Page 9 of Wedding or Not

Hoping to see even the tiniest clue of such a feeling, I glance over my shoulder discreetly to where he’s standing in line.

He’s wearing a version of his normal outfit—brown trousers and a forest-green button-up shirt. He’s focused intently down on his phone, so much so that the older man behind him has to clear his throat loudly before Wes steps forward.

I shake my head with a huff.

He’s definitely too lofty to be caught up in our unexpected virality.

“I wonder what he’s ordering,” Natalie says with a smile in her voice and her eyes angled over my shoulder.

“Black coffee.” I nurse a slow sip of my latte. “That’s what he always gets.”

Natalie’s hazel eyes widen, and I can easily read the gleeful inquiry on her expression.

“He’s always drunk black coffee,” I explain. “From ages ago. I haven’t made special note of it. Anyway, what else would he get? Flavorings and cream are for lesser mortals. Not supreme beings fueled by logic and stoicism.”

“He’s not that bad.”

“That’s your optimism. Not reality. You should’ve heard him yesterday talking about how we need to take all emotion out of the decisions we make about Blossom Park.”

Despite the new, miraculous hope that arose in the past twenty-four hours, the memory of his cold, clipped voice and his stony expression yesterday makes me snarl.

I turn my head to glower in his direction but accidentally meet his eyes as he’s turning from the counter with his coffee mug.

I do what anyone would do in such a situation. I whirl around and then peek back over my shoulder to see if he did indeed catch me staring.

He did.

His mouth is twitching in my direction, and he leans to peer around the wooden column, giving me a sardonic wave.

I fake a smile and wave back with exaggerated enthusiasm, then slump back in my chair, my cheeks blazing.

Why the hell can’t I go through life with any sort of dignity?

I always end up making a fool of myself.

“You guys do kind of act like you’re in a rom-com.” Natalie is smiling over the rim of her teacup at me.

I roll my eyes. Then roll my eyes again when Wes takes the table right behind me.

I don’t turn to look, but I know it’s him. I can feel him and smell him just a little—he always smells clean and fresh, like soap and laundry detergent. He sits in the chair directly behind me so we’re back-to-back.

A quick glance confirms it. He’s sitting right there, setting up his laptop to work.

Ever since he moved back, he’s been living in the spare room of his father’s cottage and he leases a small, inexpensive space behind the town treasurer’s office to work in. But I see him working elsewhere all the time. Here at Rooster’s. At Bella’s Diner. Once I saw him at a picnic table by the duck pond.

I don’t blame him. Who’d want to work in a small, windowless room furnished with nothing but a desk and chair all day long if there were other options?

“Good morning to you too,” he murmurs. He sounds even more superior than normal.

“I waved,” I say without turning to look at him again. I’m frowning down at the floor to the side of my chair. “I figured that was greeting enough.”

“I think you could probably dare to meet my eyes without everyone reading it as a sign that you’re passionately in love with me.”

I suck in a sharp breath and scowl down at the floor. “The story goes that you’re just as in love with me! It’s not one-sided.”

“Are you seriously all worked up with indignation over someone misreading our fictional feelings for each other?”

It does sound ridiculous. The whole thing is a heartless joke.