The sound that escaped Farley's throat was somewhere between a wheeze and a snort. "Fully-assed. Yes. That's certainly one way to describe it."
"Are you laughing at me?"
"I would never." He pressed his hand harder against his mouth. "I'm simply having a respiratory event."
"You're definitely laughing at me."
"Your sweater is blinking."
I looked down. The reindeer's nose was, indeed, blinking. Red light, pause, red light, pause—like a beacon of my own poor decisions.
"It's festive," I said weakly.
"It's something." Farley had lowered his hand, and the expression on his face was—I couldn't quite read it. Amusement, definitely. But something else too. Something warmer than I'd expected after two days of radio silence.
"I was going to drive to the store," I said, because apparently my mouth had decided to keep talking without consulting my brain. "I figured if I looked different enough, maybe the church choir lady wouldn't recognize me, and I could buy coffee like a normal person."
"And the mustache was... essential to this plan?"
"Chandra went blonde once. For a bowling alley. It worked."
"I have so many follow-up questions," Farley said, "and I'm not sure I want the answers to any of them."
We stood there, in my gravel driveway, staring at each other. The December wind cut through the sequins of my sweater, and my mustache was definitely coming loose again, and I was absolutely, positively, making a fool of myself in front of the one person I most wanted to impress.
This was worse than the bowling alley incident. This was worse than the time a fan caught me buying hemorrhoid creamat CVS. This was rock bottom, decorated with Christmas lights and a light-up nose.
"I'm an idiot," I said.
"You're not an idiot." Farley's voice had softened. "You're a person who wants to buy coffee without being harassed. That's a completely reasonable desire."
"The mustache was not a reasonable solution."
"No," he agreed. "The mustache was unhinged. But I respect the commitment."
I felt a laugh bubbling up in my chest, surprising me. This wasn't how I'd imagined this going. In my head, Farley had been cold and distant, treating me like every other fan encounter—polite but removed, seeing Dr. Brock Blaze instead of Samuel.
But he was standing in my driveway, making fun of my mustache, looking at me like I was the most entertainingly ridiculous thing he'd seen all week.
Looking at me.
"I was actually coming to see you," he said, gesturing with the tote bag. "I'm driving to Charlottesville for supplies. Shifflett's doesn't have what I need, and I thought..." He paused, looking suddenly uncertain. "I thought maybe you'd want to come. Get out of the cabin for a few hours. It's about forty-five minutes each way, so there'd be significantly less chance of anyone recognizing you."
I stared at him. "You're inviting me on a supply run?"
"I'm inviting you on a forty-five-minute car ride where you won't have to worry about ladies with cell phones." He tilted his head, that sharp gaze sweeping over my outfit. "Though I'm going to have to insist you leave the mustache behind."
"That seems fair."
"And maybe change the sweater. Not because I don't appreciate the artistry, but because a blinking reindeer nose might attract attention we're trying to avoid."
"Also fair." I reached up and peeled the mustache off, wincing as the tape pulled at my skin. "Give me five minutes?"
"Take your time." Farley's eyes crinkled at the corners. "I'll be in the Range Rover, trying to erase the mental image of you in that sweater from my memory."
"Rude."
"Accurate."
