We talked through schedules, safety checks, and the budget, and every time she asked a question, she apologized.
But I didn’t mind. She was smart and detail-oriented, and it was clear that she cared. I could respect that. She’d only lived in Maplewood for a couple of weeks, but she was already invested.
“What’s the theme this year?”
“The debate over that has been intense.” She tapped herpen against the quartz countertop. “Bitsy Bramble insisted we do Maplewood Throughout History, but people fought back hard. Thank God. That would be a logistical nightmare.”
I grimaced. Shit. She was right.
“Olive suggested Romantic Rural Autumn, but all of us single people vetoed. We can’t combine fall with Valentine’s Day. It’s just… wrong.” She shuddered.
She was single. That confirmation brought to life a small pang in my chest. I’d assumed she was, given that she lived on my property and I’d never seen anyone coming or going but her and the kids. It shouldn’t, but knowing comforted me.
“Eventually we settled on Cozy Harvest Haunt but family friendly, but only after Mavis presented her PowerPoint, focusing on why she was certain that a sexy scarecrows theme would bring back all the tourists.”
I laughed. Of course Mavis would go there.
“So it’s just harvest themed for the Harvest Festival?” I chuckled.
“Yes.”
I rubbed my hands together, fighting a smile. “I can work with that. We’ve got straw bales, and we can talk to other local farmers about donating corn stalks and pumpkins. But I may need some help decorating the wagons we’ll tow behind the tractors.”
“I’ll help. And I can bring the kids.”
“Great.”
She rested her forearms on my countertop, studying me.
I let her, scanning the kitchen to give her a second. I didn’t mind. She was so much softer and easier to talk to thanshe’d been an hour ago when she’d come into the barn. So far, this version of her was my favorite, and I didn’t want her to disappear. This woman laughed and came up with ideas and bantered. She wasn’t the scared, closed-off woman who always looked like she was ready to fight.
“You good?” I asked eventually, desperate to know what she was thinking.
“Yeah. You’ve been…” With a breath out, she examined my face. “Super helpful.”
“I aim to please.”
She ducked, trying to hide the pink stain on her cheeks. “There’s one more thing.”
Hands on the countertop, I leaned forward. “Hit me.”
“Route decorations. Apparently I have to convince the people and businesses along the route to decorate. Which means knocking on doors.” She swallowed audibly, her attention still lowered.
“I can go with you.”
Her eyes snapped up and she inhaled. “You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
For a moment, silence stretched between us. Not uncomfortable, just weighty.
“I’m not great with new people.” She licked her lips. “Or surprises. Or being told I’m doing things wrong.”
There it was. Not a confession. Not a story. But the information I’d been missing.
I took a risk, placing my hand next to hers so that our pinkies barely brushed.
Rather than recoil like I thought she might, she left her hand there, keeping her focus on me.
