"I know you did this," Finn says, still searching. "I know it was you."
"That's a serious accusation."
"You're the only person who would hide my phone playing POLKA MUSIC at seven in the morning."
"I didn't say I did it," Holt says, finally turning around. His face is perfectly neutral except for the tiny curve at the corner of his mouth. "I said I don't know where your phone is. Those are different statements."
The polka music keeps playing. Finn keeps searching. I'm standing by the door watching this unfold like it's the greatest show I've ever seen.
It takes him twenty minutes. Twenty full minutes of systematically taking apart his entire workspace. He finally finds it hidden inside a toolbox that was inside another, larger toolbox, wrapped in a shop rag, playing polka at full volume.
Finn holds up the phone, triumphant and furious. "THIS MEANS WAR."
“You keep saying that.” The edge in his voice knocks something loose in me, and I start laughing before I can stop it. It rolls out sudden enough that I tip sideways in my chair andhave to catch myself on the table before I end up on the floor. Finn glances over, eyebrows up.
“You okay over there?”
"Just watching two grown men have a prank war," I say, heading to my desk. "Somehow this is the healthiest relationship I've ever witnessed."
"Thank you," Finn says, finally killing the polka music. Blessed silence. "We try."
"We don't try," Holt corrects. "This is just what happens when you work with an idiot."
"Takes one to know one."
"That doesn't even make sense."
"Your face doesn't make sense."
"That's not a comeback."
"Your face isn't a comeback."
I'm grinning, getting to work, thinking: yeah. This is exactly where I'm supposed to be.
The rest of the day flows into the kind of rhythm I'm starting to recognize—phones ringing, customers coming and going, invoices getting filed while Finn provides running commentary on everything. Around lunch, Maeve stops by with sandwiches from Sunny's and stays for twenty minutes, perched on my desk telling me about the upcoming festival.
"Whole town shows up. There's food trucks, beer, live music. It's the social event of the season, which tells you everything about how exciting life is here."
"Sounds fun," I say, because it actually does. Small town festival, everyone I've met, music and food and probably more gossip about my living situation.
"You're coming, right?" She's not really asking. "Because everyone will be there and it's basically mandatory. Well, not mandatory mandatory, but if you don't show up people will talk."
"People already talk."
"True. But this way they'll have to talk to your face instead of behind your back. More efficient."
After she leaves, Finn appears at my desk. "So. The festival. You coming?"
"Apparently I have to or the town will revolt."
"Good." He's got that look—the mischief look, the one that means he's about to say something designed to get a reaction. He glances at Holt across the garage. "Hey Holt! Bet Scout dances at the festival."
I freeze. "I'm right here."
Finn ignores me completely. "Twenty bucks says she does."
Holt looks up from whatever he's working on. Studies me for a long moment—assessing, considering, that blue gaze tracking over me like he's calculating odds. Then he looks back at Finn. "You're on."
