“That’s because I’ve been threatening fewer people.”
“Sure,” she says. “And not because someone has been walking you home every night like a romance montage?”
I open my mouth to deny it, but she’s already sashaying away, calling over her shoulder, “You’re welcome for the setup!”
Setup?
Before I can demand clarification, I hear a voice that turns my stomach to static.
“Morning, Book Witch.”
I turn.
Crew Wright stands there, wearing a gray Henley that should be illegal, a backward cap, and a grin that could start wars. He’s carrying lumber on one shoulder, helping Sawyer set up the stage for the evening concert.
The sight of him hits me like gravity. Every inch of him is solid, familiar, and infuriatingly attractive.
“You’re early,” I say.
“Mom said there’d be cinnamon rolls.”
“She lied.”
“Then I’m leaving.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling before I can stop it. “You’re insufferable.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Itisa bad thing.”
“Nah,” he says, flashing that grin again. “You like it.”
“Prove it.”
His smile turns dangerous. “Challenge accepted.”
By midmorning, the festival’s in full swing. I’ve sold out of bookmarks, misplaced three rolls of tape, and been asked by two separate people whether Crew and I are “official.”
We’re not.
We’re notanything.
Try telling that to theCoral Bell Gazette.
They’ve got a photographer roaming the square like a bloodhound. The poor guy’s been chased off twice by Daisy and once by Ivy, who told him that “consent is sexy, Greg.”
Ivy Quinn has adjusted to small-town life disturbingly well.
Speaking of which, she appears beside my booth in dark jeans and a loose white sweater that probably costs more than my car. She smells like vanilla and fame.
“You look gorgeous,” she says.
“You look like a magazine cover.”
She beams. “Rowan says I’m blending in.”
“In what—Paris?”
