“The scarf too?” I whine.
She smirks. “Yes, the scarf too, you baby.”
We reach downtown, rolling down Main Street. I do as she says—window up, hat on. The heart of Willowbrook unfolds around me—a barber shop, a hardware store, a bakery. People are strolling down sidewalks and there’s a big gazebo in the center. It’s life, and I’ve missed it. It’s everything small-town America is supposed to be.
Then I spot a pastel blue storefront with flower boxes spilling over with daisies and a sign for The Sugar Cottage.
“Is that the cupcake place?” I point at it.
She laughs. “Yeah, that’s Laurel’s. She wasn’t allowed to come to your private party the other night, but she’s Gillian’s best friend.”
“Which means we can trust her?”
Her stare sharpens. “Zander, I promised you one car ride up and down Main Street. That’s it. You got to hang your head out the window, and I’ll even let you hang it out on the way home. But we are not stopping. We are not getting out.”
“I like your mom voice. It turns me on.”
“Oh my god.” She looks away, and I’m pretty sure it’s to hide her smile.
“Come on, if she’s Gillian’s best friend, surely, we can trust her. You’ve been going on and on about how trustworthy the people in your life are.” I lean over the console really close to her. “I’ll even wear the scarf.”
“You’re gonna get me in trouble.”
I glance at her stomach. “I think I already managed to do that.”
She laughs. “True story. All right, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll park, and we’ll walk in casually and go right to the back.”
“Sounds like a plan. I kind of like this. It’s kinda like MacGyver stuff.”
“It’s not MacGyver stuff.”
“Why not?”
“Because MacGyver fixes problems, and I have a feeling we’re about to create one.”
“So, maybe more like Mission Impossible.”
She shakes her head and pulls into a spot. “We’re gonna get out nice and calm, go straight inside, and walk right into the back of Laurel’s bakery.”
“I like this side of you. We could’ve had some fun together had I known you were like this.”
“We had fun together, and our prize comes out in six months or so.”
I laugh, adjust the scarf, hat, and sunglasses, then we exit the car and slip inside.
A blonde woman glances over her shoulder. “Romy?”
“Hi, Laurel.” Romy waves and keeps walking.
“Should I call the police?” a woman sitting at one of the tables says.
“Did he have a gun?” another woman asks.
Romy tugs me into a corner, and the blonde who greeted us walks around the corner, holding up a pair of tongs.
“What’s going on?” She raises the tongs.
“What are you going to do? Pinch my nose?” I ask, which was probably the wrong decision, since the woman is now annoyed. And I like my nose a lot. It gives me character.
