"Scary?" I laugh. "I'm five-three."
"And terrifying when someone tries to haggle on a quote." She grins at Holt. "You just stand there and let her do all the intimidation, don't you?"
"She's better at it," he says, and the affection there makes my throat go tight.
Someone calls my name from across the square and I turn to see Jake, the mechanic who runs the competitor shop two streets over, waving. "Scout! We still on for that poker game Thursday?"
"Wouldn't miss it!" I call back. "Prepare to lose!"
"Big talk from someone who bluffed with a pair of twos last time!"
I flip him off, laughing, and Maeve snorts into her beer. "You play poker now?"
"I play poker now," I confirm. "And I'm getting better. Slowly."
Holt's hand slides to my hip and the casual possessiveness of it sends warmth spreading through my whole body.
"Scout, you finally gonna beat Holt at darts?" Sarah from the diner appears on my other side, grinning.
"She already does," Holt says, deadpan, and I elbow him in the ribs.
"Damn right I do." I take a sip of beer, savoring the cold bite of it. "Though he's a sore loser."
"I don't lose."
"You lost last Tuesday."
"That was an anomaly."
"An anomaly you owe me twenty bucks for."
Maeve and Sarah are both laughing now, and I'm standing here with these people who know me, who wave and tease and include me in Thursday poker games and Tuesday darts, and this easy back-and-forth is everything I never knew I needed. Inside jokes and standing plans and all these tiny threads that weave me into this place.
"There's my favorite couple!" Finn's voice cuts through the crowd before he does, all grin and mischief and that sleeveless shirt. "Looking good, Gremlin."
I do a little spin, letting the dress flare out. No hesitation. No second-guessing. "I know, right?"
"Holt, you're punching above your weight."
"I know," Holt says, and his fingers tighten on my waist, tugging me closer.
I laugh and hook my arm through Finn's. "Come on, let's get food. I'm starving."
"When aren't you starving?"
"When I'm eating."
We wind through the festival, the three of us, and everything about this feels natural. Right. Finn steering us toward the taco truck, Holt's hand never leaving me, and I belong here. Not visiting. Not temporary. Here.
We get street tacos—too many, probably—and find a spot near the bandstand where the music's not quite loud enough to drown out conversation. I bite into carnitas and practically moan.
"Jesus, Scout," Finn says around his own mouthful. "You're gonna make people think we don't feed you."
"You don't feed me. I feed myself. There's a difference." I swipe at the juice running down my chin. "These are so good."
Holt's watching me with this look on his face, soft and a little amused, and when I raise my eyebrows at him he just shakes his head and takes another bite of his taco.
I look around at the festival—the lights, the laughter, the families and couples and groups of friends all tangled together in the warm night air. The band's playing something upbeat and a little off-key, and someone's kid is spinning in circles until they fall down dizzy, and the smell of food and beer and desert night wraps around everything.
