Millie tips her head thoughtfully, then smiles in that serene, knowing way she has. “Wealwaysread the compatibility forms, honey,” she says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world.
I blink and shake my head slightly, taken aback by her total sincerity. Somehow, I expected more fanfare or joking—but no, Millie is dead serious. It’s suddenly clear that the Stitch Sisters aren’t just humoring the town with their traditions. They’re deeply invested in this whole matchmaking business. And apparently in Beau and me.
“Why is it that I get the feeling people around here don’t take us seriously?” Millie asks, clearly befuddled.
To further prove Millie’s point, Dot recites from memory the answers crafted by my friends-turned-traitors, whom I may not be speaking to when today is over: “You, dear, said your ideal date was wandering a farmers market with really good coffee and a dog that isn’t yours; you mentioned flannel pajamas as your favorite sleepwear; and you also picked marionberry shakes as your love language.”
“Well, itisseasonal,” I counter.
“Beau,” Dot continues, “wrote that he lives in flannel shirts, enjoys fixing things with duct tape and elbow grease, and once ate an entire marionberry pie alone, calling it ‘an act of emotional survival.’”
“Now that’s flannel compatibility or my name’s not Delores,”Delores quips.
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s either spooky or suspicious.”
I cut a look at Jenna, already knowing the answer but needing to hear her say it. “Really...flannel pajamas?”
“Tess did the real matchmaking magic,” Jenna says, hands raised in mock surrender. “I only helped.”
Speak of the devil—literally. Tess appears on the far side of the pine tree where Beau’s standing, close enough for me to watch the interaction, but not close enough to hear their words. Her arms are crossed smugly as Beau tears into her. His hand gestures are clipped and controlled, but the tension in his jaw makes it obvious he’s annoyed.
Tess just crosses her arms, grinning like she’s about to tell her favorite joke, and throws in a few exaggerated shrugs for flair. When he finally quits trying to argue with her, Tess pats his shoulder, then flashes him a smile with the self-assured pride of someone who knows she’s won—and enjoys rubbing it in. For half a second, Beau closes his eyes, and I sense he’s summoning every ounce of sibling patience in his body.
Before I can bolt, Reenie loops an arm through mine. “Come on, darling. I see you scheming your getaway plan. You can’tnotparticipate. Think of the quilt’s integrity.”
Millie adds solemnly, “And our reputation.”
Dot says, “Also, we laminated the festival programs.”
My mouth opens. Closes. Reopens. “That seems aggressive.”
“You’re welcome,” Reenie chirps.
Essie passes around the basket of muffins she seems to have every time I encounter her—this batch smells like lemon and blueberry—my favorite. She randomly adds, “You know what I always like to say: love needs space to bloom, sugar, and a good muffin.”
Jenna leans in, voice conspiratorial. “If you bail now, thewhole town’s going to start whispering about you and Beau anyway. Participating just gives them less to speculate about. Plus, the prize money could cover that walk-in fridge you keep denying is broken.”
I groan. “I hate how persuasive you people are.”
I turn and march away from the ladies, needing a second to clear my head. The ruffled layers of my colorful pansy floral patterned skirt sway with each determined step, brushing against my calves with flustered swishes, as if even my clothes are trying to keep up with this small-town soap opera.
I round the corner near the lemonade stand and barrel straight into a broad, muscular chest. I stumble to a halt, both hands flying out to hit an invisible rewind button that doesn’t exist.
It’s him.
Beau.
He’s standing beneath the pine at the edge of the square, with an inscrutable expression, except for the hint of restrained frustration that simmers beneath the surface. A few needles drift lazily from the branches above, twirling through the air, unhurried as if time itself has paused; while I, on the other hand, have crash-landed into the kind of over-orchestrated nonsense that would make a rom-com movie director ecstatic.
“So,” I blurt before I can stop myself. “I guess we both got ambushed.”
“Jenna,” I say at the same time he says, “Tess.”
We both hesitate.
“Of course,” he groans.
I sigh, then suggest before I lose my nerve, “We could fake it. Play along. Just get through the festival, check all the boxes, and part ways without complications.”
