“Cheryl here.”
“The volunteers have arrived and are put to work. Is there anything else you need from us?”
“Heaven’s no, enjoy the festival. And make sure you get a lemonade, they’re to die for, and always sell out before lunch. We’ll touch base over dinner. Over.”
I turn to Noah, who’s concentrating on not running anyone over.
“Well, I guess that's that.”
“Don’t tell me you’re disappointed.”
Rubbing my thumb over the walkie-talkie button, I shrug. “Notsodisappointed.”
“Is the thought of spending the afternoon with me really that tragic?”
Tragic might be the right word, but I’m still not ready to venture there, so I reach for a tease instead.
“No. I suppose not.”
“I can let you boss me around a little more,” he teases, elbowing me lightly in the side.
“You wish.”
As we weave through the meandering groups, I see just how much Scented Acres has transformed. Gone is the sleepy farm nestled in at the base of the Sierra Nevadas and in its place a sprawling fair. Vendor stalls line the main stretch and people clamber for their chance to purchase local wares or pick their own bunch of lavender. We leave the golf cart near the route to the main house and take to walking through the festivities.
Our attendance today is more frivolous than anything, with Tom’s announcement last night giving us the public confirmation of his intention to commit to a future with Flourish. This adjustment seems to have put Noah at ease.
“Here we are,” Noah says, motioning towards the purple and white striped awning of the drink cart.
The chalkboard menu is decorated in curling script and lists several themed refreshments. Without looking back at me, his hand finds mine and he tugs me towards the line. I justify it’s as much a safety precaution than anything. The crowds aren’t as eager to part now that we’re not on a golf cart.
Once stationed in line, I slip my hand free and use it to tuck my hair behind my ear. Hot, midmorning sun sears down with more heat than I tend to enjoy and in an effort to avoid another lull between us, I reach for a joke.
“God, I can’t wait to get back to my rainy Portland spring.”
I expect him to lift his face to the sun and revel in its warmth, or at the very least counter with how much he loves the heat, but instead he stares at me, his face serious.
“Lottie, are we . . .” He pauses and the silence needles the acidic curl under my skin. “I don’t know how to ask this without you getting upset.”
Inhaling sharp, I keep my eyes trained to the ground. Here it is.
“Are we?—”
“Noah?”
The voice is foreign for me, but Noah’s face is a wash of surprise and in what might be the weirdest stroke of luck, our second interruption couldn’t be more timely.
As if sent from the ex girlfriend gods themselves, Megan Kidd, dressed in white cuffed overalls and a crop top, approaches her arms outstretched wide. “My god, it is you!”
She closes in and wraps her long, tanned arms around my stunned companion. He pats her shoulder absently, stepping back as soon as he’s able.
“I didn’t know you were in town,” she continues, her eyes sweeping my way for only a moment before tracing back to him.
“Only in town on business. With this farm actually. It was a short trip.”
His answers are clipped and void of emotion.
“You should have told me. I’ve been dying to catch up with you.”
