Page 11 of Carnival’s Playground

"No, it is not," he crouches, careful, examining the connection without touching it. "Somebody didn't seal this housing right. Water's gotten in."

"Petey," we grumble together, and for half a second, our eyes meet and something like shared exasperation passes between us, warm and familiar in a way that shocks me.

"I'll get the breaker," I mutter, moving toward the main panel, boots splashing through puddles I don't care about anymore.

"I'll keep people clear," Carnival calls, steady, already waving off a couple crew members drifting too close to the sparking cable.

The breaker flips easily under my hand, and the yard goes darker by half, string lights along the fence dimming to nothing while the main tent stays lit from its own separate circuit.

"Clear," I call back to him, jogging to where he's crouched over the cable now that the danger's cut.

"This connector's fried," he says as he turns it over in his hands, frowning at the melted plastic. "Somebody spliced it wrong to begin with. Cheap parts, worse workmanship."

"Please tell me you brought spares?" I ask half joking, though there's real hope buried in it, because tomorrow night's show can't happen without power out here.

"Told you I keep my saddlebags stocked," he replies as he stands, already heading toward his bike parked at the edge of the yard, rain slicking his hair flat against his forehead. "Give me a few minutes."

I wait there in the drizzle, watching him dig through his saddlebags with the kind of focused calm that used to annoy me and now just makes something warm settle low in my chest. "You always this prepared?" I ask when he comes back, wire and connectors in hand.

"Comes from learning the hard way," he reveals as he kneels by the cable, working fast, hands sure despite the rain slicking everything. "Broke down outside El Paso once with nothing but a busted headlight and no spare bulb. Rode the last forty miles in the dark hoping I didn't hit a cow."

"Did you hit a cow?" I crouch beside him, watching his hands work, close enough that our shoulders nearly touch.

"Almost hit three," he admits, being dead serious, though his mouth twitches at the corner. "Learned real quick after that. Carry what you might need before you need it."

"That's your whole life philosophy, biker boy?" I nudge his shoulder with mine, and he doesn't move away from it.

"Something like that," he mutters as he glances at me from out of the corner of his eye, rain dripping off his jaw, and there's something steady in his eyes that makes my stomach do something unfamiliar and a little bit terrifying. "Works for machines. Working on it for people too."

I don't have a smart response for that, which is rare enough that I just watch him finish the splice in silence, twisting wire, sealing the connector against the wet, testing the joint before standing back.

"Try it," he orders as he nods toward the breaker panel.

I flip it, and the string lights along the fence flicker back to life, steady and bright despite the rain still falling around us.

"There we go," Carnival says, appearing to be satisfied as he wipes his hands on his already ruined jeans.

"You're not half bad at this, you know," I tell him, surprising myself with how much I mean it.

"High praise from you," he teases, raising an eyebrow, though there's warmth underneath it now that wasn't there when I first laid eyes on him sprawled in the dirt outside the prop tent.

"Don't get used to it." I cross my arms, though I'm smiling now, not fighting it. "I've still got a mile long list of complaints about you."

"Looking forward to hearing every one," he replies like he means it, and something about the way he's looking at me, soaked through and exhausted and still standing here in the rain instead of heading for dry clothes, makes my chest go tight in a way I don't have a name for yet.

Dutch's voice calls out from the main tent, something about hot coffee and dry towels waiting for anybody who wants them, and the rest of the crew starts drifting in that direction, laughter and relief mixing with the last rumbles of thunder overhead.

"Coffee sounds like heaven right now," I tell him, though I don't move yet, still standing here in the drizzle with him.

"After you," Carnival says as he gestures toward the tent. When I start walking, he falls into step right beside me, close enough that our arms brush with every other step.

"For what it's worth," I quietly add, glancing at him sideways as we walk. "I'm glad you were out here tonight. I would've hated dealing with that cable alone."

"For what it's worth," he echoes back to me, voice softer than I've heard from him yet. "Glad I was here, too."

We don't say anything else the rest of the way to the tent, but the silence between us feels different now, easy instead of tense, and when his hand brushes mine again as we duck under the flap out of the rain, neither one of us pulls away.

CHAPTER SIX