“You nearly killed me with that,” he muttered against her skin, dropping a hot kiss against her throat.

“I wanted you to know the lay of the land.”

“Hmm?” he murmured, sliding his lips up her neck, dropping a peck on her jaw as he lowered her to the floor.

“You know, in case we get to try out those taking-the-clothes-off skills you have. Now you have a map.”

He looked down at her, and she’d never seen a man want her quite so much. Oh sure, she had been with a lot of guys who were caught up in lust, but in Zeke’s beautiful eyes, she saw something more. There was tenderness, regard, affection, and something she was too afraid to hope for.

Smiling, she rose on tiptoe and kissed the cheek just above the line of his beard. The soft hairs tickled her chin, and he smelled like Zeke—like woodsmoke, mint, outdoors, home. “I think we just tipped over.”

“Yeah, you made sure of that, but I can’t say I’m protesting too much.”

“Funnel cake?”

“You really like foreplay, don’t you?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said, finding truth in that. She’d never taken this long in a romance. Hell, some of her relationships started with a glass of wine and ended the next morning with her hungover and naked in a random guy’s bed. So far, she and Zeke had shared one kiss.

One wonderful, soul-stirring, gentle kiss.

Her world was rocked.

But as sweet as all this was, the shadow of reality hovered close by. She was Chase London, about to go on location in England for a new film. He was Zeke Kittridge, a fishing guide in Cotter’s Creek. Their lives were apples and oranges. Oil and water. Movie star and regular Joe.

Zeke stooped down and picked up her discarded, wet clothing and pulled out the plastic grocery bag she’d found to store her wet things. He carefully folded her clothes, placed them in the bag, and tossed them into the duffel. Then he stood and extended his hand.

Chase took it, feeling that taking his hand meant something more than going for a funnel cake. More like accepting that they could no longer turn back.

Zeke parted the curtains, and they went down the steps, the hoots and squeals from the crowd revealing that Spencer was giving them the show they wanted. Waiting at the bottom was that shadow of reality in the form of Conrad Santos. Olivia stood next to him.

Chase let go of Zeke’s hand. “What?”

“We need to talk,” Conrad said.

Olivia had stayed home from the carnival that day because she had needed to process what she’d done. Or rather, who she’d done.