And now, especially, I missed him. Ever since I’d made it a point to dodge his calls and reply sporadically to his texts.
Before I could start crying right there in my fake mother-in-law’s kitchen, Holly stopped me with a gentle hand on my arm. She smiled and placed a stack of warm containers in my hands.
“Just some leftovers,” she said. “I’m sure you and Lincoln are exhausted at the end of the day, so the last thing you want to think about is making something for dinner.”
“Oh…” I said, breath catching. “That’s really thoughtful. Thank you.”
Holly waved away my gratitude. “No thanks needed. I also packed up the blueberry crumble you liked. You make sure my bottomless pit of a son doesn’t eat the whole damn thing before you get any, okay?”
I breathed out a laugh, though I wasn’t so sure it didn’t sound like a sob with all the emotion clogging my throat. My mother hadn’t called me in over six months. Didn’t even know I was “married.” And here Holly was, taking care of me without a second thought.
Her eyes softened as she wrapped an arm around me, tucking me into her side. “I’m so happy to have you in the family, Willa. Truly. I’ve always hoped someone would see Lincoln the way he deserves. I’m just so glad that person is you.”
My smile felt brittle…fragile.
Fake.
“Me too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
WILLA
Beau:
You alive over there?
Willa:
Yeah, sorry. Just been prepping for the Strawberry Festival. You know how much work that is.
The Strawberry Festivalalways made Starlight Cove feel like we were living in a picturesque postcard. Fairy lights were strung overhead, creating a canopy of magic. It smelled like sugar, sunscreen, and ocean air. Residents strolled Main Street, where dozens of booths were set up. A band played in the gazebo at the park with families strewn on the lawn, soaking it all in.
While the farm had participated in the Strawberry Festival every year for as long as I could remember, this was the first year our stall wasn’t a simple white tent. Instead, we were stationedin a wooden stand Lincoln built with his bare hands along with the help of a friend from high school, Ford McKenzie.
Instead of working at One Night Stan’s today, Lincoln had gotten up with me at the crack of dawn and helped me set up here. Wooden crates were filled with our wares—fresh strawberries, strawberry syrup, honey, and my latest jam batches.
I’d brought every last jar of jam I had on hand—less the crate I’d dropped last week when I’d had my back spasm. But even without that, we had way more than I could hope to sell.
We were also stocked with fresh honey stored in old whiskey bottles and our newest addition—mini honey sticks my child of a husband had decided to name things likeBee-hind Closed Doors,Spread ’Em, andHoneypot. He’d suggestedDrizzle Me, Daddy, and I’d told him if he ever said that again, I’d drown him in honey and make it look like an accident.
I’d been focused on getting everything laid out just so that I’d let Lincoln handle the signage. But I about tripped over my feet when I stood out front and glanced at our booth. The wooden stand—lined with stacked crates that overflowed with jars, berries, and bottles—looked downright professional. Rustic and polished all at once, like something out of a farmers market ad.
The only problem was he’d priced everything like we were selling our items out of a boutique in Manhattan and not on Main Street in Starlight Cove.
“You think you can gettwenty-five dollarsfor this tiny thing?” I asked, holding up one of the four-ounce glass jars of jam. “Are you out of your mind?”
Lincoln flashed me a grin, his dimples winking at me and making my traitorous stomach flip. “I actually think we can get thirty-five, but I didn’t want to give you a heart attack.”
I strode behind the booth, rolling my eyes. “I can’t wait to watch you explain to every person who asks that there is, in fact,noedible gold in these recipes.”
“What you’re going to watch is me selling you out, wife.”
“Selling me out?” I huffed out an incredulous laugh and shook my head. “You think you’re going to be able to sell us out of strawberry tomato and strawbanero jam? Be serious.”
“I don’t just think. Iknow.” He stepped close—closer than necessary—placed a hand on my hip, and lowered his head until his lips brushed my ear. “Then I’ll collect my thank-you however you wanna give it to me, wife.”
My brain short-circuited from his words and his nearness and that maddening path his thumb took under the hem of my T-shirt. And by the time it was back online with a retort, the line was five people deep.
