She also accidentally stumbled over me playing with chocolate, and even now, weeks later, she hasn’t told a soul.
There might actually be hope for our relationship.
But the rest of them?
The past two months have reinforced that I don’t want them. Nothing against Tickled Pink—the people here truly are lovely, and the town has real potential—but Icannotwait to leave again.
Which unfortunately requires my trust fund. So I’m stuck here for a while longer.
Dylan’s lifting his brows at me, waiting for an answer.
“No, Pebbles and I can make it home okay. Thank you.” Am I drooling? I think I’m drooling. Also, I should not waste my favor on jumping him and stealing his breakfast sandwich, no matter how goodit smells and how much I’m struggling to keep drool from dripping out of my mouth.
I truly shouldn’t.
I need that favor to be him agreeing to be a social media experiment for me, both because he’s by far the most attractive man in Tickled Pink and also because the sooner I convince Gigi that Tickled Pink has a marketing strategy for the town to keep drawing in tourists after we’re gone, the sooner I can get back to Costa Rica and Naomi and the farm.
“So that favor ...?” he says.
“I was just remembering,” I lie. I need makeup and a shower and a serious pep talk before I tackle asking for that favor.
Also?
I would give my left arm for that breakfast sandwich.
He looks at me.
Then at the sandwich. “Got another one in the fridge.”
“That’s, like,gross,” I make myself say.
His grin gets bigger.
And now I’m sweating.
It’s fear of him seeing right through me. Definitelynotmore attraction to that gorgeous, kind smile.
And look at that. I’m still terrible at lying to myself.
“Hangovers are a bitch,” he says. “Won’t tell a soul if you need something to soak up what’s roiling in your belly.”
“I, like, don’t eat meat and dairy products, and I don’t know what’s in those carbs. It’s probably, like, half sugar.”
Pebbles whimpers next to me.
Poor thing. She hates mornings too.
“And we should go,” I say. “Pebbles needs to tinkle.”
He squats—gah, the way his jeans mold to his thighs should be illegal—locks the fridge, shuts the cabinet door that hides the fridge, and rises, grabbing the still-wrapped breakfast sandwich that I would mug him for if I could do it without him knowing it was me.
“Right this way.” He points to the door.
“I know how to get out.” I toss my hair—it’s what I’d do in any other social situation like this—and my brain howls in outrage. Right. No hair tossing until at least four miles into my morning wake-up run. “I mean, I know how I got in, so I know how to get out.”
He’s grinning again. “I’m following you, Tavi. Have to lock up.”
Oh.
