Penny’s hand is tucked in mine as we stroll through the crowd, and I relish this new feeling of being completely settled.
She’s been back for two days. Two perfect, chaotic, wonderful days. Boxes still unpacked, Muriel fussing about where her favorite niece left her measuring spoons, and my house suddenly full of flowers and the sound of Penny singing off-key while she cooks. I never thought domestic bliss would look like this, but damn if it doesn’t suit me.
“Funnel cake or fried pickles?” Penny asks, squintingtoward the line of food vendors.
“Both,” I answer without hesitation.
She laughs, squeezing my hand. “You’re impossible.”
“That’s funny—I was thinking I’m predictable.”
We pass Pap’s tent first—Chesty’s logo splashed across a banner he clearly borrowed from the bar, even though he’s not serving drinks tonight. Instead, he’s flipping burgers on a portable grill, jaw set in concentration, a rag slung over one shoulder.
“Hey, boy!” he hollers when he spots me. “Figured I’d bring a little Chesty’s flair to the festival. You bring that famous author appetite over here and I’ll fix you a plate.”
I grin. “You sure you’re not gonna try to charge me double for publicity?”
Pap smirks, flipping a patty. “Consider it even for all the labor you stiffed me on when you quit.”
Floyd’s beside him at the condiment station, tongs in hand and an apron that readsQueen of the Grill.
“You two look disgustingly happy,” Floyd calls out. “It’s bad for business, you know. Nobody wants to see true love when they’re trying to enjoy their coleslaw.”
Penny laughs. “We’ll try to tone it down.”
“Don’t you dare,” Floyd replies, snapping his tongs. “This town could use the reminder that romance ain’t dead.”
Morri swoops in next, sequins flashing under thestring lights, a tray of lemonade in hand. “Sweetheart,” he drawls to Penny, “you’re glowing like a Georgia peach at high noon. Welcome back, Miss Washington Insider turned Whynot Queen.”
Penny curtsies. “I’ll take that title.”
“Good,” Morri says, pressing a kiss to her cheek before flitting away to deliver drinks.
Everywhere we turn, someone’s waving, smiling or handing us something. Larkin and Deacon sway together near the bandstand, his hand resting protectively on her hip. Muriel’s parked in her rolling walker near the pie-judging booth, holding court with her cronies and clearly enjoying the attention.
Off to the side near the gazebo, I spot Eli Hart standing by a small display of honey jars, posture relaxed and expression unreadable. When he notices us, he tips his chin in greeting.
I jab him over something I heard in the gossip mill. “Hey, buddy… heard that travel blogger staying in your cottage is causing mayhem.”
Penny snickers because she’s the one who relayed the story to me. Apparently, Reese Cartier is staying around town for a while and is renting one of the cottages on Eli’s farm.
Eli grimaces. “The woman’s a menace. Clumsy as hell, too inquisitive for her own good, and yesterday, she got a damn video drone stuck in a tree. Had to climb upand get it down for her.”
“That’s impressive and mighty nice of you,” I say, trying hard not to laugh at the image.
“Yeah, well,” he mutters, like he still can’t believe it. “She swore she’d handle it herself, then immediately tried to throw a rake at it.”
Penny’s laughing now, full and bright. “Oh no.”
Eli shakes his head, but there’s the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve seen calmer hornets than that woman.”
I grin. “Sounds like you’ve got entertainment for the next few weeks.”
“Or a migraine,” he deadpans sourly.
“I’m sure it will all be okay,” Penny assures him.
Eli gives a small, skeptical smile before turning back to his display and we continue our stroll through the crowd. I squeeze Penny’s hand, thinking how right he is.
