Samuel was looking at something over my shoulder, his expression shifting from relaxed to tense in the space of a heartbeat.
I turned.
A group of women—five of them, ranging in age from what looked like late fifties to early seventies—were crossing the parking lot toward us. They were moving with the focused determination of a pack of wolves who’d spotted prey.
“Oh no,” Samuel whispered.
The lead woman—purple coat, sensible shoes, hair that had been set with enough product to survive a hurricane—pointed directly at him. “I knew it! Janet, I told you! That’s Dr. Brock Blaze!”
“I don’t think—” Samuel started.
“Don’t even try to deny it, young man!” Another woman—Janet, presumably—waggled a finger at him. “I’ve watched Midnight At Magnolia General every weekday for thirty-seven years. I’d recognize you anywhere!”
Samuel’s hand found my sleeve, gripping it with what felt like mild panic. “I really need to—”
“We need photos!” A third woman was already pulling out her phone. “My daughter will never believe this!”
The pack was closing in. Samuel looked at me with genuine alarm in his eyes, and something in my chest shifted—aprotective instinct I hadn’t felt in months, maybe years. This wasn’t a polished celebrity who could charm his way through a red carpet. This was someone who’d come to the mountains to escape exactly this, standing frozen in a parking lot while his privacy evaporated.
I made a decision.
“Run,” I said.
“What?”
I grabbed his wrist. “Run. Now.”
We ran.
Behind us, I heard one of the women shout, “They’re getting away!” but we were already halfway across the parking lot, heading toward the small strip mall adjacent to the Whole Foods.
“Where are we going?” Samuel gasped.
“Photo booth!” I pointed at the old-fashioned booth tucked between a nail salon and a dry cleaner.
We reached it just as the women rounded the corner of the Whole Foods. I yanked the curtain aside and practically shoved Samuel inside, diving in after him.
The curtain fell closed behind us, and suddenly the world compressed into darkness and the smell of old vinyl and Samuel’s cologne—something woodsy and expensive that I absolutely should not be noticing.
The space was tiny. We were pressed together on the narrow bench, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. I could feel the warmth of him through both our coats.
“Did they see us?” Samuel whispered.
I carefully lifted the edge of the curtain. The women were still congregated outside, looking around, confused about where we’d disappeared to.
“They’re looking for us,” I reported. “But they haven’t figured out we’re in here.”
“How long do we wait?”
“Until they give up or move on.”
Samuel shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable in the cramped space, and his knee bumped against mine. “This is absurd.”
“Completely ridiculous.”
“I’m a grown man hiding in a photo booth from church ladies.”
“Very determined church ladies,” I corrected.
