I keep my gaze set on the clipboard and study the map as if it holds the answer to my dilemma. Telling him now, and cutting all physical touch would be the responsible thing—revert to our original rules. But that would mean facing a day of awkward faking it around the Barkers. I can manage this. As long as we don’t end up alone together, everything will be fine.
We arrive at the gate to find the tables bare and stacks of boxes littered under a tent haphazardly. There are no cars parked in the gravel lot, but a quick glance at my phone tells me they should be arriving any minute.
“Looks like Carver was in a hurry,” I say, sliding out of the cart and nudging one of the tipped boxes with my toe. Noah bends down to pick it up, his forearms flexing deliciously, and sets it onto one of the empty tables. I pull my walkie talkie up and using the reference sheet on the clipboard, signal Cheryl.
“Lottie to Cheryl, over.”
The speaker crackles. “Go for Cheryl.”
“We made it to the gate, no sign of Tom, but we’ll get things set up down here. Over.”
“Oh, he showed up about two minutes after you left. Sounds like he may need help with some vendors who seem set on having a specific spot which means shifting half our power sources. He may swing down to borrow Noah for the manpower. Over.”
“Got it. We’ll be here. Over.”
When I turn back towards the table to start unloading paperwork, Noah is staring at me.
“What?”
“You’re good at that.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Talking on the radio? Really scraping the bottom of the barrel for those compliments now aren’t we?”
“No, the way you talked Cheryl down. I thought that little vein in her forehead was going to pop but you just sort of sweptin and smoothed things over for her—made an actionable plan. You’re good at that.”
My neck warms under his words, the authenticity of them leaving me bare in ways I’m not used to. Or at least, haven’t been used to. Not until Noah.
I shrug, clipping the walkie back to my shorts and reaching for a stack of maps. “I spent some time organizing Kara’s rogue theater troupe. You sort of learn the art of soothing dramatic anxiety spells when you’re in charge of wannabe Meryl Streeps. Though, I can’t see Meryl being the type to lose it like that, she seems classy you know? I bet your mom knows. Oh my god, does she know Meryl Streep?”
The latter half of my explanation sounds more like drunk ramblings, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from spiraling further. So much for playing it cool.
“There she is,” he says, one side of his mouth pulled up in a smile. “That’s the nervous babble I’ve come to know.”
My mouth goes dry and I clear my throat, dropping my gaze to the stack of papers in my hands. His statement tugs at the same rapidly unraveling thread of security, and I don’t want to dwell on it any more.
“We need to get organized—the first of the cars are arriving.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he quips, grabbing another of the boxes and opening it before tucking it under the table.
By nine thirty, we’ve welcomed nearly a hundred eager guests and more are still pouring in from the parking lot and through the now unlocked gates. I’m showing a frazzled looking mom with a baby strapped to her back and an eager toddler bouncing in a wagon where she can find the kid friendly play area when Noah’s hand slips across my lower back. After the way he’s been this weekend, it should be a familiar comfort, but this morning it’s too heavy—loaded with expectation.
“Thank you,” the woman says, pulling her wagon along the graveled path towards the main pavilion.
“My pleasure.”
“Our replacements are here.”
Four teenage kids in pale orange t-shirts reading “volunteer” across the front are already making themselves at home in the tent I spent the last hour organizing.
“Oh,” I say. “I suppose they are.”
I try not to let it show that I’m upset; I like being helpful and having a purpose. Not to mention, it’s been a solid hour that I’ve managed to avoid Noah’s melting gaze or the incessant daydreams my brain seems intent on conjuring. Noah, still weirdly unbothered by the silence between us, jerks his head towards the cart.
“We should explore the festival and try one of those lemonades Cheryl hasn’t stopped raving about.”
Waving silent goodbyes to the volunteers now manning the table, we climb into the golf cart and Noah steers us through the growing crowds. I radio Cheryl to let her know our replacements arrived.
“Lottie to Cheryl, over.”
