This is a terrible idea. I just got out of a relationship. Mateo is my friend. Maybe my best friend in this town. I can’t afford to lose him if I’m reading this wrong. If this is just me projecting because I’m vulnerable and he’s being kind and—
He must see the panic flood my face because he stops. He doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t move back either. We’re still close enough to touch, and he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
“Because you’re my friend,” he says finally. “And friends show up for each other.”
Friends. Right. That’s what we are.
Friends.
So why does that word feel like a disappointment?
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For coming by. For getting rid of Owen. For... this.”
“Anytime.” He squeezes my hand once before letting go, and I immediately miss the contact. “Try to get some sleep. Tomorrow might be better than you think.”
Or it might be worse.
He heads for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Hey, Sadie?”
“Yeah?”
“For what it’s worth? I’m proud of you. Writing a book that’s hitting number three on Amazon? That’s incredible.”
The sincerity in his voice makes my throat tight. “Thanks, Mateo.”
He nods once and slips out, closing the door softly behind him.
I stand there in my quiet apartment, his words echoing in my head.
You’re not alone in this.
I’m proud of you.
Friends show up for each other.
I want to believe him. I want to believe that tomorrow won’t be the disaster I’m imagining. That people will see the love in my book instead of judging the similarities. That Owen’s wrong about what’s coming.
But as I get ready for bed, my phone keeps dinging with notifications aboutWildfire Summer, I can’t shake the feeling that everything’s about to change.
And I have no idea if I’m ready for it.
My phone buzzes.
Owen:Just so we’re clear—I’m not going to tell anyone. I don’t think I need to because it’s obvious. People will know. You should start thinking about damage control. This is going to get messy.
I block the number with shaking hands.
But the damage is already done.
Owen knows. And if Owen knows, it’s only a matter of time before everyone else does, too.
CHAPTER 4
The Farmers Market setup is usually my favorite kind of chaos.
Vendors chatting with each other from across stands, the smell of fresh bread and roasted chiles, and the early morning bustle of tables being dragged into place and canopies snapping open in the breeze. I’ve been doing this every Saturday morning for three years, setting up my Wildflower Books booth between Maria’s salsa stand and Beth’s goat milk soap display.
Today, I can barely focus.
