Tossing their garbage in a nearby bin, he hustled her toward the gallery. He shelled out the necessary cash, despite her protests, and handed her the toy rifle. She clutched the thing like she had no idea what to do with it. Pretty damn weird, since she’d fired off a real one more than a time or two. Then it dawned on him. She wasn’t so much unsure of the toy but of the objective of the game. Giving her tense shoulder an encouraging squeeze, he pointed toward the targets whistling by on the track. “You see the clowns with the bull’s-eyes in their mouths? You wanna nail those suckers.”
Her cheeks flushed. “I probably should have guessed that.”
The carnie running the booth scratched at his mustache. “Well now, not necessarily. In fact, you’re at least the ninth person today who had to ask.”
The stiffness eased from Clarissa’s shoulders, and Logan made a mental note to sneak the carnie an extra five for his kindness. Lifting the rifle, she took careful aim and systematically pegged each of the clowns, putting them down for the count. He bit back a laugh at the hawker’s incredulous expression. The old timer shook his head and gaped at Clarissa. “You sure you’ve never played this game before, little lady?”
“Positive.”
Rubbing his chin, the carnie relieved her of the toy weapon. He slid his gaze to Logan. “Best mind your P’s and Q’s with this one. Otherwise ya might end up with a rump full of buckshot.”
“You’re tellin’ me.”
“Okay, Annie Oakley. Which prize shall it be?”
Clarissa’s eyes went huge. “I won?”
The carnie guffawed. “That’s usually what happens when you smoke every dang target.”
“Oh wow.” Her attention drifted to the pink gopher. “Can I…have that one?” She indicated her choice by pointing her index finger.
“Shore thing.”
She accepted the stuffed animal like she almost couldn’t fathom how she’d won this holy grail of prizes. There was no way in hell Logan was going to spoil her joy by telling her the toy probably came from China and cost less than what it took to win it. While she clutched the gopher to her chest, he flipped the carnie a Lincoln. Pressing his palm in the small of her back, he steered her toward the next sight. The rich, buttery smell of caramel corn wafted to his nostrils, making his stomach rumble. “Time for dessert.”
She blinked at him. “We just ate.”
“We’re at a carnival, shug. You haven’t eaten until your gut feels like it’s gonna bust and the Mylanta is callin’ your name.”
“That doesn’t sound very fun.”
“It is. Trust me.” Before she could hem and haw, he followed his nose to the proper vendor and scored them a bag to share. They walked through the rest of the amusements until they came to the section of the midway where the rides were located. The flashing lights, music and gleeful shrieks from the other carnival goers appeared to have Clarissa dazzled. She stared at everything in wonder. Within the depths of her eyes, he spotted the little girl who’d never been allowed to just play and do all the things a kid was supposed to enjoy. It made him sad and angry for her, as well as all the more determined to give her everything she’d missed out on.
He squeezed her hand. “Come on, let’s go snag a ride on the Ferris wheel.”
She gave him a dubious look. “Aren’t we supposed to wait half an hour until our food finishes digesting?”
“That’s only for swimmin’,” he assured her before cupping her elbow and guiding her in the right direction. The wait for the big wheel was relatively short compared to the coasters that seemed to attract the majority of teens gallivanting about. Within a few minutes they’d reached the head of the line, and the attendant ushered them inside their own private little cart. Clarissa figured out the seat belt on her own and buckled herself in, her expression bordering on trepidation. He squeezed her knee. “Relax. These things hardly ever get stuck.”
“They get stuck?” Her exclamation morphed into a hiccupped yelp as the cart began ascending.
He smothered his grin, but it was damn hard. “I said hardly.”
“That’s reassuring.” Despite her shaky tone, she inched forward on the seat and peered out at the multicolored canvas of lights and people milling beneath them. A gasp caught in her throat. “It’s so…beautiful.”
“Not half as beautiful as what I’m lookin’ at.”
She turned and their gazes collided. He leaned into her, one hand framing her cheek and the other curling around the hand she had flattened on her lap. He lifted their linked fingers and splayed them over his rapidly thudding heart. “Feel that? Happens every damn time I simply look at you.”
Her fingers rubbed against the cotton of his shirt, and a shuddering sigh snaked past her lips. He brushed his mouth over hers. “I wanna spend the rest of my days making sure each one of yours is full of happiness.” He tasted the salt of her tears on his tongue and pulled his head back.
Her eyes waterlogged, she stared at him. “I…”
“What, Rissa?” His heart pounded faster, each beat like an endless, echoing plea for her to say the three words he ached to hear.
“I’m afraid. Afraid of wanting this. Of wanting you.”
Her admission wasn’t exactly what he’d hoped for, but it was better than what he’d expected. “I know, baby. But you don’t have to be. I’m yours always. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
The tears collected in her eyes spilled past their dam. As if she were ashamed of even that show of emotion, she buried her face against the crook of his neck. He hugged her tight while the cart softly swayed and his heart silently broke for her.
Chapter Seventeen
It was just a little over an hour until the start of Jemma and Griffin’s wedding, and no one had suffered a nervous breakdown yet. Or inadvertently—or not—cast a spell to turn someone into a toad. Considering the number of high-strung witches running around, that last prospect had been slightly dicey.
A grunt came from Ms. Peach. “Whose brilliant idea was it to tie bows on one hundred and fifty chairs?”
Clarissa fluffed the ribbon she was securing before glancing toward the grumbling Ms. Peach. “I believe that would be you.”
“I did?” Peach frowned. “You should know better than to listen to me when I’m behind on my meds.”
Fiona and Jade appeared to lend a hand, and Clarissa used the opportunity to go check on things in the kitchen. Fortunately the giant persimmon was gone, its bountiful flesh now residing in two of the world’s largest fruit salads and a cheesecake. She inspected the five-tier wedding cake Gloria was putting the finishing touches on. A garland of incredibly lifelike fondant roses and butterflies cascaded down the side of the masterful creation. “You’ve really outdone yourself. Jemma is going to love it.”
Gloria beamed under the compliment. “You think so?”
“Absolutely. Speaking of our bride-to-be, I should see if she needs anything.” Leaving the cook to take care of things on her end, Clarissa headed upstairs to the bedroom that’d been temporarily turned into the bridal-party headquarters. Jemma was sitting on the four-poster bed, her shoulders slumped. Hannah Finnegan—Jemma’s mother—was stroking her daughter’s arm reassuringly. A thread of worry snaked through Clarissa. “What’s wrong?”
Jemma lifted her head, her expression glum. “I look like a white gumdrop.”
Clarissa stared at her, uncertain how to respond. “Um…”
“It’s the hormones talking. I told her she looks gorgeous and glowing, but she refuses to believe me.”
Jemma sniffled. “You’re my mom. You’re not above lying to make me feel better.”
Clarissa strode toward the dresser and picked up the braided ivy and stephanotis flower garland Jemma had chosen in place of a veil. Returning to Jemma, she carefully situated the headpiece on her blonde curls. “Well, I think you look like a princess. And have you ever known me to lie to you?”