Chapter 5
Meet-n-Greet
Milly
Iwoke up before the sun, my nerves buzzing like I’d drunk three espressos in my sleep. Today isfirst impression day.The official debut of Milly Thomas, Everwood Resident.
Step one: wardrobe.
Outfit one—jeans and a button-down. Professional and business casual. Except the jeans have a mysterious smudge of fur clinging to the thigh. How? I haven’t even touched any animals yet.
Outfit two—green sweater. Too warm, too itchy, screams “school picture day.”
Outfit three—plain tee and cardigan. Acceptable. Except maybe too plain? What if they think I’m not trying?
I collapse back onto the bed, groaning. “This is ridiculous.”
Pumpernickel chooses that moment to rattle his cage like a prison break in progress. One glance and—yep, Houdini has escaped again. I dive under the dresser, spotting his tiny rump wedged halfway behind a stack of shoes.
“Don’t you dare disappear,” I mutter, scooping him into my hands. He huffs in indignation, quills bristling like he’s scoldingmefor ruining his adventure.
I return him to his cage, whisper a prayer to every saint of small animals, then flop back against the wall.
Step two: hair.
French braid? Too strict. Messy bun? Too muchI gave up.Trustworthy ponytail it is. I pull a few strands loose in the classic “oh, this?I just threw my hair up,even though it looks messy and amazing,” and smile at my reflection. My face is already pink, nerves glowing like neon.
I flip open my notebook where last night’s scrawl waits:How to Succeed in Small Towns.
Smile
Don’t blurt “Please like me.”
Solid strategy.
Downstairs smells faintly of coffee, which means Austin is already up. Of course he is. I tiptoe in, trying to look casual. He’s at the kitchen table, laptop open, sipping on coffee. His shirt pressed, hair damp from an early shower. Every pixel of him radiates calm competence.
“Morning,” he says without looking up. His voice is low, steady. He gestures toward the coffeemaker. “Want some?”
My heart does a weird lurch. Coffee. He’s offering me coffee? My heart lurches again.
“Sure,” I say, aiming for casual, but it comes out too bright. I wrap my hands around the mug he sets in front of me, fingers brushing his when I take it. Warmth floods my skin, traitorous and impossible to hide.
He studies me for a beat, then: “What’s a social in Everwood like? You grew up here, didn’t you?”
I blink. Dusty, half-forgotten memories rise—summers with Aunt Penny, a blur of laughter and loud music, a table stuffedwith so much food they had to bring out the card table, leftovers we’d eat for days. I was six, maybe seven, too young to understand why my mother stayed home instead. Just old enough to remember the sweetness of cherry pie and Penny’s laugh echoing in my ears.
“It’s… a lot of food,” I say, voice catching on something almost wistful. “I was maybe six-ish. All I remember are the pies, desserts, and enough leftovers to feed half the state. Everyone shows up. Everyone knows if you don’t and why.”
Austin hums softly, unreadable, then turns back to his laptop. But I catch the faintest tug of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
