Page 4 of Carnival’s Playground

"Guess you'll have to supervise closely, then." He falls into step beside me as I head toward the haunt tent, uninvited again. "Make sure I don't embarrass myself, or you."

"That's a full time job on its own." I glance at him sideways. The bruise on his forehead's gotten darker in the last hour, and something in me, some traitor part, wants to ask if it hurts. I don't. "Fine. Meet me at the prop trailer after your rigging walkthrough. Bring your torch. Bring patience, on account that I'm particular about how things look."

"Wouldn't expect anything less." He holds the tent flap open for me, an actual gentlemanly gesture that catches me off guard enough I almost trip on the threshold.

Inside, the haunt walk's half built. Skeletal trees line the path, wrapped in fake spiderweb thick enough to catch a real spider if one wandered in. A fortune teller's booth sits crooked, waiting on somebody to level it. Overhead, a banner reads enter if you dare in dripping orange letters, currently sagging on one side where the grommet pulled loose.

"That banner's gonna fall on somebody's head before opening night." I point at it, already mentally adding it to the list of things that need fixing that never seems to get shorter.

Clearing his throat, he announces, "I can fix that too." Carnival's already walking toward it, examining the grommet like it's the most fascinating puzzle he's encountered all week.

"Of course you can." I set the crate down on a workbench, watching him reach up, testing the banner's weight. "Is there anything you can't fix, or are you just trying to impress me?"

"A bit of both, honestly." He glances back at me, that grin creeping in again. "Mostly, I just like fixing and tinkering with things. Keeps my hands busy. Keeps my head quiet."

That lands differently than I expect. Something almost honest in it, something that doesn't fit the cocky biker routine he's been running since he knocked me flat on my backside. I don't know what to do with honesty, coming from him, so I ignore it.

"Well, keep your hands busy on that banner then, and your head quiet enough to remember I need it fixed properly, not just held up with a prayer and duct tape." I pull my tool bag open, start sorting through spare fastenings.

"Bossy," he observes, without any real complaint, already climbing the small ladder propped against the tree beside the banner.

"Efficient. There's a difference." I hand him an eyelet without being asked, since apparently I'm capable of teamwork when it suits me.

He takes it, fingers brushing mine for half a second longer than necessary, and I tell myself the little jolt that runs up my arm is static electricity, nothing more, definitely not something worth examining.

"Thanks," he softly murmurs, almost surprised, like he didn't expect me to help without a fight.

Shaking my head, I decree, "Don't get used to it." I step back, watching him work, watching the muscles in his forearms shift as he threads the loop through. Watching, I realize belatedly, longer than I ought to.

He fixes the banner in under five minutes, climbs down, and it hangs straight and even, letters no longer sagging.

"There. One less thing on your list." He dusts his hands off, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"One less thing." I cross my arms, refusing to smile even though something in my chest wants to. "Doesn't make up for the pumpkins."

"Nothing's gonna make up for the pumpkins except actual replacement pumpkins, which we already established I'm building tomorrow." He picks up his phone, checking the time. "Speaking of which, I got that rigging walkthrough with Dutch in ten minutes. Wouldn't want him thinking I'm slacking on my first day."

"Wouldn't want that." I watch him head for the tent flap, and against every ounce of good sense I possess, I call after him. "Carnival."

He stops, turns, eyebrow raised. "Yeah?"

"Bring extra sheet metal tomorrow. In case your first attempt looks like garbage and we need a second try," I drily tell him, arms still crossed.

"Confident I'll nail it the first time, but I'll bring extra just to humble you when I do." He winks, actually winks, and disappears through the tent flap before I can throw something at him.

I stand there a second, alone in the haunt walk with its half-finished spiderwebs and crooked fortune teller booth, and I let myself admit to the empty tent that maybe, possibly, in some small and deeply inconvenient way, I don't hate having him around.

This is gonna be a long, strange October.

CHAPTER TWO

CARNIVAL

Dutch is waiting by the big top's main mast when I get there, clipboard in hand, looking like a man who's seen a thousand riggers come and go and expects me to be gone by Thanksgiving.

"You're late," he accuses without looking up from his clipboard.

"By ninety seconds." I glance at my phone, then pocket it. "Figured that bought me some grace."