Like I said.
I freaking love this town.
I high five my neighbor, and we both go back to sniffing out glitter bombs.
And that’s when everything goes to hell.
Well, noteverything.
Just my day.
Possibly my life.
It takes the form of a six-foot-four, raven-haired, blue-eyed, dimple-chinned, broad-shouldered former high school quarterback who should absolutely not be here.
Not anywhere close to here, in fact.
But here he is. Stepping into my path right at the edge of the square.
“Nigel?”
The nightmare from my childhood holds out his arms as if to saywho else would I be, you moron?
You know those times when your body alternates flashing hot and cold so fast that you’re not sure if you have a fever or if perimenopause has arrived in blazing-ice glory?
That’s me right now.
Nigel Hipplewait should not be here.
He’s supposed to be running his grandpa’s old church back in Two Twigs, Iowa.
My hometown. The one that I never talk about, and the one that believes gossip, riches, and any music other than gospel music is a straight path to eternal damnation. The one that taught me that no matter what I do, it will never be enough.
ThatIwill never be enough.
There’s zero chance he knows Cooper or Waverly.
There’s zero reason he should be here.
We’ve had town meetings here in Shipwreck about what to do if an unauthorized person sneaks into the wedding. We’re to alert the nearest security person and have the trespasser escorted away for questioning and removal from town.
But what are you supposed to do when the trespasser is someone you’ve known your entire life, and who your grandma mentioned had just taken over for his grandfather as the town’s pastor?
“You can’t be here,” I whisper.
He does that slow blink like he’s irritated, then makes an equally slow show of looking all around the town. “Free country.”
“Town’s closed for a wedding.”
“I’m aware.”
“Are you invited? Do you have an invitation? If security asks for your invitation and you don’t have it, they’re going to kick you out.”
Wait.
That wouldn’t be a bad thing, would it?
Guilt rears its ugly head at the thought, closely followed by shame galloping in on a dusty old horse that I haven’t let out of the barn I thought I’d finally trapped it in not long after I dumped my last boyfriend.
