I swallow, forcing myself to say the rest.
“I want you to stay,” I say, straight out. “Not for the bakery. Not for the festival. For us. For whatever this is turning into. For more mornings and muffins and your terrible clipboard stress. I want you in our life for more than a week.”
Silence drops over the crowd for a moment. The good kind. The kind that hangs there waiting for the next word.
Then a small voice shouts from somewhere up front.
“Say yes!”
Maisie.
Of course.
A ripple of laughter goes through the crowd. I lower the mic and pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Subtle,” I mutter.
Charlotte laughs then, a real laugh, the kind that makes her shoulders relax and her whole face light up. It does that thing to my chest again, that slow, warm pull that feels like something finally settling into place.
The mayor looks at her like it is her turn.
I lift the mic again, softer now. “What I am trying to say, in a very public and probably over-the-top way, is that you are not temporary to me. I don’t want you to be temporary to my daughter. Or my life. I know that is a lot to say in front of... everyone.” I gesture vaguely. “But you deserve to hear it from me clearly.”
I let the mic drop down to my side. My heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my fingertips. My throat is dry. I have never been this exposed in my life.
Then it’s her move.
Charlotte steps a little closer on the stage, until she is standing near the edge looking down at me. Her eyes are bright, and I can’t tell if it is from tears or sunlight, but she doesn’t look scared. She looks steady.
“Can I have the microphone, please?” she asks the mayor.
He hands it to her like he has been waiting for this all day.
She looks out at the crowd first, which makes my stomach twist, then she looks at me.
“You know,” she says, voice clear, “when I took this job, I thought I was coming to organize an event, not reorganize my entire life.”
A few people laugh. I don’t as I’m too busy trying not to panic.
“I travel a lot,” she continues. “I go where I’m needed. I make things work. I leave when they are done. That has always been the deal.”
She lets that hang there for a moment.
“Then I came to Valentine,” she says, “and met this man who runs a bakery and raises his daughter like she is the best thing that ever happened to him. Which she is.”
My throat tightens.
“He tried very hard not to let me in at first,” she says, and the crowd laughs. “Acted like he was too busy to flirt, like he was immune to romance at a festival. That didn’t work for long.”
A small smile tugs at my mouth.
“And then there’s Maisie,” she says, softer now. “Who decided in about three minutes that I belonged to them. She drew me a picture with glitter and glue, and somewhere between meeting you and that drawing, I realized something I didn’t plan on.”
She takes a breath. Her eyes do not leave my face.
“I don’t want this to be temporary either.”
Something opens up in my chest so fast and sharp it makes me dizzy.
