by Emma Sutton
Chapter Two
Landon
“Hey, Landon. It’s Mal. Is there any chance you can come in early tomorrow and open the shop?”
Widening my eyes, I realize it’s my boss, and I’ve never been so happy to hear her voice. Or to not hear Charles’ voice. Either way. “Tomorrow?” I say, eking the word out like it’s carved of ore.
“Yep. Hailey was on the schedule but she called me tonight saying she forgot she had a last-minute dentist appointment in the morning.”
“Um,” I stutter as I grip the safety bar across my bench tighter. I don’t particularly like working at the ice cream shop downtown. But I’d started almost three years ago as a favor for one of my mom’s friends and it just kind of stuck. It’s one of the few island jobs that allows me the freedom to still have my side-gig.
But wait a second. Tomorrow’s Monday. And Monday’s the first day I teach a new set of clients that hired me for surf lessons. Good grief, what if we’re not out of this thing by morning?
Shaking my head at my ridiculous thoughts, I press the phone harder to my ear. “What time tomorrow?” I mutter.
“Hoping for nine-thirty or ten.”
“Okay. Be there by ten,” I say, still hoping my voice is disguised enough that she can’t tell I’m suspended some two-hundred feet in the air. At the very top. The freaking apex of this torture device they call a ride.
“You’re the best, Lan. I knew I could count on you. See you tomorrow, sweets!” She hangs up.
Just as carefully, I slip my phone back into my bag and survey my surroundings, turning a blind eye to the ticket booth by the front gate.
Surely, we’ll get out of here so quick that I’m not even going to freak out about it. It’s probably just a small glitch in the ride’s electronic system. Everything will be totally fine. This type of delay probably happens all the time.
Right.
I slam my eyes shut to block out the whirling lights of nearby rides.
Just breathe, Landon. Long steady breaths.
“Are you okay?” I hear a small, tender voice ask from what can only be a few seats below me.
Inhale, exhale.
“Yeah,” I call out, not even sure that the voice is talking to me. Because I can’t be the only person on this wheel of death that’s refraining from freaking out.
“Why is she crying?” the voice asks a little quieter this time.
Crying?
At this point, I come to the conclusion that the way-off voice must be speaking to someone else. Anybody else, because it’s certainly not me.
Opening my eyes, I try to focus on the hyper, flashing neon pinks and the dazzling reds that are spitting right off of the Fireball to my right. And that ride looks a whole lot more intimidating than this rinky-dink wheel could ever be. But when I realize the lights have morphed into a sea of blurred orbs, I shake my head at myself and let out a sharp huff.
I am crying.
Letting go of the metal bar, I run a trembling knuckle under one of my eyes to find that my face is, in fact, damp with tears. Actual, non-blubbered tears. Grabbing my collar, I dab at my eyes with the inside of my shirt and clear my throat. My mascara will be everywhere, I’m sure of it.
“I think she’s crying.”
“I’m not,” I say in a kind but blatant enough tone for the voice to leave me be. “All’s good up here. We’ll be fine,” I say, trying to calm the other person. Goodness knows it could be a kid riding by himself in conditions like these. Because despite their mighty claims, these places don’t always check for fair tickets at the entrance of these rides. Especially what are supposed to be the reliable rides.
“Okay, but we could be up here for a very long long time.”
It’s only now that I recognize the voice as one from a little girl.
I breathe deep and imagine I’m out there on the ocean waves. It always helps to guide me through the worst of my panic. But rubbing my hands on my kneecaps, I can’t help but grow even more anxious.
“Hey now,” I hear another voice whisper, this one with an actual southern accent that isn’t at all native to North Carolina. At least not these parts of the state. “It won’t be that long. Let’s not scare anyone more than we already have.”
Sniffling the last of my tears away, I wrap my fingers around the side of the metal seat and take another chance by leaning my head as far over the front of the bench to try to get a look at whose conversation I’ve just found myself thrown into like this. But when my weight knocks the swing forward again with another jolt, I throw myself back while muffling a yelp.
Huge mistake. Very big mistake.
Inhale, exhale.
Breathe deep, Landon.
Deeper.
“You okay up there?”
“Yep,” I tell the deep voice as I slam my eyelids shut, the lights from the rest of the fair now throwing me into a headache.
The dizzying music from another nearby ride booms with bass as it mixes with the stale scent of food and makes my stomach swim with nausea. Actually, I’m not completely sure that I won’t throw up my dinner of an over-salted corn dog if I don’t get down from here within the next few minutes, so I swallow hard again to try to quell the urge.
When I lay my head back against the metal bench and pull my hair away from my shoulders, I feel cold on the back of my neck. I soak in the misguided reverie of the metal against my heated skin even though it’s way too late in July to get any real reprieve from this heat. And the coldest thing about North Carolina right about now? It’s her I don’t care at all southern attitude regarding just about everything down here. Including her stunning ability to never dip below a toasty ninety-degree day during the peak of summer.
Just as soon as I feel like I might hurl my insides right over the side of this thing, that same scratchy voice parades itself over the loudspeaker again.
“Attention, folks. Thanks for your patience this go-round, we’re back in order and ready to roll with the good times.” Before the announcement finishes, the ride lurches forward, launching every single swinging bench on this thing into sweet, sweet motion. And though I feel even sicker than before now that we’re actually moving, I’m grateful. Because the sooner it docks me, the sooner I can get the heck off this thing.
