“You go first,” I say.
Beau shakes his head. “Ladies first.”
I grimace but swing the hammer.
The nail immediately bends.
Beau coughs into his fist. “Could’ve been worse. You might’ve hit my foot.”
I elbow him, probably harder than I should have. “Don’t test me. I can throw a trowel like a boomerang.”
He laughs, takes the hammer, and with precise aim, drives the next nail in clean. “We make a good team. I’m not put off by bent things. You keep things lively with pruning shears.”
By the third clue, we’re at the Griddle & Grain, guessing the type of mystery pie baked by Pen, who was blindfolded while Marty shouted ingredients.
“It’s cherry-lime,” I declare.
Beau tastes a bite and grimaces. “Nope. Rhubarb. Possibly…grapefruit.”
We argue, giggle, and finally agree to write, “too many ingredients in the fruit salad pie” on our card.
We’re not winning. But we’re laughing.
Somewhere between solving the pie riddle and jogging across Pinecone Park to find our next clue, I feel something shift. My shoulders ease and breaths deepen, the way they do when I stop trying so hard to be acceptable. And when I glance over and see Beau quietly laughing beside me, I realize: it’s not about winning. It’s about this. The rhythm we’ve found. The way our mismatched instincts somehow sync.
At the last stop, I press my thumb to the final clue card and smile. The paper is still crisp, the ink clean, fresh, like the moments we’ve shared today.
The riddle reads:“Where coffee is inhaled and pie is served, where love and laughter are preserved.”
It leads us back to the diner, where we didn’t get the pie right, but we get to eat slices of an apple pie with a heart pierced by an arrow baked into the crust.
Today we had fun. We laughed. We were seen. Together. Not just as part of the festival, not as a pretend pairing. But as us—working side by side, trading glances, feeling like we belonged in the same story. And maybe whatfelt different today wasn’t that the town saw it, but that I finally did, too.
That night, after the day’s sideways flirting, missteps, and clumsy flower metaphors, I pull the crumpled clue card from my pocket, rotating it between my hands and smoothing it with my thumbs. The paper still smells faintly of grass and apple pie, and a trace of dust clings to the crease where I folded it. I remember how his fingers grazed mine when he handed the clue to me.
I don’t throw it away.
Because maybe in that second—the clue, his touch, our chemistry—there was something real.
And I know that’s why I want to keep it.
Chapter 8
Porchlight Confessions
Beau
After the scavenger hunt ends and most teams have scattered, I’m still hanging around the music hall, finding handyman tasks to pass the time and trying not to admit I’m hoping Maisie will show up.
Amanda and Luis are at it again. Their voices carry easily across the square, loud enough that even from the music hall porch, I can hear the familiar volley of their latest argument. It’s full of the kind of playful bite only they seem to understand.
“It was a fluke!” Amanda insists.
“Flirty miracle,” Luis counters, arms crossed but smiling slyly as if he knows exactly how to win this round.
Reenie passes by the music hall porch on her way to the Stitch Sisters’ tent headquarters, highlighter in one hand and a plastic cup of lemonade in the other. She doesn’t even break stride as she calls over, “Those two’ll either kill each other or renew their vows. Mark my words.”
I glance up from the music hall porch where I’mhammering in a replacement board, the nails resisting more than usual today. Reenie’s comment pulls a quiet huff of laughter from me—the kind that slips out before you realize you’re even smiling. She’s not wrong.
