“He’s good at fixing things,” Jenna says beside me, tone annoyingly perceptive.
“Yeah. Handy types are great until something emotional breaks. Then it’s all measuring tapes and distance.”
“You sure that’s him?” she asks understandingly. “Not Gray in your rearview mirror?”
I don’t answer.
Around town, the speculation has gotten absurd.
Marty’s scribbling odds at the diner counter using cinnamon roll orders to track favorites. Every time someone orders pecan on their rolls with extra cream cheese frosting, he puts a tick under “Maisie & Beau.” Apparently, we’re trending.
The Quilt Club set up an unofficial betting pool in the back corner ofStitched Together. Each couple’s name was scrawled on its own manila envelope, thumbtacked to a corkboard beneath a sign that read: “Strictly for Fun (andFabric).” Locals slipped in folded bills with their predictions, wagering on who would win the contest.
The prize? A custom quilt and bragging rights. Franny kept a spreadsheet. Dot kept watch. Reenie insisted it was“absolutely not gambling” rather community engagement with an incentive. I tried to opt out. Reenie told me, “Dearheart, that train left the station three contests ago.”
As the last jelly bean is cast into the “Most Likely to End Up Married” voting jar at the hardware store, the ground under the square nearly rumbles with anticipation. Somewhere behind me, I hear Reenie whisper, “Let’s give the people a moment. Finales deserve a little build-up.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Beau appears at my side half a minute after I step away from Jenna, and for one breathless second, my heart thunders. Neither of us turns toward the other.
We just…find each other.
At first, it’s only proximity, a drift toward the same patch of shade near the cider stand. But the moment we realize we’re side by side, something clicks into place. My shoulder brushes his. The contact is brief but grounding. Warm in a way that reaches beneath the nerves still zinging inside me.
It’s natural and unplanned, as though gravity did the work.
And then, just as the expectation in the air triples, the loudspeaker crackles to life. The announcer is Millie, bless her heart, trying to act like she’s never done this before.
“Ahem. Attention, Sweetpines! The time has come,” she declares with the flair of someone who’s clearly practiced in front of a mirror.
“The moment you’ve all been waiting for. The votinghas been tabulated, quadruple-checked, and tastefully gossiped about.”
I glance at Beau, and his eyes lock on mine.
Like dance partners moving fluidly together, our hands clasp between us. His fingers wrap around mine, warm and strong. We both look down at the same instant, then up—two startled jack-in-the-boxes—just in time to hear:
“Maisie Quinn and Beau Callahan! Let’s give it up for Team Beau & Maisie.”
The square erupts with cheers, thrilled chatter, and a few whoops from the direction of the Griddle & Grain.
“Congratulations!” Millie crows, milking it now. “You are the winners of this year’s Sweetpines Sweethearts Getaway Weekend!”
Applause explodes around me. Cassie gasps so loudly I think for an instant that we won second place instead. But no. Team Let’s Go Viral is clapping too, in that polished, photogenic way that makes you feel as though they’re already writing their complaint email.
And me?
I’m frozen.
The whole square is clapping. Pen is crying. Marty lifts his coffee in our direction like a toast. The Stitch Sisters clasp hands in a circle and do a little bouncing shuffle, a quilted victory dance only they understand.
Somewhere near the apple cider stand, Peaches takes credit with a sharp bark.
I check Beau’s face, bolstering myself for a flare of discomfort. A shift in his expression, a telltale blink, anything that might signal he’s dreading this. That the week wasn’t bad enough. Now we’ve won ourselves a weekend alone.
Instead, he appears composed, unconcerned. Quiet.
But it’s a quiet that makes me second-guess everything. Not closed off, exactly, but unreadable in a way that scrapes against the nerves I’ve just barely managed to calm.
I wonder if I’m witnessing the start of his magician disappearing act—pulling away, retreating behind the wall we both pretended didn’t exist last night.
