“Thank you.”
“For what?”he said, tucking loose curls behind her ear.“Lettin’ you puke in my bed?Ain’t the first time.”
Cassie huffed through the sting in her eyes.“Yeah, that.And, oh, I don’t know.Saving my life, maybe.”
He held her gaze for a long second—long enough that she saw it.
How close he still was to having almost lost her.
With her hand still buried in his beard, she tugged him into a kiss.A slow, careful kiss.
Too goddamn careful.
“This okay?”he murmured against her lips.
Cassie’s hands were already in his hair, pulling him closer—kissing him harder.
“More than okay,” she whispered.
Because with his hands on her—his mouth on hers—
she could almost forget.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Stoplettin’’emsqueezethe tomatoes,” Margie said, counting out change without looking up.
“I’m not lettin’ ’em squeeze anything,” Cassie replied, sliding a bag across the table.“They’re doin’ it all on their own.”
It was the last day of Redwater County’s yearly festival—River Days—and the heat clung to the Wierswood fairgrounds even as the sun dipped behind the mountains.Margie’s booth sat halfway down one of the vendor rows, crates of fresh tomatoes and squash out front, bundles of herbs and jars stacked behind—pickled beans, chow-chow, all kinds of jam.
Across the way, The Blue Rooster’s booth was buried behind a line Cassie couldn’t see through.Farther down, Darlene had a setup, the smell of pulled pork sandwiches drifting through.Every so often, someone stopped at Margie’s table with one, grease soaking through the paper, sauce on their chin.
“I keep tellin’ you—see ’em squeezin’, you slap ’em.”Margie nodded toward a woman digging through a crate.
“I’m not slappin’ folks for touchin’ tomatoes.”
The woman dropped the ones in her hand and moved on quick.
“Look what you did.Scared off another sale.”
“Don’t care one bit.She was manhandlin’ my veggies like it was prom night.”
Another group stepped in, and Cassie fell back into the rhythm of bagging and counting, humming under her breath.From the direction of the stage, someone started tuning up—notes slipping through the noise, drawing attention.
“Word is it’s Childers,” a customer said.
“Heard it might be Godwin,” someone else countered.
As the customers wandered off, a burst of movement cut through the crowd.
“Cassie!”
Junie came flying between people, skidding to a stop at the table with her cap crooked and her softball uniform streaked with chocolate like she’d spent more time eating than selling.
“We made almost four hundred dollars today!”
“Nice one, Junie—that’s some serious cash.”
