Chapter 310: I Was Bamboozled Into Parenthood

I had no idea that fifteen minutes would turn into an entire afternoon, or that the man walking beside me would somehow convince me to participate in activities I had spent years insisting were beneath my dignity.

Ten minutes later, I was standing beside a food stall with powdered sugar covering my fingers, a half-eaten pastry in one hand, and Damien holding two drinks while looking far too entertained by my sudden enthusiasm for a carnival I had allegedly been reluctant to visit.

I glanced down at the pastry, then at him, before deciding that the only reasonable response to my current circumstances was to assign blame to the person responsible for bringing me here.

"This is your damn fault," I informed him.

Damien looked at the pastry in my hand. "How exactly?"

"You convinced me to come."

"You agreed though."

"Under emotional pressure."

"I offered you five minutes."

"And then you increased the offer to ten, followed by fifteen. That’s a clear escalation of coercive behaviour."

He handed me one of the drinks, looking completely unbothered by my accusation. "You could have said no."

"I did say no."

He stared at me for a moment before laughing, and I took another bite of my pastry to demonstrate that I was not remotely interested in continuing the conversation.

Unfortunately, the powdered sugar had apparently decided to wage war against my clothes, and by the time I finished eating, I had managed to get some on my fingers, my shirt, and possibly my dignity.

Damien offered me a napkin.

I accepted it with a grateful nod and wiped my hands before we continued walking through the carnival, weaving between families, couples, and groups of children who seemed to have collectively decided that walking in a straight line was an unnecessary restriction on their freedom.

The grounds were becoming busier by the minute, with vendors calling out their specials and the cheerful sounds of music mixing with the clatter of game equipment and the occasional delighted scream from one of the rides.

The air was filled with the smell of fried dough, grilled meat, caramelized nuts, and an assortment of other things that were probably terrible for my health but smelled absolutely incredible.

Despite my earlier complaints, I was having a good time.

That was the part I found most irritating.

I had expected to feel awkward throughout the entire outing, especially after waking up in Damien’s arms that morning and spending the better part of breakfast trying to pretend that we hadn’t shared a bed the previous night.

I had also expected the conversation to be weighed down by everything we still hadn’t resolved, but Damien wasn’t forcing us to discuss the past or demanding that I make some grand declaration about my feelings.

He was simply walking beside me, making occasional comments about the stalls, asking whether I wanted to try something, and quietly paying attention to the things that caught my interest.

It felt easy.

Too easy, considering that I had spent four years convincing myself that I was perfectly capable of living without him.

We eventually stopped at one of the game booths, where a row of brightly coloured targets had been arranged on a counter and the operator was enthusiastically encouraging visitors to test their aim.

I looked at the setup with immediate confidence, mostly because the game appeared simple enough that even a person with absolutely no athletic ability should have been able to succeed.

The objective was to knock down a collection of lightweight targets with a small ball, which seemed like a reasonable task until I actually picked up the ball and discovered that my hand-eye coordination had apparently decided to take an extended vacation.

My first attempt sailed several inches above the targets and struck the backboard with an embarrassing thud.

I stared at it and the operator stared at me.

Damien stared at me as I cleared my throat and picked up another ball.

"That was just a practice throw," I announced.

Damien’s expression was suspiciously serious. "Of course."

My second attempt landed somewhere to the left of the booth, and I was beginning to suspect that the carnival had installed some kind of invisible magnetic field designed specifically to sabotage my performance.

I tried again, putting considerably more effort into my aim, only for the ball to bounce off the edge of the counter and roll back toward my feet.

I slowly turned toward Damien. "That was rigged."

He raised an eyebrow. "You missed."

"The equipment is faulty."

He laughed, and I immediately pointed the ball at him. "Laugh and I’ll knock your dumb head off. You try it."

"Gladly."

Damien stepped forward, took the remaining balls, and proceeded to knock down almost every target with such effortless precision that I began to suspect he had secretly spent his entire life training for the sole purpose of humiliating me at small-town carnival games.

The operator looked delighted, the children waiting nearby appeared impressed, and I stood beside the booth with my arms crossed, watching Damien demonstrate an entirely unnecessary level of competence.

