Hates: Drama. Rude customers. Sad movies. Slow internet. Burnt coffee. Feeling embarrassed.
Loves: 90s Rom-coms. Acoustic pop. Romance novels. Hot chocolate with cream. Pink lemonade. Chocolate chip cookies. Birthday cake (any day of the year). Gilmore Girls. Bridgerton. Sunny days. Scented candles. The Terminator.
“That last one was pretty left field,” Clay mutters once we’re in his giant truck, driving down the mountain.
“It’s a great movie. The second one is even better.”
He lets out an amused huff that sounds almost like a laugh. Then he shakes his head and adds, “Still can’t believe you like your steak well done.”
“You really need to let that go.”
Clay grunts non-committally. “Should be a criminal offense.”
“WellIcan’t believe you don’t eat birthday cake on your birthday,” I say. “It’s literally the best part.”
“If you say so, sugar.”
My teasing response dies on my lips, butterflies erupting inside me. Nothing ties my tongue faster than Clay calling me sugar in his grumbly voice, and I spend the rest of the drive down Cherry Mountain trying to remember how to breathe.
“Can you run over the story again for me?” I ask, nerves fluttering in my gut as we get closer to the center of town.
“You know it just fine.”
“Please. I’m so scared I’ll forget in the heat of the moment.”
Clay clears his throat, then recounts the story we agreed on before we left.
“We met at the grocery store last month. Both reached for the same bottle of maple syrup. Our first date was a picnic at Sugar Creek. Kept it quiet because of the age gap.”
I take a deep breath. “And the accident?”
“We went to the hardware store together ‘cause I needed a drill,” Clay says mechanically. “You had to reverse out of a tight space in the parking lot. I got out, stood behind the car to help guide you and make sure nothing got dinged. You reversed too fast. The car skidded on a patch of ice and hit me. I wasn’t hurt. Went to the hospital just to be safe.”
I nod, biting my lip. I really hope people will believe the whole reversing in the parking lot thing. Concocting a fake story for Clay’s hospital visit seemed like a good idea, just in case people push for details about what happened or why my insurance is paying for it. I have no idea how much Sheila has told everyone.
“They’ll buy it, Savannah,” Clay says, like he can tell what I’m thinking. “We’ll be fine.”
I wish I had his confidence, but I’m a crappy liar with a habit of blushing every time I’m nervous. Heck, we’re not even at the party yet, and I already feel like I’m in way over my head. I’m convinced they’ll all see right through me: Grandma, Aria, the whole town.
This is definitely a crazy idea.
8
SAVANNAH
Grandma’s birthdayis at her pub—Bonnie’s Tavern. It’s a cozy old saloon on Main Street. The building looks like it was plucked straight from the Old West, but it’s been extended over the years to make room for the growing number of customers. There’s a parking lot around the back, but it’s already full when Clay and I arrive, so we park across the street and walk.
A gaggle of old ladies hurry into the tavern ahead of us—at least six of them—followed by a couple of lumberjacks and their wives. I can see another group emerging from the parking lot: a family with four kids. The tavern must be packed.
“Big party, huh?” Clay says gruffly. I chance a glance at him as we cross the street, noting the heaviness of his scowl as he watches all the people enter the tavern. He hates crowds—and Grandma’s party is going to be one hell of a crowd.
“We don’t have to do this,” I tell him, stopping on the sidewalk outside the tavern. “If you want to leave right now, we can.” Another group of people pass us, streaming through the door. “I’m sorry for all of this, Clay. It feels like a pretty insane idea now that we’re here.”
I’m expecting him to seize the opportunity to turn around and walk back to his truck. I’m sure as heck not expecting tofeel his giant hand grabbing mine, linking our fingers together. My breath catches as I look up at him, those bright blue eyes piercing me like headlights in the dark.
“We’re doing this, sugar.”
I swallow hard. Clay says it so matter-of-factly, leaving no room for doubt. His hand squeezes mine, my palm tiny against his, and I feel my nerves settle as he leads me toward the door of the tavern. I feel safe with him—like maybe I can handle all of this after all. I might be about to lie to the whole town, but with Clay by my side, the chaos doesn’t seem so scary.
