Page 13 of The Right Kind of Wrong

Denny was the nicest guy she knew in Cypress Falls by a wide mile, but she couldn’t let herself think she was taking advantage of him right now. Her bladder wouldn’t abide being held any longer.

He scrunched up his face and scratched at the scruff on his cheeks. “Um . . . sure, I guess I can do that.”

“The only rule is they can’t touch the machine that makes the foam,” Blake told him, already jogging away, making a beeline for the porta-potties in the distance. She could muster up some guilt at throwing Denny to the wolves after she’d gone to the bathroom.

The line could have been a lot shorter, though it also could have been a lot longer, and she tried to take deep breaths while she waited for her turn. Once she was done, she’d find one of the event coordinators and let them know about the hiccup in finding relief for her position.

Even though she wasn’t exactly sure that it had been an accident. There had been a lot of that going on in the past few months, which grated her to no end.

What did they want from her? Truly?

Noah had gotten the house. The family. The life. The friends. She could keep going, but the point was that he’d gotten literally everything, and still, it wasn’t enough for this town. Did they want her to flay herself in the square as penance, too?

By the time she came out of the bathroom, relief had given way to frustration. Of course this wasn’t an accident. Maybe it wasn’t technically intentional, but she’d been thrust to the side and easily forgotten about, in life and in the festival.

And she was sick of it.

Her ire intensified as she crossed the lawn, looking for anyone she could call on to get her away from the pack of boys who’d been giving her too-appraising stares all day, trying to show off for her while they pummeled one another into oblivion under the guise of play wrestling.

About halfway across the open grass, she spotted a cluster of women under a copse of trees, dressed up like they were out for a day at the Kentucky Derby.

Last year, she’d been standing with them. At the center was Allison Landry-Haas, the organizer for the Wild West Fest. While volunteer assignments weren’t specifically in Allison’s purview, she ruled this town’s event planning committees like a general commanding an army, and Blake knew there was nothing that escaped her unless she wanted to willfully turn a blind eye.

Allison had been to dinner at their home dozens of times over the years, and now, she was pretty sure that she’d blocked Blake’s phone number.

It didn’t help that with all of Allison’s kids now in college, she had even more time to devote to the comings and goings of their little town, which would be on a rocket ship to notoriety if Allison had her way. Add that her father, Tucker Landry, was the town’s mayor—and, coincidentally, Noah’s father’s best friend—and what Blake Bettencourt was about to do was akin to walking into a pit of vipers.

Still, she wasn’t sitting in that folding chair for four more hours, shoved into a hot corner of the festival like she should be grateful to still be included at all.

As she approached, she did a quick sweep to make sure that Alexis wasn’t with them. That was a bite she didn’t want to take out of her sanity today, even if it may have felt good in the moment. Regardless of how legitimate the reason, she didn’t think anyone would take kindly to her yelling at a pregnant woman.

Plus, Alexis wasn’t the true source of her ire, and she knew it. Noah, on the other hand . . .

Psyching herself up, she walked into the tented area, where about half of the women were seated, the other half standing and holding court.

Who put up a tent when the area was already shaded? God, they were menaces.

“Excuse me, Allison,” she said, trying to make sure that her voice didn’t wobble. She had never been good at going against authority, but that was a luxury that current Blake didn’t have if she ever wanted to get anything done. And right now, she didn’t want to sit in that chair for even a second longer.

Leading up to the event, details were managed at luncheons and pushed forward at fundraisers and finalized over dinner parties among the women with the decision-making power in town.

Ask Blake how she knew.

But usually, on the day of the event, the operations were left to another group, who desperately wanted to be Allison but would settle for being part of the club, even if only in this capacity.

Blake wasn’t going to make it the problem of any of those women. She was going to make it Allison-fucking-Landry-fucking-Haas’s fucking problem.

It’s not like she could become even more of an outcast.

As Allison turned, the superficial smile on her face faltered, and she glanced around just to see who else could see them. Noah’s family had become a huge contributor to both the town and Tucker Landry’s election campaign, so it wasn’t exactly a surprise that Allison didn’t want to be seen talking to her.

Well, too bad.

“Blake,” she finally said in a singsongy voice that could almost pass for sincere before she pursed her lips together and clasped her hands. Then, she nodded, like she was readying herself for battle, fortifying her defenses against all five-foot-seven of Blake. “I heard that you were volunteering today.”

It was a statement, not a question, and it told Blake everything she needed to know about how she’d ended up in Siberia.

Blake pasted on her own fake smile. “I am. So sweet of you to remember given that we’ve just been ships passing in the night lately.” Blake held her hand up to her chest, toying with her necklace. “And I’m sure someone just got their wires crossed, but we seem to be short-staffed over at the Foam Frenzy. Can you let me know who will be taking over?”