While I did appreciate the cleverness of a pickle pun, even that wouldn’t be enough to sway me.
“June—”
“Did I mention he owns a Tesla?”
“Juniper Llewellyn Marsh.”
She gasped, startled by the sound of her full name. June had always gone by June, from the moment she’d sat next to me in Senora Perez’s first period Spanish class. Her parents were yoga instructors by trade and wanderers by nature. They’d wandered all the way to Rose City from Fish Creek, Wisconsin, the summer before June and I started tenth grade.
I pivoted to face her head-on and took her hands in mine. “Look, I love you, and I appreciate that you want everyone to be as deliriously in love as you are, but please, believe me when I say, thank you, but no thank you.” I set her hands back in her lap.
The defeated sigh that whooshed out of her was music to my ears. Even if she wouldn’t admit it, we both knew the only reason she was trying to make this double-date fiasco happen was because she herself had a new boyfriend, and couples—especially those in the “honeymoon phase”—had a twisted obsession with wanting to set their friends up with each other.
Her heart was in the right place, but the bottom line remained . . . I was perfectly fine being on my own.
I had a house I loved—even if I shared it with my older brother—a bookstore that after two years, was finally out of the red, anda solid group of friends who were just as nerdy and obsessed with Dungeons & Dragons as I was.
I didn’t need anything more than that, certainly not another broken heart. My book boyfriends and girlfriends never let me down. The same couldn’t be said for my exes.
“Fine,” she grumbled. “Your loss.”
“Thank you.”
She fumbled through her purse before slapping a credit card down on the bar, all while mumbling something about “stubborn bitches” and “Pisces moons” under her breath.
Astrology had always been June’s thing, not mine, though I did appreciate a tarot reading every now and again. Especially from Ms. Rita, Rose City’s very own psychic/wedding officiant/pedicab driver. The woman did it all.
After Nero finished running June’s card, she tossed her purse over her shoulder with dramatic flair. Her hair was too short to flip, so that was the best she could do.
“I guess I’ll tell Landon it’s not going to happen.”
“You do that.”
“If you’re sure . . .”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, I’m sure.”
She stomped toward the door, past Miles and Myron, two of Rose City’s oldest residents and one of the first gay couples to get married in the state of Oregon. Even now, well into their eighties, they spent nearly every evening at my brother’s bar, sharing a bottle of wine and soaking up the small-town gossip.
“Are yousureyou’re sure?” June asked in a last-ditch effort.
“Do you want me to full name you again?”
She spun on her heels—or hiking boots, rather—without another word. I called out to her before she reached the end of the bar. “You’re still coming to the committee orientation tomorrow, right?”
“Of course I am,” she called back.
The Buns and Roses Festival was Rose City’s biggest annual event, one that brought in people from around the Pacific Northwest for local eats (hence, the buns), treats, and activities. There was no shortage of punny-named shops and themed events in a small town like Rose City. The city, if you could even call it that, might have been too small to have a mayor, but our thriving community—which had nearly doubled in the past three years—more than made up for the lack of leadership.
June and I had been volunteering as organizers for the festival since high school, and this year, for the first time, the town council had nominated me to head the committee. Which meant I would be overseeing the whole damn shindig, from taste-testing submissions for the Great Bun Baking Competition to auditioning Rose Nylund impersonators and filing permits for the Rosé Run.
The Rosé Run was one of the festival’s biggest draws.
For one weekend every October, droves of bachelorette parties, mom groups, and high school track teams flooded the town for a 5K fun run through the streets and trails of Rose City . . . plus the complimentary wine and cinnamon buns that followed.
I wasn’t typically one for running, but for one day a year, I could run for wine and snacks . . . or at least cheer on my friends while they did.
Especially if it meant my romance bookstore, Smutty Buddies, reaped the benefits. Nothing said an uptick in book sales quite like bachelorettes hopped up on endorphins and gouda. I made a mental note to double-check my staff members’ availability that weekend.
