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To everyone who wants to face their fears. It’s never too late.
Also dedicated to the VelociCoaster. Yes, I dedicated my book to a roller coaster. It’s my book; I do what I want.
“Motion Sickness” - Phoebe Bridgers
When I see Emory Dawson across the midway for the first time, I realize the world is not a fair place.
He’s not allowed to have a mysterious gaze that oozes both curiosity and intensity all at once.
The man I’m currently in a million-dollar lawsuit with is not supposed to be on level with Mr. freaking Darcy.
Maybe the park imprinted on me werewolf-style. There have been weirder imprints—looking at you, Stephenie Meyer.
Fun fact: I hate Emory Dawson.
“God, only an ass would build a defunct roller coaster and look at you like you’re the one with the problem.”
So, it’s not about fixing my—or even Honeywood’s—turmoil. It’s about bettering his company’s reputation. Business, business, business.
Because even though most of our employees know I’m more competent, at the end of the day, my dad is the owner.
He’s the one who can fire me, blackball me from the industry, and they’ll say nothing. They’ll always side with the king.
A hug from your mom is one of the most comforting feelings, especially when she smells like fresh cookies. No, really, I swear it seeps out of her pores.
They fight, but I think somewhere deep down, they care for each other. But only if you squint really hard and use a magnifying glass.
It’s handsome. So handsome. Not that Emory wasn’t good-looking before, but a smile on him is like watching clouds whisk away.
Holy hell. Emory Dawson might have a heart. At least he would if he didn’t walk away in that instant.
She doesn’t seem to carry the world on her shoulders; she looks like she dances with it instead.
This woman is suing my company for ungodly amounts of money, and yet … and yet
“Yeah, sure, the dude has problems,” Quinn says, tilting her head side to side before taking one long gulp of her drink and setting it down on the table. “But I think you might be ninety-nine percent of them.”
Lorelei is pretty when she smiles.
All I can think about is how Lorelei laughs. And how she doesn’t laugh with me. Not ever.
It’s not until she’s out the door that I realize my heart is beating fast. Beating for her.
What happened to the Emory who handed that little girl the key chain? My whole world is shattering, and this man is just standing there. Job well done. Pat on the back. Move on to the next project.
Lorelei Arden is everything. She’s the steady rise of a lift hill. She’s more exciting than the anticipation as you crest the top. She is the thrill of the downhill, the rush of anxiety through your chest, the harsh banked turn, the dip in the track, the grip from the brake run.
Just below the knotted drawstring is a nice, healthy, thick bulge, and by God, if that is him not erect, then how in the world—
My mouth is drier than the desert, but my bike shorts are not.
I stand on my mat and look straight ahead. Don’t look at Emory, I tell myself. Except I end up watching Emory the entire class.
He walks out the door. I stare at his tight butt the whole time.
“I want to see all your ideas.” “All?” “Every one.”
Lorelei looks at Fred, who is beaming, as if the sun had started shining right through his pores, and I think I can see the wheels turning.
“I won’t. I promise. But, Lore, that was a bad idea.” “Horrible.” “Like, the worst.” “One hundred percent.” “So, how was it?” “Wonderful.”
I tell myself that I cannot, under any circumstances, kiss her again. No matter how bad I want to.
I feel more peaceful here with her than I’ve ever felt in yoga. I’ve laughed more than I have in years.
“Don’t let his storm cloud rain on your flower garden.” But I don’t tell her that, sometimes, plants need a little water to thrive.
“What do you want, Emory?” she asks. But at the end of the day, I’m a selfish bastard. “You.”
Keep smiling for me, beautiful.”
“Going soft on me, Mr. Dawson?” He pauses at my statement. “Maybe. I can’t help it if you’re the silver lining in my day.”
Ready for Employee Night?” “Only if you are.” “With you? Always.”
Not for the first time with this woman who makes my heart beat three times as fast as any woman before her.
I’ve heard men say their women taste like candy. Or fruits. Or something else ridiculous. Why mask it with such flowery language?
Lorelei tastes like pussy. And I fucking love it.
“I knew there had to be a reason you were an engineer, Mr. Dawson.” “Say that again.” “Mr. Dawson.” “Good girl. Eyes on me.”
He’s rugged. Massive. And mine.
“You’ve ruined other women for me,” he says. “You must know that.” Emory traces my jaw with his large hand, stroking down to my chin. “Don’t worry. No other man can compare.” “No, beautiful,” he mutters. “No other men will ever get the chance.”
When it pops out, he whispers, “Mine.” And without even a second thought, I find myself saying, “Yours.”
“Want me to beat him up? Ain’t no pervs looking at my woman.” My woman.
“So, I normally get more time to walk the park when a man isn’t keeping me captive.” “That guy sounds like a dick.”
I’d do anything for her. I just want Lorelei to be happy, sir.”
“That’s a huge risk.” “Well, I took a risk with you, and you’ve been the best decision in my life so far.”
I’m in love with the fact that he doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, and I love that he still stitched it there just for me.
