My cheeks flame. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Of course, you don't.” She shuffles through papers, still smirking. “Completely unrelated topic: did you know that Mrs. Henderson likes to sit on her porch late at night? Something about the fresh salt air that really makes her feel youthful. Very dedicated to her beauty regimen, that woman.”
My blood turns cold. What the hell did that old bat see?
“Amy—”
“Let’s dive into the artisan market details, shall we? We’re two days out and need to get all our ‘I’s dotted and ‘T’s crossed.” Amy interrupts smoothly, all business now, but her eyes are still dancing with mischief.
I ignore the bait and pull out my checklist, shifting into work mode. We spend the next two hours hammering out logistics for the library's booth at Saturday's market. We'll have book donation bins, library card sign-up sheets, information about the children's library grant proposal, and a reading corner where kids can look at books while their parents browse other vendors.
“We should bring some of the newer picture books,” I suggest, making notes. “The interactive ones with the flaps and textures. Those always draw the younger kids in.”
“Great idea. And we should coordinate with Logan's team.” Amy says his name with exaggerated casualness. “Make sure our booths complement each other rather than compete for space.”
“We’re under the same tent, but they’ll still have their own space. It was my idea.” I can't suppress the pride in my voice. “You know, cross-promotion. The library supports the team, the team supports literacy.”
“How very collaborative of you.” Amy's smile is positively wicked now. “I'm sure you and Logan will have several meetings toiron outall the details. Very close, hands-on coordination.”
I narrow my eyes. “Okay, what the hell is going on?”
Amy shrugs, hands in the air. “I'm just saying, partnership requires good communication.” She pauses. “Lots and lots of communication.”
I huff, feeling like the butt of a joke that everyone knows except me. I throw a pen at her. She dodges it, laughing.
Our meeting finally wraps up and I retreat to my office to tackle email. Cookie is splooted under my desk, dead to the world, enjoying her customary late morning nap, something she hasn't gotten much of since Violet arrived and the preschool visits picked up. The thought brings a smile to my face. I still can't believe Logan sent me that photo of the tea party this morning. I've looked at it approximately forty-seven times already.
I'm deep into composing a follow-up email to Sapphire Development about the grant approval timeline when my office door bangs open hard enough to rattle the framed literacy posters on my walls. Cookie huffs into her paws, annoyed at being disturbed mid-nap.
Julie stands in the doorway, Amy right behind her, both wearing identical expressions of barely restrained glee.
“Okay, spill,” Julie demands, marching in and plopping down in the chair across from my desk. Amy closes the door and leans against it, arms crossed, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
“Don’t you have a bakery to run? What are you doing here?”
“Seaside Sweets is perfectly under control, thank you very much. Stop trying to change the subject.”
“What subject? I literally have no idea why you’re here.”
“Don't play innocent with me, missy.” Julie points an accusing finger at me. “You're not getting away without details. Why didn't you tell me you're dating Logan Maddox?”
“I—we just—it's new—” I sputter. How the hell did they find out about this? Our first official date isn't even until Saturday. Did Logan take out a billboard? Hire a skywriter? Send a town-wide newsletter?
“How new?” Amy interjects. “Because according to my sources, you two have been practically joined at the hip for weeks.”
“Your sources? What the hell, Amy?”
A mischievous gleam lights Amy's expression as she studies me, her lips pursed not in anger but in barely contained laughter, offering me nothing.
“Okay, fine.” I throw my hands up in surrender. “We've been having dinner together. As neighbors and friendsonly.” Even I can hear how weak that sounds. I might as well claim Cookie and Violet are just acquaintances or that the sun is just a nearby star.
Julie snorts, folding her arms across her chest. “Right. Friends. Friends who apparently can't keep their hands off each other on your front porch at close to midnight.”
My stomach drops. “What?!” Cookie jolts under my desk at my screech. She releases an indignant groan communicating her displeasure at having her beauty sleep interrupted again.
“Oh, honey.” Julie pulls out her phone with the air of someone about to deliver devastating news. “You haven't seen the photos yet, have you?”
“Photos? What photos? Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on?”
