But I nod, because we all know how this ends. In a bed built for three.
“I can hear you,” Lottie calls sweetly, not sounding particularly bothered.
“We know,” Lily trills back. “We’re not trying to be subtle.”
Noah clears his throat, his cheeks a little red—either from the heat or the attention. “Maybe we should focus on the booth competition?”
“Oh, we’re focused,” Lily assures him. “Very focused on the dynamics at play here.” She winks at Everett, and she’s testing her luck.
Everett looks completely unbothered by being the subject of festival gossip. “This may be the most entertaining booth here. What’s the judging criteria?”
“For the booth or the contest for Lottie’s heart?” Suze asks, already unimpressed.
“Suze,” Lottie warns, fighting a smile.
“What?” Suze bats her eyes and misses innocent by a mile. “If Mayor Nash is judging on visual appeal, he should considerthe whole package—decorations, food, and the overall aesthetic of the staff.”
“The aesthetic?” Noah repeats, not entirely sure how to take that.
“Well,” Lily jumps in, clearly enjoying herself, “you two do add a certain appeal to our setup. Very all-American. The kind of men who make women want to salute something other than the flag.”
“Lily!” I gasp, trying not to laugh.
“What? I’m being honest. These are premium examples of American masculinity. We should be advertising that.”
“Charming,” Suze mutters. Then she spots someone approaching our booth with the determined stride of people hypnotized by glitter. “Customers incoming. Try to look professional—and maybe don’t say anything that requires an apology.”
That’s a big ask for this crew.
Historically speaking.
A family of four approaches, the parents already a little overwhelmed by the sensory assault that is our booth while their kids bounce like they’ve hit the festival sugar early.
“Can we get four flag cupcakes and a dozen of those star cookies?” the mother asks, raising her voice over a mariachi version of “Yankee Doodle” that could go either way.
“Coming right up!” Lily chirps, boxing up their order. “That’ll be twenty-two dollars, and thank you for supporting the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery, one cupcake at a time.”
As they walk away, the father mutters, “I think that booth just gave me a contact high.”
“Mission accomplished,” I declare after all but creating a public health hazard in the name of pastry sales.
From across the festival grounds, I can hear the enthusiastic announcer at the Sparks and Stripes Speed Dating pavilioncalling out rotation numbers like he’s running a very romantic cattle auction. Through the crowd, I catch glimpses of Niki working the event as if she’s running for Miss America, her red bandana top and strategic smile devastating the male population of three counties. She’s got a line of potential suitors stretching halfway to the lake, all of them looking like they’ve just discovered the meaning of life involves three minutes alone with my sister.
And knowing my sister, she’d give them all seven.
Even more impressive is Loretta, who appears to have turned speed dating into a form of gladiatorial combat where men compete for the privilege of hearing about her extensive divorce history. She’s holding court like a glamorous empress, and I swear I can see dollar signs in her eyes as she sizes up each candidate’s earning potential with the efficiency of a CPA in tax season.
“Your sister is going to break some hearts tonight,” Lily observes, following my gaze toward the romantic battlefield.
“That’s the plan,” I reply. “Niki believes in equal-opportunity heartbreak. She’s been repaying the male population for years. It’s very democratic of her, when you think about it.”
“Speaking of missions,” Lottie says, checking her watch, “Mayor Nash should be making his rounds soon. Everyone ready to charm our way to victory?”
The mention of Mayor Nash makes my stomach do that familiar flip that reminds me I’m supposed to assassinate the man about to judge our booth. Not exactly a common problem.
I absently pat my purse where Buttercup, my trusty Glock, nestles next to breath mints and receipts like the world’s most inappropriate accessory. The silencer’s wrapped in a red, white, and blue scarf because apparently even assassination gear gets festive on the Fourth. Uncle Jimmy’s deadline is tonight, andwhen the fireworks start—with all that noise and chaos—it’ll be the perfect cover for a little municipal downsizing.
Not that I’m thrilled about it. Mayor Nash seems like a genuinely nice guy—he helps old ladies cross the street and remembers birthdays. Unfortunately, that’s not part of the criteria.
