I’m hoping for a moment alone before facing Scott, but the driveway is already full of cars. Half the event committee showed up, Grandma Hensley leaning on a cane she doesn’t need but enjoys using to poke things.
The heat shimmers off the oyster-shell driveway. Cicadas scream from the live oaks like they’re being paid by the decibel.
Scott is standing near the fireplace when I walk in, and my traitorous heart does a little tap dance the moment our eyes meet. He’s wearing a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, looking unfairly composed for a man who also didn’t sleep last night. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temples that I find inexplicably attractive, which is concerning because I’m not usually the type to find perspiration romantic.
I could cross the room to him, let the town see that something has shifted between us. Instead, I drift toward Hazel. Safer to hide behind the chaos.
“Peak season,” she mutters when I ask about her week. “Jack’s running double shifts at Buccaneer Bay, and I’m trying to plan an event that’s six days away while keeping the boutique from burning down.”
“Six days.” My stomach flips. “That’s soon.”
“Very soon.” She gives me a knowing look. “You ready?”
I’m not sure if she means the event or Scott or everything that’s about to change.
“The registration table should face the window,” Mrs. Sanders announces, fanning herself with her clipboard. “Natural light photographs better. And the flower arrangements need more height—short arrangements say ‘budget wedding.’”
“This isn’t a wedding,” Hazel points out with admirable patience.
“Everything is a wedding if you have the right attitude,” Mrs. Sanders replies, which is either profound or deeply confusing.
We move through the house in a slow procession, Mrs. Sanders offering commentary on everything from napkin colors (“Cream says ‘afraid of commitment’”) to hand towels (“Paper says ‘gas station’”). When we reach the library, Scott falls into step beside me.
“Quite the committee,” he murmurs. “My agent reached out to Hazel today to let her know V. Langley will be revealing his identity at the event. Ever since then, it’s been chaos.”
“Mrs. Sanders alone could run a small country, I’m sure she can handle it.”
His mouth twitches. “She suggested backup entertainment in case V. Langley faints during the reveal.”
“Will he?”
“I have a strong feeling he won’t.”
Then his hand brushes mine as we examine the stage setup, and the distance between us collapses entirely. I pull back too fast, and he notices.
“Sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean to?—”
“You didn’t. I’m just...still processing. Last night was a lot.”
“Take whatever time you need.”
I want to tell him time isn’t the problem. The problem is I’m terrified of what happens when I run out of reasons to hold back.
After everyone leaves, I follow Scott into the kitchen instead of going back to the shop like a sensible person would.
“Cold drink?” he offers. “Hazel keeps lemonade. The good kind, with mint.”
“Please. If I drink anything hot I might actually melt.”
He moves through the space like he belongs here, pouring two glasses over ice. “Hazel bribes me with pie. I know where everything is.”
“Pie is a valid form of payment.”
“It’s the highest.”
I lean against the counter, watching him work, my phone heavy in my pocket. The manuscript is still unopened. Probably judging me.
“Can I ask you something?” The words come out before I can stop them. “The manuscript. Why send it now?”
