A few couples linger inside the music hall, swaying gently, reluctant to let the party end. Someone near us starts clearing empty cups into a bin. The spotlight has moved on.
Maisie squeezes my hand once and tugs gently.
“Walk with me?” she asks.
We slip out the side door of the hall just past the stairs to the stage, craving a few minutes without the meddling matchmakers of our town swarming around us. How they love sharing all the reasons they knew we were meant for each other all along! We follow the curve of the path that winds through Pinecone Park, then slow in the square near the quilt that paired us, each stitched square catching the low light.
Maisie’s fingers brush the edge of our embroidered names. I follow, tracing the thread with mine, not because I believe in fate, but because I believe in the right now. The town square still hums with energy, but it’s softened now as people make their way home, as if someone turned the volume down on the whole world.
We sit on a bench inside the gazebo.
“I still can’t believe you sang that in front of everyone,” she whispers, a touch of awe in her voice.
“I meant every word,” I say solemnly. “I meant it before the first chord.”
We sit in a silencewe don’t need to fill.
She looks up at me. “So…what happens next? What do we do now that we’ve stopped playing along with the Matchmaking Festival. Now that it’s real?”
I brush my knuckles along her cheek, then cradle her face gently. “Whatever we want.”
She leans in a fraction, a glimmer in her smile, playful, and a little bold. Her mouth curves in that crooked way it does, flirtatious enough to make my pulse pick up. She shifts closer, her grin enough to make me wonder how long she’s been sure.
When I kiss Maisie again, slow and deliberate, I let her know exactly what I want.
Her. Us. No more faking anything.
We’ve crossed that line now, the one where no one else gets to pick the next part but us. Where connection sharpens into intention, and that intention leads us toward the love we stopped pretending we didn’t want.
Chapter 17
Exactly Enough
Maisie
After the kiss in the gazebo, with the town activity fading behind us, I follow Beau through the door of his house, my heart still pounding. He silently takes my apron, hangs it carefully, and stands with one hand on the back of his neck, fingers absently working circles into the muscles, coaxing courage to surface.
“I still can’t believe you kissed me in front of the entire town,” I say teasingly.
“I couldn’t have stopped myself if I wanted to,” he elbows me in the ribs gently, then reaches out, fingers twitching playfully toward my side.
Wait. Beau’s a tickler?
He grins, hesitates, fingers hovering mid-air before retreating, then lowers his hand and shrugs with a playful withdrawal. “I’m not really into tickling,” he says, a little sheepish. “I was just being goofy.”
Despite his attempt at silliness, the tension still crackles between us, grows even. I laugh once, soft and breathy, buteven I can hear the way it fades too fast. We’re standing on the edge of something, and everything in me is ready to jump and have Beau catch me.
The chemistry between us hangs, taut and stretched between the canyon of what is and what could be, a rickety bridge already straining under the weight of what we want and the fear of rushing things.
My heart pounds, my chest tightening directly above my sternum, and the question slips out before I can stop it, leaving me feeling almost nakedly vulnerable: “Would you still have kissed me if the whole town hadn’t been watching?”
I brace myself, almost wishing I could take it back—but it’s out there now, teetering in the atmosphere between us—too big to ignore, too full of risk to hurry.
Beau doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze is deep and searching. He holds mine, as if trying to decipher the unspoken fears and doubts still flickering beneath my question. The sensations of that very public kiss are fresh in my mind. But what if it was merely an impulsive reaction to the attention of the crowd, or a way to get back at me for my dare?
In this, a rare moment alone in tiny Sweetpines, I need to know if it was really more than a performance. And I need reassurance that the gazebo kiss wasn’t just emotional spillover from the music hall. That it meant something on its own.
His eyes never wavering from mine, Beau lifts his hand, every movement deliberate, each action carrying the truth of his answer. His knuckles brush against my cheek, warm enough to ripple through me and chase the air from my lungs. Something twisted tight inside me gives way,eased by the contact of his skin. Then, he cups my face, his thumbgrazing my cheekbone—a gesture so intimate it feels as though he’s seeing every layer of who I am. I let my lashes fall.
