Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 72

Did I ever think I’d attend a fair?

Not just any fair. A *county* fair. With bright lights and fried everything and kids screaming bloody murder on rickety roller coasters held together by bolts from the 1950s. If you asked me six months ago where I’d be on a random Friday in spring, “county fair” would be below “underwater knife fight” on the list of probable outcomes.

But here I am.

Because the girl sitting next to me in the passenger seat lit up like a firecracker at the mere mention of cotton candy and Ferris wheels. And I’m not made of stone.

I mean, apparently, I am made of bad decisions, because let’s take inventory.

Did I think I’d ever willingly come to a fair? Nope.

Did I think I’d gravitate — like a damn moon to a planet — to a ballerina?

Negative.

Did I think I’d *live* with said ballerina? And that she’d also be my *brother’s girlfriend*?

Hell no.

So, why the hell not?

Something is very wrong with me.

Because I could’ve just ordered a pizza. Put on some movie she likes — one with talking animals or wildly impractical romances, whatever her thing is — and called it a celebration. But she said *fair*, and I... drove her to the damn fair.

Because I’m under whatever spell she’s got spinning out of her fingertips.

And the worst part? Seeing her smile — like really smile — is even more addictive than her spell.

I pull into the gravel parking lot and kill the engine.

The second she opens the door, she’s practically vibrating with excitement. “I can smell the cotton candy from here,” she says.

I raise a brow. “That’s probably the exhaust fumes.”

She waves me off, already half out of the car.

The fair looms ahead — a sprawling mess of color and noise and people. Way too many people. My stomach tightens immediately.

Crowds like this? They make for great cover. Pickpockets, grab-and-go criminals, even worse. I’ve seen it happen in every country I’ve set foot in. Doesn’t matter if it’s Kabul or Kansas — evil thrives in the chaos of distraction.

I don’t even think. I just reach for her hand and say, “Stay close.”

Her smaller fingers slide into mine without hesitation. Her other hand grabs the hem of my hoodie like she’s counting on me to keep her safe from everything dangerous in the world.

And I hate how much I *like* that.

Together, we weave through the cluster of people near the entrance, her hand warm and solid in mine, her steps smaller but somehow keeping pace. The metal gate creaks, ticket scanners beep, someone’s toddler starts crying loud enough to drown out the carousel.

And I’m on high alert.

Tension lines every muscle in my back. My eyes scan every face, every hand that reaches too close to a pocket or bag. Old habits.

I hear my name.

No, wait — my name again.

I glance down.

Penny’s looking up at me, brows drawn, her lips moving. “Asher,” she says again, a little louder this time.

I realize I’ve been squeezing her hand. Way too tight.

I release it immediately. “Sorry.”

She rubs her fingers but doesn’t pull away. “It’s okay,” she says. “There’s a lot of people.”

She says it in that same careful tone I’ve used a thousand times myself. When someone’s trying to tell you they *see* you. Not judge you. Just see.

I look down at her again. She’s still holding onto my hoodie. Still right here.

“We can leave,” she says suddenly, gently. “If it’s too much.”

I shake my head. “No. The worst part’s done. Just don’t wander off. I haven’t put a tracker on your phone yet.”

Her eyes go wide. “*Yet*?”

“I put one on Tyler’s.”

“What?”

“I don’t check it. But if something happens, I can find him. It’s not about trust, it’s about not dying.”

She looks half horrified, half impressed. “You’d put one on mine?”

I shrug. “It’s an invasion of privacy. But also could save your life. Pros and cons.”

Before she can respond, she gets distracted by something behind me and her entire face lights up. “Wait. Look!” She’s pointing to a game booth tucked between a churro stand and one of those spinning vortex rides that make you question physics and your last meal.

It’s the balloon-popping game — darts, prizes on shelves, the whole thing. The kind of setup that’s rigged to hell. But what she’s pointing at is on the second shelf, tucked in the corner: a small, cream-colored teddy bear with a pink ballerina tutu, satin ballet slippers, and a tiny crown.

She actually gasps. “Oh my God. Look at it.”

I smirk. “That’s subtle.”

She spins to me, eyes practically glowing. “Isn’t it perfect? It’s me! You said I was a princess.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling now. Can’t help it.

“We need it, it's perfect for us,” she says. “But I suck at these games. Can you win it for me?”

I rub the back of my neck. “Wouldn’t be fair.”

She frowns. “Why not?”

The booth guy hears and pipes up. “Come on, man, everyone thinks that. But these balloons are trickier than they look. C’mon, try it. Five darts.”

I glance at Penny.

She clasps her hands together. “Pleeease?”

And just like that, I’m out five bucks and holding a handful of darts.

I barely even aim. Just flick my wrist. One dart. *Pop*. Another. *Pop*. Five times in a row. Quick, clean. Like breathing.

The booth guy’s jaw hits the floor. Penny’s eyes are even wider than before.

I point at the ballerina bear. “That one.”

He hands it over silently.

I pass it to her and start walking deeper into the fair. I know her enough by now to know she’ll follow.

And she does, chasing after me, cradling the bear like it’s made of gold. “Are you going to teach me *how* to do that?”

I shake my head, smirking. “No.”

She groans dramatically. “You’re no fun.”

“You say that now. But wait until you get your popcorn.”

She skips to catch up.

And I wonder — not for the first time — just how deep in this spell I really am.