“In my books,” I say slowly, “this is exactly what the heroine would do. Show up uninvited. Make a scene. Force them to deal with her.”
“Life imitating art,” Maeve says, reappearing with Sadie’s ribbons. Of course she was listening. “Or art finally teaching you something useful.”
I look at the three of them—Sadie with her gentle encouragement, Bea with her hard-won wisdom, Maeve with her knowing smile.
“This is crazy,” I say. “This is absolutely insane. They’re going to hate me. The whole town is going to watch me make a fool of myself.”
“Probably,” Bea agrees. “But they already won’t talk to you. What do you have to lose?”
She’s right. That’s the horrible thing. She’s absolutely right.
I’ve tried quiet approaches. Tried waiting for the right moment. Tried calling and showing up and backing off when they wouldn’t engage.
None of it worked.
Maybe it’s time to stop writing about grand gestures and actually make one.
“The auction starts at seven,” I say.
Maeve’s smile widens. “Bidding paddles are ten dollars at the door.”
I close my laptop. Stand up.
“I need to go home and figure out what to wear.” I pause at the door, looking back at them. “And maybe check my bank account.”
“Go big or go home,” Bea calls after me.
I push through the door into the cold February air. My heart is pounding. My hands are shaking.
This is either going to be the best idea I’ve ever had or the worst mistake of my life.
But at least it’ll make a great chapter twelve.
Chapter 8
Theo
Well. This is happening.
I’m standing backstage at the community center in a button-down shirt that Nate ironed for me because apparently I can’t be trusted to look presentable on my own. He’s not wrong. Left to my own devices, I’d show up in flannel and call it formal.
The space behind the stage is cramped—folding chairs, a table of water bottles, and a curtain that doesn’t quite block the noise from the main room. Lucas is checking his phone for the third time in two minutes. Nate is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, doing his statue impression.
And I’m trying not to think about her.
It’s going great. Really. Top marks for emotional regulation.
Yesterday, I almost touched her face. Stood on Main Street like an idiot with my hand halfway to her cheek, telling her things I probably shouldn’t have said. That not deserving forgiveness doesn’t stop me from wanting to give it to her anyway.
Real smooth, Holt. Very mysterious and aloof. She definitely didn’t see right through you.
I’ve been replaying it on loop ever since. The way she leaned toward me. The way her scent wrapped around me—honey and citrus, same as always, like the last ten years didn’t happen. The way my whole body screamedyes, finally, herwhile my brain was yellingabort, abort, we talked about this.
I walked away. Got in my truck and drove off because I promised Nate. Because we agreed.
But I didn’t want to.
“You’re thinking about her.”
