I don’t say anything. Not to Maisie. Not yet. My first instinct is to let it go, chalk it up to paranoia, to coincidence, to the same overactive suspicion that makes me walk away from people before they can walk away from me.
But then Maisie shifts beside me, nose wrinkling, voice low. “Did you smell something weird when we mixed the batter? I could’ve sworn it wasn’t just cinnamon and chili powder.”
I glance sideways. She doesn’t sound angry, just probing. She’s already letting it go with humor. I can tell. That’s how she guards her heart.
But me? I just clench my jaw and promise myself this: if they did sabotage us, they’re not getting away with it again.
“Teamwork,” she says, nudging me with her elbow. “We faked it just fine.”
I huff out a small laugh. “We did. Didn’t we?”
We’re almost back to our station when a trill voice chirps from behind a camera lens, “There they are, Sweetpines’ culinary comeback couple!”
Maisie groans under her breath, turning to find Melanie, the visiting podcast host with a flair for punchy headlines, angled perfectly to catch us in frame. She’s already mid-snap, her camera clicking to its own heartbeat.
“Oh, you stuck around,” Maisie says, forcing a smile.
Melanie beams. “Told you this would make a great story. And you two?” She lowers her camera slightly. “Adorable. Undeniable-chemistry adorable. That moment with the milk? Golden. A testament to the Stitch Sisters’ instincts, if I’ve ever seen one.”
She waves us together with her fingers. “Quick photo. Just hold the milk like it’s a trophy. Perfect. This will make great Instagram marketing content for my podcast.”
I glance at Maisie, who just rolls her eyes and leans in anyway, her fingers forming the peace sign while I lift my milk in the universal gesture of a toast.
Maisie mutters out of the corner of her mouth, “Just don’t let her get your good side. She’ll turn us into a Hallmark before-and-after photo.”
“I think that ship has sailed,” I say, raising my milk glass again. “We’re a meme waiting to happen.”
We pose. We smile.
Melanie grins. “Seriously, this photo’s going on the Stitch Sisters’ highlight reel. Their best pairingin five years, no doubt.”
She’s clearly been doing her homework.
“That’s because Evelyn and the mailman weren’t photogenic,” Maisie replies with mock seriousness. “Great llamas. Terrible posture.”
Melanie actually snorts. “You’re killing me. Keep this chemistry up, and I’ll have to start a second podcast:Love Along the Coast, Sweetpines Edition.”
And somewhere deep in my chest, something loosens, in the best possible way.
It’s not just the milk, the laughter, or even Maisie’s ridiculous llama comment. It’s the way we moved in sync without trying. The way I didn’t quite freeze when the spice incident had everyone staring at me. The way she saw me, protected me, and stayed beside me without making me feel cast aside.
I’ve spent years avoiding situations like this where I’m too exposed. If I show too much, people will get the wrong idea, or worse, use it against me.
But here I am, smiling. A man who’s forgotten he’s used to flinching at attention.
Suddenly the Newly-Deads materialize beside us, wry, gothic ghosts. Nora gives a slow nod, deliberate, conspiratorial.
“That’s cute,” she says flatly. Then, leaning in toward us as if sharing a trade secret, she drones, “We brought a meat cleaver in case someone tries to sabotage our casserole.”
Grant, dressed in all black as usual, adds in a dry monotone, “Winning isn’t everything. But humiliating the spiteful ones? That’s art.”
They drift off toward the dessert table, leaving behind the faint scent of clove and a trail of sarcastic irony.
I catch Maisie biting the corner of her lip and shake my head, a quiet laugh slipping past my lips.
But later, when the crowd thins and the sun tucks behind the hills, the incident replays in my mind.
Her timing. Her quick thinking. The way she didn’t hesitate.
