“What do you want?” he asks, his voice husky.
Well, isn’t that a loaded question? Be professional, Jayme. You’re making progress here.
“I want people to understand who you are and that what happened was a big mix-up, but you acted with the best of intentions. Moreover, I want people to think fun, family outing when they hear the words Americana Land. Your brand and Americana Land’s brand are what I want.”
His sigh is heavy with the weight of the tarnished crown he wears. “Okay, where do we start?”
Holy shit! I did it!
Not that I doubted my skills, exactly, but I was worried Carson wouldn’t be able to get out of his own way. It’s still a dangerous road, though, so I don’t want to go at him too hard. Instead, I start with an easy one.
“Did you really ride a jet ski off a ramp?” I whisper, a ‘surely not’ smirk on my lips.
He laughs, breaking the serious mood between us. There’s a sparkle in his eyes as he argues, “There was a shark!” I give him a dubious look and he shrugs. “Fine, it was a mechanical shark, but it was a race for charity. They were raising funds for the Ocean Life Foundation, and the ramp was right there. I mean, I kinda had to. Everyone loved it.”
I laugh too, having seen the pictures and video on You Tube. “It was pretty awesome,” I admit. “But we need to keep the crazy stunts to a minimum for a bit.”
“Can I still ride my motorcycle?” he asks hopefully, his puppy dog eyes begging for permission.
I roll my eyes. “Fine, but you have to stay under the speed limit and wear a helmet.”
He holds his hand out. “Done.”
I shake his hand, and sparks fly between us. His thumb traces over my knuckles gently, and even that small touch sends fire through my veins. I don’t want to let go, but after a moment, though I’m not sure whether it’s me or him, our hands slowly separate. I instantly feel the loss of his heat.
“What else? It sounds like you want me to turn into a monk. No-fun Carson,” he suggests.
“No. You can have fun, but we need to work on the types of fun you have and the visibility of them while we do some damage control.”
“Types. Of. Fun?” he repeats. “Do you know how boring that sounds? I feel like you’re going to suggest I take up knitting or collecting Sci-Fi action figures.”
“Hey!” I protest, smacking his shoulder. “I’m a Sci-Fi nerd. My Expanse knowledge is only secondary to my Dr. Who trivia.”
His brows screw together. “Am I supposed to know what those are?”
I gape. “Seriously?”
His laugh is loud and bright as he points a finger at me. “Gotcha!”
I shake my head, grinning at his delight. “Can’t blame me for believing you really didn’t know. You don’t exactly strike me as the Star Trek versus Star Wars opinion type.”
“Trek all the way. Nobody beats Picard.”
“Them’s fighting words,” I drawl, holding up my fists like I’m ready to throw down. “Put ‘em up, put ‘em up.”
Carson holds his hands out wide, warning loudly, “Uh-oh, we got a badass over here.”
And somehow, we end up talking the evening away. From his love of all things sport and my competitive swimming pseudo-career as a teen, to our polite but spirited disagreements on what sort of food best chases away the blues, to our mutual desire to be the best, always needing to prove ourselves.
With each shift in the conversation, I feel like he and I connect on another deeper level. Drinks become dinner at the bar, the two of us talking over delicious meals we order from the kitchen. Eventually, chastise him good-naturedly . “You know, Carson, you really could have shown me all this from the start.”
“And miss seeing you go all Alpha-female on me?” Carson retorts with a grin. “Please. Your calling me an asshole was almost worth all the other trouble.”
I laugh at what he obviously means to be a high compliment . “I’ll admit, I do have a temper sometimes.”
“That we seem to have in common,” Carson says, taking the last bite of his burger. He groans and pats his stomach. “Tell me again why I got two free refills on the waffle fries before even touching my burger? Ugh, you’re going to have to roll me out of here.”
I hold my hand out toward my plate of salmon and asparagus, a decidedly lighter choice that wasn’t half bad given that Verdux is more bar than restaurant. “Every choice has a consequence. That’s the lesson of the day, I think.”
Carson’s answering grin is mischievous. “You’re right.”
Before I can worry what he means by that, he takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. For a split second, I think he’s dragging me toward the door.