“This is insane,” I manage. “You can’t just?—”
“We can and we are.” Jo stands up and starts gathering my things—my purse, my jacket, my dignity. “You’ve had weeks to work this out yourselves, and instead, you’ve been playing the world’s most frustrating game of emotional chicken.”
“I’m not going anywhere with?—”
“Jessica.” Grandma Hensley’s voice cuts through my protest. “You can go willingly, or I can call Mrs. Sanders and have the entire town gathered on the boardwalk to watch by sundown. Your choice.”
I look at Scott. He looks at me. We both look at the assembled intervention squad, who are wearing matching expressions of determination.
“Where exactly would we be going?” Scott asks carefully.
“Your place.” Grayson tosses him the keys. “The cottage. Caroline and I handled the setup this morning.”
“Setup?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Michelle is physically steering me toward the door. “Amber handled the food and Caroline the ambiance. All you have to do is show up and actually talk to each other like adults.”
“This is kidnapping,” I protest weakly.
“It’s aggressive friendship.” Mads gives me a little push. “There’s a difference.”
“I’m not dressed for a date!”
“You look fine.”
“I’m wearing yoga pants!”
“Yoga pants are the sweatpants of the modern era,” Grandma Hensley says. “Perfectly acceptable for informal forced romantic encounters.”
We’re at the door now. Outside. On the porch. The book club is lined up in the doorway like they’re seeing us off to prom.
“Her phone stays here,” Hazel says, plucking it from my hand before I can protest. “His too. No distractions.”
“You can’t take my phone?—”
“We can and we did.” Michelle is unmoved. “You’ll get them back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?!”
“Or tonight, if you figure your stuff out quickly.” She grins.
Scott is standing beside me on the porch, looking as shellshocked as I feel. Our gazes meet again.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t know they were planning this.”
“Neither did I.”
Grayson appears with one final instruction. “The address is in your GPS, Scott. Don’t come back until you’ve actually talked. Michelle’s orders.”
“Since when do I take orders from?—”
The door closes in our faces.
We stand there for a moment, side by side on the porch, listening to the muffled sounds of celebration from inside. Someone—probably Mads—is actually cheering.
Reggie crows from somewhere around the back of the house. Even he sounds triumphant.
“So,” Scott says.