As my bench approaches the landing deck, I can tell that the Ferris wheel is not being stopped for anyone else to exit. But now’s my only chance.
“Can I get out, please?” I shout to the guy right as my bench touches down on the landing pad.
He slams a button and pauses me there with raised eyebrows, rearranges his trucker cap, pulling it down tighter. “We’re givin’ everyone an extra two spins for the mishap.”
“No, thank you. I’ll just get off, please.”
He pulls a dirty crimson-colored bandana from his back pocket and wipes his forehead with it as he blinks at me like I’m dumb. Like he almost doesn’t believe me. It’s as if I’ve just spoken French with my plea. “You don’t want—”
“No, thanks,” I say, forcing a smile. I try the metal bar, but it stays locked, trapping me in the swing. “Can you unlock me?”
He nods. “Alright, sure. Your loss, ma’am.” When he doubles down by smacking another button to lock the entire wheel into place, he steps over to my bench and frees me by a simple unbarring. “They ain’t magic. Just gotta nudge it this’a way.”
“Thank you,” I say, as I speed walk off the exit ramp, down the stairs, and into the grassy area.
“Bye, lady,” I hear the tiny voice shout, now even further away as I hook a right behind the wheel next to the graveled food court. On my way to the clearing, I stop at an abandoned lemonade stand to buy another bottle of water and then hightail it to the field. In fact, if I don’t find my way to a stationary spot soon, I might as well be done for the entire night. And I do mean D-O-N-E.
As I sit on the grass and plant one of my hands beside me to prop myself up, I realize that they must have just mowed this morning. Clumps o
f dry, cut grass cling to me as I wonder what Catharine and Mark might think of me if they happened upon me sprawled out in the clearing of the field behind the Ferris wheel like this. Pathetic and nearly puking.
Par for the course on that one, I crack open the new water bottle and search for a motion-sickness pill that I keep tucked away in my bag. Popping it into my dry mouth, I guzzle the water hoping for a bout of fresh relief. And it is. The water feels so pure and delightful flowing down my throat that I close my eyes and take a few more deep breaths to calm myself.
Inhale, exhale.
Inhale, ex—
“You sure you’re okay there?”
When I fling my eyes wide, I find a man towering above me a few feet away, his entire body a broad silhouette against the lights of the fairgrounds behind him.
Sitting up straight, I dust my hand off and nod. “Yeah, thanks. Just taking a break from the madness,” I say, playing it way cooler than I have merit.
“You need any help?” he asks, extending a fearless paw.
Without thinking, I grab his offered hand, shocked at his strength as he effortlessly eases me up from the grass without so much as a flinch.
Standing at attention, I fluff my skirt to casually rid myself of any more loose grass I may have collected in my momentary lapse of judgment at nearly curling up on the ground like that. I run a hand through my loose hair and bend down to pick up my bag. My eyes still a little blurry from the earlier tears and from all the nervous sweating I’ve been doing since being stranded in the air, I blink at him to get a clearer look. But he still remains a silhouette.
“Was a rough ride up there, huh?” he asks, stepping closer and moving his hand to my hair. “You got a little—” He plucks a few blades of dead grass from me and lets them fall from his fingers with what I imagine is a grin. Even though I can’t quite see his face in the dark.
“Thanks. Uh—” With a furrowed brow, I turn to try to aim myself away from the bright neon lights that are still blinding me in his presence. But as soon as I reposition myself next to him, I catch a glimpse of who this man is—
A man I’ve only ever seen in person one time my entire life. His gentle, scruffy face and angular jaw the only thing I recognize about him from sifting through my grandmother’s holiday cards. A man that, after hearing story after story about him growing up during summers on the island, I always wished I’d known.
Yep, that’s him.
The same man my grandma swore was the richest, sweetest and most handsome fellow this side of the Mason-Dixon Line. And from the present-day look of him, she wasn’t wrong.
There in front of me stands Henry Evan Neal with a look of wonderment on his face.
Continue reading Trusting the Billionaire here!
Also by Emma Sutton
Free Book:
Inspiring the Billionaire
Sweet Billionaires of Shoals Island:
Trusting the Billionaire
Believing the Billionaire
Adoring the Billionaire
Cowboys & Brides of Lone Oak Ranch:
My Sweet Enemy Rancher
Christmas Billionaires of Bennett Creek:
Snowed In with the Billionaire
Under the Mistletoe Billionaire
About the Author
Emma Sutton writes clean, fun, and flirty contemporary romance. From sweet beach dates to frozen midwestern winters spent cuddled by the fire, each fictional romance Emma concocts is sure to leave you grinning with a happily-ever-after ending. She currently resides in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia with her charming golden retriever and spends her free time painting and listening to podcasts.
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See you on the inside, friend!
Thank You!
Hi there, Emma here!
Thank you a TON for reading My Sweet Enemy Rancher. This book started as a quick and fleeting spark of inspiration that kept me up at night until I was able to get all the words down on paper. I hope you’ve enjoyed Hattie and Walker’s ranch shenanigans in their quest to find love and family on the ranch.
Until the next book, my friend… here’s to nights spent smoochin’ under a hose full of rain, popsicles shared under the light of the Lone Oak moon, and of course, to all the Finns out there!
Love,
Emma