Dominic. The only man capable of avoiding Elm Hollow while living in Elm Hollow.
Naturally, he didn’t show. Crowds, judgment, gossip—none of those things are part of his natural habitat.
But I know he’s with me in spirit (digital spirit). He spent the entire Christmas break basically barricaded in my office, working like a madman to reinforce the Cupid’s Agency servers after the data breach.
We still haven’t figured out who leaked the “Christmas War” file, but Dominic built a virtual firewall not even the Pentagon could crack.
Yes, it’s convenient having a genius-level computer menace as a friend.
BAM! BAM!
Nino’s gavel slams down, silencing the room.
“Order! Order in the chamber!” the Mayor booms, adjusting his tricolor sash (I have no idea why he’s wearing it—it’s not an official ceremony, but Nino loves drama).
“We’re here today because something important is on the line—for Elm Hollow and for our reality show,Love Goals.”
Nino leans over the podium, eyes narrowed at us.
“Sloane Heart. Cohen Becker. The town is whispering. The town is confused. The town wants answers.”
He pauses theatrically.
“Are you truly together? Or is this all a scheme to win the trophy and the sponsor?”
“Silence! Silence!” croaks Pedro, flapping his wings. “Suspicious! Suspicious!”
Elm Hollow’s resident Indian myna and unofficial mascot—a glossy black bird with a judgmental yellow beak and a vocabulary composed 90% of bar-sports insults and 10% of Nino’s campaign slogans.
At that exact moment, someone stands up in the third row.
Him.
My nemesis.
Francis Grande.
He’s wearing a tweed vest that makes him look like a washed-up detective from the ’70s, clutching his notebook like it’s a loaded weapon.
A vein starts pounding at my temple. If I had laser vision, Francis would already be a neat little pile of ash on the town hall floor.
“Mr. Mayor!” he announces in that nasal voice that makes my teeth vibrate. “I have pertinent questions. The town has the right to know if we’re being sold a fraud!”
I spring to my feet, ignoring Cohen’s hand as he tries to tug me back by the jacket.
“Francis, if you write one more word about me, I swear I’ll sue you for harassment,” I snap. “Or make you eat that notebook. Page by page.”
The room gasps.
My mother covers her mouth to hide a laugh.
But Francis doesn’t retreat. If anything, he puffs up like a pigeon.
“Freedom of the press, Heart! The Fourth Estate! The people demand the truth! Was everything staged? That night at theVelvet Room… was it a romantic rescue or a cover-up for Becker’s vices?”
Cohen stiffens beside me. I can feel the tension radiating off him. He hates talking about that night—Grace was involved.
“Freedom of the press doesn’t include spying through windows, Francis!” I shoot back.
