Ryan Mitchell checked his watch for the third time in as many minutes.
7:15 p.m.

His blind date was already fifteen minutes late—perfect. It gave him the excuse he needed to make a polite appearance, stay for five minutes, and then leave with his dignity intact.

At thirty-four, Ryan had been on exactly seventeen blind dates in the past year—each one arranged by well-meaning friends, family members, or business partners who thought it was “a tragedy” that a man with his success was still single. Every date had followed the same script: a polished, accomplished woman with a resume as impressive as her posture, rehearsed laughter, and eyes that flicked toward his watch when he checked it. Conversations that felt like performance reviews. Polite smiles. Mutual disinterest.

This one, he promised himself, would be the last. After tonight, he was done.

He’d tell everyone to stop setting him up, stop trying to “fix” something that maybe didn’t need fixing. Maybe he was meant to be alone. Maybe that was okay.

The carnival was an odd choice for a first date. His assistant had booked it per his date’s request, which already made him suspicious. He’d expected a fine-dining restaurant, not the Riverside Summer Fair.

Now, surrounded by the smell of fried dough and the sound of carnival music, Ryan looked painfully overdressed—crisp white shirt, tailored trousers, black tie. He looked like someone who had wandered into the wrong movie.

He was just about to text his assistant to call it off when he heard it—
Laughter.

Not the delicate, polite kind he heard in boardrooms or dinner parties. This was unguarded, bright, real.

He turned.

Running toward him was a woman with sunlight in her hair and a yellow sundress dotted with tiny flowers. A blue cardigan fluttered around her shoulders as she juggled a mountain of blue cotton candy and the remains of an apology on her lips.

“I’m so sorry I’m late!” she said, slightly breathless. “I saw the cotton candy stand and, well, I haven’t had this stuff in, what—fifteen years? And fifteen years without cotton candy is basically a tragedy!”

Ryan opened his mouth to deliver his pre-planned, polite exit line, but forgot it completely.

“I’m Meredith,” she said, extending a sticky-sugar-coated hand. “Meredith Walsh. And yes, I’m usually more professional than this, but carnivals make me regress to age seven. Consider yourself warned.”

He shook her hand, amused despite himself. “Ryan Mitchell.”

“Right, the CEO!” she said, eyes sparkling. “My friend Amy told me. She said you’re some important business guy who works too much and needs to learn how to have fun. Sorry—that came out rude. My filter’s broken. Always has been.”

Ryan chuckled despite his better judgment. “So that’s what she said about me?”

“Actually,” Meredith admitted, “she said you were dedicated and kind, but maybe a little lonely. I paraphrased.”

He blinked. People didn’t usually talk to him like that—certainly not within thirty seconds of meeting.

Meredith offered the cotton candy. “Want some? It’s way too big for one person. I think they gave me extra because I looked so excited.”

This was his moment to leave. To thank her for coming, cite an early meeting, and disappear back into his predictable solitude.

Instead, he tore off a piece of the cotton candy and put it in his mouth. It melted instantly—pure sugar and nostalgia.

“When’s the last time you had cotton candy?” she asked.

He frowned. “Honestly? I can’t remember.”

“That’s tragic,” she declared. “We’re fixing that. Tonight you’re having every carnival food you’ve ever forgotten—corn dogs, funnel cake, cheese fries that will probably kill us but taste amazing. It’s basically the law.”

“I actually had dinner plans,” he said weakly.

Meredith laughed again, that same infectious, musical sound that seemed to rearrange the air around them. “Dinner plans? You’re wearing a tie to a county fair, Ryan. You need help. Lucky for you, I’m an expert at not taking life too seriously.”

Before he could protest, she hooked her arm through his and started walking.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” she announced. “We’re going to play games, eat terrible food, and maybe ride the Ferris wheel. You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

“No.”

“Perfect! Compatibility level: high. Amy said you’d be serious, but I think there’s hope for you.”

“Did she tell you anything nice about me?” he asked, unable to hide a grin.

Meredith stopped, meeting his eyes. “She said you were loyal. That you built a company that treated people well. That you work hard because you care, not because you’re greedy. And that maybe… you’ve been waiting for someone to make you laugh again.”

Ryan looked at her, startled by how easily she’d stripped away his armor. For the first time in a long while, he felt seen.

“What else did Amy tell you?”

“That you usually leave blind dates after five minutes.”

He blinked. “She told you that?”

“Yep. She said you always do, because you’ve already decided they won’t work. So my mission tonight,” Meredith said, eyes dancing, “is to make you forget about your watch.”

He glanced down. He hadn’t looked at it once since she’d arrived.

“Well?” she asked. “Are you leaving?”

He studied her: the messy bun coming undone, the cotton candy sticking to her fingers, the warmth in her gaze that had nothing to do with his title.

