Gail Clearwater nods at Winnie. “I appreciate the LED candlelight. It’ll set the mood.”
Once again, Winnie looks at me and I look at her. Her lips ripple with laughter and before we have to dodge any more questions or comments, we hurry to the parking lot. When we’re out of earshot, we both burst into laughter.
“Small town politics, am I right?” she manages between giggles.
“You handled that brilliantly,” I admit.
She looks pleased, color rising in her cheeks. “I said it before and I’ll say it again, we make a good team.”
“Yeah. We really do. Except at Tacos & Trivia night.”
Winnie’s laughter continues as snow falls in lazy drifts, catching in her hair like glitter.
“Want to walk?” I ask before I can overthink it. “Debrief?” Spend a little more time together.
“Sure,” she says as if she didn’t need to think twice about it.
We wander down Main Street, our breath making white clouds in the cold air. The shops are closed, but the window displays still glow, making the whole town look like a greeting card.
“Despite the town characters and their inquiries, it’s not so bad,” she says.
“When it’s quiet like this,” I agree.
When we pass the library, Winnie says, “Are we back to our enemies-to-lovers status quo?”
I stop walking. “Enemies to what?”
Her eyes widen in panic. “What? Nothing! I just meant enemies to—to smothers! Like smothering a fire. Safety first. That’s what I meant. Fire safety. Which is important. Very important. The most important thing.”
She’s babbling, which is adorable and also tells me she’s as nervous as I am about whatever this is between us.
“Winnie,” I say quietly.
“Yeah?”
“What did you really mean?”
“By any chance, do you read romance novels?”
“No, of course not.”
“Well, in my book club with Peony and some other womenin town, there are plot and character devices called tropes. One of them is when two people seem to hate each other at the beginning and then something shifts …”
I gesture between us. “Like this?”
Biting her lip, she nods.
“Is that a bad thing?”
“It’s terrifying! I thought you were the most infuriating person in Huckleberry Hill. Now I’m eating homemade pickles at your house and coordinating burro management at council meetings, and I don’t know what we’re doing!”
“Neither do I,” I admit.
“That’s not reassuring.”
“Would you prefer I lie?”
“Maybe?” she asks, uncertain.
