As I propose the scheme, I’m finally close enough to notice the dimple in Beau’s chin, like Ben Affleck’s, but well hidden under his beard. My throat goes dry, and my eyelashes bat rapidly.
Beau doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t walk away either. “Fine. I guess. But I don’t do small talk.”
“Good,” I agree. “I’m allergic to it.”
I swallow hard before adding, “Just so we’re clear, this isn’t only about surviving the Stitch Sisters. The festival has judging. Public challenges. And real-time, out loud gossip. I mean…we will hear it all.”
His expression remains passive, almost numb.
“If we want a shot at tricking people, or even just making it through without being overanalyzed and nit-picked, we have to make it look convincing. As if we’re really into each other.”
Beau’s brows lift, just slightly. “You mean pretend to connect, communicate, and be attracted to each other?”
“Exactly,” I say. “Pretend to be together, as if the matching worked. You know. Your average small-town romance scam. No pressure.”
Beau exhales slowly, then gives a short nod. “If that’s what it takes. But if I’m going to fake date you for a week, I reserve the right to veto any cutesy couple costumes.”
Off to the side, the Newly-Deads stand under their lace parasol, watching the tumult unfold with enviable calm.
Maribel says flatly, “I’ve seen better chemistry in a high school group project.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing, despite my lingering anger and shock.
Of course, they’re unfazed. They stay so perfectly in sync that they make the rest of us look like blind dates gone rogue.
The first event is couples’ trivia on the library lawn. A quilt-draped table holds stacks of mini chalkboards and pink-swirled chalk that leaves pink dust on everything.
Reenie welcomes everyone with the flourish of someone who once dreamed of the spotlight and now directs community theater. “Welcome, sweethearts and skeptics! Time to see how well youdon’tknow each other.”
Beau and I sit side by side on a wool picnic blanket that’s both too scratchy and too plaid, warm from the sun and prone to bunching every time I shift. We each clutch a chalkboard. He holds his like it’s a tool, efficient, practical. Mine already has smudges from where I’ve gripped it too tightly.
He’s angled slightly away from me, legs stretched out, every inch of him telegraphing that this is only one of the tasks we agreed to check off. I try not to notice the little scuff marks on his boots or the way his tongue peeks out of the corner of his mouth while he’s concentrating. This is trivia. Not a federal investigation. Still, I can’t help wondering if his answers will be careful or clever, or if he’s truly only here to survive the matchmaking mayhem in the same way I am.
First question: “What’s your partner’s dream breakfast?”
Beau scrawls,Black coffee and edible flowers . . . outdoors.
I write,Whatever involves bacon and zero small talk.
Close enough. We earn a sympathy point.
Second question: “Would your partner rather fight a bear or compete in a diving contest with themayor?”
I write,bear.
Beau writes,diving.
Peeking at my clipboard, Beau says as his quirks to one side, “Close. But I’d actually rather fight two bears than do something as public as a diving contest.”
We actually win that round.
Lucy Brandt and the home-renovator guy—who still remains nameless—stand in the shade of a tent, heads bent together over their chalkboards. They murmur back and forth, pointing at each other and looking adorably confused, until they get a perfect answer and blink in mutual disbelief. One of them pumps a fist. I make a mental note to keep an eye on those two.
Third question: “What’s their biggest fear?”
Beau’s hand pauses.
I frown at the chalk.