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m not leaving.”

Meredith grinned. “Good. Because I’m terrible at carnival games and I need someone tall to win me a stuffed animal.”

They played everything. Ring toss. Balloon darts. That impossible basketball game with hoops designed to make you fail. Meredith narrated each attempt like a sports commentator, cheering for him, laughing at herself. When Ryan finally won her a small stuffed panda, she hugged it tight.

“This is Gerald,” she declared. “He’s going to live on my couch and silently judge all my bad life choices. Thank you for Gerald, Ryan. He’s perfect.”

They ate their way through the fair: corn dogs, cheese fries, funnel cake buried in powdered sugar. Meredith’s laughter was constant, easy, real.

As they walked along the river, she told him about her work as a translator—how she loved languages because they were like people: full of nuances, double meanings, and unspoken truths.

“In French, it’s je t’aime,” she said softly. “In Spanish, te quiero or te amo. And in Japanese, they rarely say it outright—they show it through action. Isn’t it beautiful? The same feeling, but so many ways to express it.”

Ryan found himself opening up in return. He told her about inheriting his father’s company, about the pressure of carrying other people’s livelihoods on his shoulders, about the loneliness of being “CEO Ryan” all the time.

“That’s sad,” Meredith said. “You don’t have to be the CEO version of yourself with everyone. Connection only happens when you let someone see you—the real you.”

She reached out and straightened his slightly crooked tie. “Right now, you’ve got powdered sugar on your shirt and you’re still the most relaxed I’ve ever seen you. That’s the real Ryan.”

He laughed. “I have a board meeting tomorrow morning.”

“They’ll survive,” she teased. “Tell them you were busy winning pandas and rediscovering your humanity.”

They rode the Ferris wheel just as the sun began to set, painting the sky in pinks and golds. From the top, the whole carnival looked like a dream made of light and motion.

“This is my favorite part,” Meredith said quietly. “When you’re high enough to see everything—the chaos below becomes a pattern. From here, it’s beautiful.”

“Is that a metaphor?”

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s just a reminder to step back sometimes and look at the bigger picture.”

When the ride ended, they walked back to the entrance where they’d first met. The air was cooler now, the noise softer, as if even the carnival was holding its breath.

“So,” she said, hugging Gerald the panda, “did I succeed in keeping you longer than five minutes?”

He smiled. “You did. Though, honestly, I think you won in the first thirty seconds when you showed up laughing about cotton candy.”

“That’s my secret weapon,” she said. “Unfiltered joy.” She hesitated. “I had a really good time tonight, Ryan. Not ‘nice first date’ good—actually good. Like I forgot to check my phone for four hours good.”

“I didn’t bring my phone,” he confessed. “Left it in my car.”

She blinked. “Look at you, character development already.”

He stepped closer. “Would you like to do this again? Maybe tomorrow night—somewhere casual. No ties.”

She grinned. “I’ll wear jeans and probably order dessert first. Still interested?”

“Absolutely.”

Meredith’s voice softened. “Amy was right, you know. You are kind. And you deserve someone who makes you forget to be CEO Ryan.”

“I think I already found her,” he said.

He kissed her then—gentle, unhurried, honest.

When they pulled apart, Meredith’s eyes sparkled. “That was really good. Nine out of ten. Could be a ten with practice.”

Ryan laughed. “Is everything a joke to you?”

“Not everything,” she said. “Just most things. Life’s too short not to laugh. But this—” she gestured between them “—this, I take seriously.”

They did go on that second date. And a third. By the tenth, Ryan knew he was in love with the woman who had shown up late, clutching cotton candy and laughter, and somehow turned his five-minute plan into forever.

Meredith never tried to change him. She simply reminded him that life wasn’t something to manage; it was something to experience. She made him laugh at board meetings when he wore mismatched socks. She dragged him to street fairs and Sunday morning markets.

A year later, Ryan proposed at the same carnival, at the top of the same Ferris wheel. When he opened the ring box, she gasped, laughed, and said yes before he could finish asking.

Then she grinned through happy tears and said, “Now let’s get funnel cake.”

At their wedding, his best man told the story of how Ryan had planned to leave after five minutes but stayed for a lifetime.

And every time their children asked how they met, Meredith would start with, “Well, I was late, holding cotton candy, and your dad was wearing a tie to a carnival like a total weirdo.”

Ryan would add, “And your mother laughed—and I forgot to leave.”

The best decision I never made.

Because sometimes love doesn’t arrive in the perfect package. Sometimes it shows up late, sticky-fingered, and laughing about cotton candy. Sometimes it’s not about finding someone flawless, but about finding someone brave enough to be real.

And sometimes, all it takes is one person’s laughter to make you stay long enough to fall in love.