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I watched her face. Not the view. Her.

The way her eyes widened. The way her lips parted. The way the tension she'd carried all day seemed to ease from her shoulders.

“Pretty, isn't it?” I asked.

“Beautiful.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly.

She turned toward me. Caught me looking. Her cheeks pinkened. I smiled. She looked away. And I wondered how the hell I'd gotten lucky enough to be sitting beside her. The wheel stopped near the top.

Mikayla glanced down. “Is it supposed to do that?”

“Yep.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Because if this thing breaks, I'm suing someone.”

I laughed. “You always this romantic?”

“Only when dangling several stories above the ocean in a metal basket.”

I stretched my arm along the back of the seat. She looked at it. Then at me.

Her head tilted to the side. “Subtle.”

“Never claimed to be.”

She sighed. But a moment later, she leaned against my side. Just a little. Barely enough to count. Except it counted. To me.

I wrapped my arm around her shoulders. She didn't move away. And for a few quiet minutes, we sat there watching the lights of Valentine Bay.

It felt like a date. A real one. No audience. No family. No pretending. Just us. And I realized something that should've scared me a whole lot more than it did. I wanted a thousand nights exactly like this.

Back on solid ground, Mikayla announced that she was going to win me a stuffed animal. I looked at the rows of oversized bears hanging above a ring-toss booth.

“Pretty sure it's supposed to be the other way around.”

“That's sexist,” she argued.

“That's carnival tradition.”

“Move.”

I stepped aside. She handed the attendant five dollars and took her rings.

Missed.

Missed.

Missed.

I pressed my lips together.

She turned toward me, her jaw clenched. “Don't.”