goods. He remains quiet, a soft smile tugging at his lips, and follows in my wake.

With the bags on the table, I open the packages from the last tent and inhale. No way any of this is heart healthy. Right now, I don’t care. I only eat like this during special occasions—birthdays, milestones, anniversaries, and town celebrations. And there is no shame in eating what you love.

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