CHAPTER EIGHT
Josie
If I ever die ofembarrassment, please know thatthiswas the moment that did it.
Not the karaoke incident. Not the one-night stand with my future boss. Not even being flattened by his golden retriever and caught like a flailing squirrel in his arms in full view of two overcaffeinated content creators.
No, it’s the fact that last night was adisaster.
I mean, the food went well and work was fine, but things with Knox, they’re getting so much worse.
I don’t know how to handle the attention from the stupid Silver Peak Instagram.
Everyone seemed to have something to say, and sure, I batted it all away with a smile, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’tdyinginside.
I bury my face in a throw pillow and groan. “I’m never showing my face again. I’ll become a hermit. I’ll take up beekeeping. Change my name. Live in the woods.”
“You’re being dramatic,” Dee says, standing at the foot of my bed like theGhost of Chill Vibes Past, wearing a beanie and holding a to-go mug the size of my head. “Now get up. You need pancakes.”
“I need a new identity.”
“You need carbs and perspective.”
She yanks the blanket off me like the traitor she is. “Let’s go. You’ve got a full day of pretending you’re not in love with your grumpy boss ahead of you.”
“I’mnotin love with him!”
Dee snorts. “Your blush says otherwise. So does your search history. ‘How to recover from hot boss-related internet scandal’ is not subtle.”
I groan again, but sit up. “I’m going to fake my own death. Just until this blows over.”
“And Miss Lily’s cinnamon pecan pancakes? Girl, be serious.”
Hmm… she’s right about that.
Ten minutes later, we’re sliding into a window booth at Cold Snap Café, which smells like heaven and fresh espresso and also slightly like Mason Prescott’s cologne. Lily, his wife, flutters by with menus, her earrings shaped like tiny frying pans today.
“Well, look who’s back in town!” she chirps, handing me a mug shaped like a moose. “You want the ‘oh honey, you’ve had a week’ special or the ‘tell me everything, I’ll judge later’ breakfast?”
“I’ll take the combo platter,” I mumble.
“Atta girl,” she winks. “Mason! Double cinnamon, and make it a gossip portion!”
From behind the counter, Mason grunts but obliges. I love this place.
Dee stirs her coffee like she’s about to deliver a TED Talk. “Okay. So. Knox.”
“Don’t.”
“Oh, we’re talking about it. Because in that Reel, you looked like you were about to kiss him, and he looked like he forgot what decade it was.”
“He said it’s strictly business,” I mutter.
Dee pauses. “Oh, honey. That’s code for ‘I’m panicking because my feelings are making me short circuit.’”
I give her a look. “Dee. He’s a stone wall with dimples. He doesn’tdofeelings.”
“And yet,” she says, pointing her spoon at me, “hecaughtyou. He held you. And then looked like he was buffering for ten seconds, trying to decide if he could kiss you without combusting.”
