Dawson
Seeing the way she laughed, even as their gingerbread house fell into utter ruin in front of everyone, had the edges of my lips ticking upward before I could stop it.
It wasn’t the polite kind of laugh people use in public when something goes wrong. It was full-bodied. Unrestrained. The kind that stole her breath and bent her forward as she tried—and failed—to recover. The whole table rattled as a wall of graham crackers gave up entirely, icing sliding, candy scattering across the surface in a slow, sugary avalanche.
Parker stared at the wreckage like he’d just watched a small child kick over a sandcastle he’d spent hours building.
Her laughter carried through the air—clear and bright—cutting through the noise of the tent and the hum of the crowd. It hit me square in the chest,
