You weren’t a whøre Let’s just get that straight.

Sure, you’d met up with some guy from an app in a hotel last weekend—big deal. It’s not like you were out here taking a new guy every Saturday like some depraved maniac. Honestly, you were just trying to hit it off, have a little fun, live your life. Normal, healthy behavior.

So naturally all that self-assurance goes straight to hell the second you step foot into the carnival and see him.

At first, it doesn’t register—just some guy ladling out chili like he’s got a mortgage and a golden retriever in the back of his truck. Then it clicks. Oh shit.

Oh, and did I forget to mention the fucking family surrounding him. One of which—you go to college with.

Yeah. Maybe you are easy.

For a split second, you consider getting the hell out of dodge, but your feet move anyway, drawn forward by some morbid sense of self-destruction. You step up to his booth, and the moment his eyes land on you, they go wide. Like you just told him the world was ending. His whole body goes stiff, his grip tightening around the ladle like it’s his last lifeline.

He’s keeping it together—barely—his jaw ticking as he scoops up a serving of chili. Until, of course, he drops the fucking cup.

It hits the table, spilling over the edge, and before you can think, you’re reaching down to help. His hand brushes yours—just a quick, fleeting touch—but something sparks up your fingers like a live wire and his eyes meet yours. Ah. Why’s that cute?