Fucking Know-It-All wins again! What else was new...

When the final target fell, the operator reached behind the counter and produced a ridiculously oversized stuffed animal, which he handed to Damien with the enthusiasm of someone presenting a prestigious award.

The creature was nearly as tall as Damien’s torso, with an enormous round head, tiny ears, and a goofy expression that made it look as though it had recently received devastating news about its financial investments.

Damien accepted the prize and examined it for a moment before turning toward me and I immediately shook my head. "Hell no."

He held it out. "For you, Sunshine."

"I don’t want it."

"Really?"

"Damien, that thing is the size of a small child. Where exactly do you expect me to put it?"

He glanced down at the stuffed animal, then back at me. "You can keep it in your room."

"My room is not a wildlife sanctuary."

"Then perhaps your living room."

"My living room is already occupied by a wheelchair, a television, and a father who has apparently developed a mysterious addiction to buying unnecessary electronic equipment. I don’t have space for a giant stuffed animal."

"You’re holding it."

I looked down and realized that he had somehow managed to place the ridiculous creature in my arms while I was busy explaining why I did not want it.

I stared at him in disbelief, then attempted to hand it back, but he had already stepped away to pay for another game. "Damien!"

He looked over his shoulder. "Keep it, Sunshine. You can pretend it’s our kid."

Our...our...what now?

My jaw dropped to the floor, "What the fuck are you talking about?! I am not keeping this!"

He smiled and turned back toward the booth.

I stood there holding the stuffed animal, feeling like a very unwilling parent who had just been handed a surprise baby at a family gathering.

The creature’s oversized head lolled against my shoulder, and its tiny ears flopped whenever I moved, giving it an expression of permanent disappointment that was beginning to feel personally insulting.

"I hate this thing," I muttered.

Damien returned, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Aww, Sunshine, that’s our daughter. You love her."

"I have never loved anything less."

"You’re holding it very carefully."

"I’m holding it because I don’t want to drop it and have to explain to the operator that your prize suffered an unfortunate accident."

He chuckled, and we continued walking, with me carrying the enormous stuffed animal despite my repeated insistence that I would abandon it at the next available opportunity.

Damien didn’t need to comment on it, because his expression said everything, and I could practically feel his amusement following me through the carnival like an irritating little shadow.

At one point, he glanced at me and said, "You look so cute."

I nearly walked straight into a pole.

I stopped abruptly, tightening my hold on the stuffed animal as I turned toward him. "I look ridiculous."

"You look ridiculously cute."

The response was so simple that it caught me off guard, and for a moment I forgot to come up with a sarcastic reply.

Damien wasn’t smiling in the teasing way he usually did when he managed to get under my skin, and his gaze remained fixed on my face with an openness that made me suddenly self-conscious beneath the carnival lights.

The crowd moved around us, children ran past with brightly coloured balloons, and somewhere nearby a vendor was loudly advertising caramel apples, but all I could focus on was the genuine affection in Damien’s expression.

I blinked and looked away first.

"Let’s get something to eat," I said, mostly because I needed to give my face something else to do.

Damien’s smile softened. "All right."

We made our way toward another row of food stalls, where Damien insisted on paying for our next round of snacks despite my increasingly elaborate complaints about the prices.

I informed him that the carnival was clearly taking advantage of innocent citizens, that the cost of a single serving of food could probably fund a small agricultural project, and that I was considering reporting the vendors to the appropriate authorities.

Damien listened patiently while purchasing enough food to feed a small family, which was particularly irritating because he knew perfectly well that I would end up eating most of it.

"You’re spending too much money," I complained as he handed me a plate. "Just because you’re a billionaire doesn’t mean you should spend like today is your last day on earth."

"You said you were hungry."

"I didn’t say I wanted to bankrupt you."

"I think I’ll survive."

"That’s what all financially irresponsible people say before they end up selling their furniture."

He smiled. "I’ll keep that in mind."

I took a bite of the food and immediately decided that it was delicious enough to justify the financial catastrophe I had just predicted.

Damien watched me with an amused expression as I continued eating, and I gave him a warning look when I noticed his gaze lingering on my face. "What?"