Page 45 of Wild Thorns

I spent an embarrassing amount of time deciding what to wear to a small-town festival. Not because I cared about impressing anyone, I told myself firmly, but because I wanted to be comfortable. And possibly look nice. For practical reasons.

I pulled out three dresses, two pairs of shorts, and a romper I’d forgotten I owned before finally settling on a sundress that Tara had talked me into buying last year, soft blue cotton that made my eyes look bright. Sandals that I could walk in. Hair half up, because it was fucking hot and the humidity would play havoc with my hair, anyway.

I looked at myself in the mirror and tried to remember the last time I’d dressed for someone. Not Marcus, dressing for Marcus had been a different thing entirely, a careful calculation of what would please and what might provoke. This felt lighter. Less like armor and more like‌ anticipation.

I texted Tara a photo.

Tara: OH. This is for the festival guy?

Me: It’s for a small-town community event.

Tara: You curled your hair.

Me: Humidity.

Tara: Sure. Have fun with your ‘humidity.’ Send photos.

I put down the phone before she could ask more questions I didn’t want to answer.

At 2:45, I heard movement downstairs: the sound of Rowena’s voice, the low rumble of male responses. I couldn’t make out words, but there was laughter in the tone. The simple rhythm of a family that had been together long enough to develop their own language.

I checked my reflection one more time. Told myself I wasn’t nervous.

Liar.

When I came down the stairs at three, Jasper was waiting by the magnolia tree. He looked up when he heard my footsteps, and something flickered across his face: a quick inhalation, a widening of his eyes.

"You look—" he stopped. Started again. "That's a nice dress."

"Thanks."

He was wearing dark jeans, a white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he looked fucking hot. He also looked like he’d ‌spent some time in front of a mirror. His hair was still artfully tousled, but there was a deliberateness to it that hadn’t been there this morning.

“You clean up well,” I said.

“I always clean up well.” But his ears went slightly pink, which told me everything I needed to know.

Behind him, through the kitchen window, I glimpsed Eli at the table with a book. He looked up, his expression unreadable behind his glasses. He raised a hand in a small wave, then went back to reading.

Jasper offered his arm, mock-formal. "Shall we?"

I took it. His body was warm against mine, solid and reassuring, and I tried not to notice how perfectly my hand fit into the crook of his elbow.

The walk to town was filled with his easy chatter, stories about festivals past, local characters I'd encounter, things to try and things to avoid.

“Stay away from Mr. Patterson’s booth,” he warned. “He makes his own hot sauce, and he’ll insist you try it. I lost three days once. Couldn’t taste anything.”

“You ate hot sauce so spicy it took three days to recover?”

“It was a matter of pride. Callum dared me.”

“Of course he did.”

“He didn’t think I’d actually do it. The look on his face when I finished the entire bottle was worth the suffering.” He grinned, and it belied a fondness for his brother that ran deeper than sibling rivalry. “That’s the thing about Callum. He underestimates how stubborn I can be.”

“I don’t think he underestimates you.”

Jasper glanced at me, something shifting in his expression. “No?”