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When the final load is emptied near the last shops on Main, Archer rubs his hands together as he backs up to his empty truck. “You sure you don’t need help with anything else?”

His eyebrows are raised high, like he’s trying to tell me I’m going to miss out if I don’t accept his offer.

I already know I’m going to regret it, but I shake my head. He played fast and loose with his definition of “professional” all day, finding sneaky little ways to get me to talk about myself, my past, my schooling. I need to clear my thoughts away from him.

“Nope. I got it from here.”

“Okay,” he says resignedly, though his smile remains. The front of his t-shirt is completely destroyed, but the dirt accentuates the ridges of his chest that I’ve enjoyed staring at all day. “You have my number in case you change your mind about the festival or, you know, anything else...”

He leaves his sentence unfinished, and I know he’s talking about that date.

Despite it being a dream come true, going out with him would make me fall for him again, and I won’t allow that to happen. I’m done with the whiplash my crush on him has given me over the years.

I wave goodbye, and he drives away with those quirked lips that drive me batty. He already has every guy beat with his Texas twang, his ability to ride, and his up-and-at-em attitude. But no guy has any right to look so good—especially a cowboy.

Juliet

On Monday, two days later, my aches from hefting those pumpkins are finally gone. It’s just in time, too, as the list takes me back to Main Street with Dad early in the morning.

“What’s on the docket for today?” he asks behind the wheel of his SUV.

I’m grateful he wasn’t in town when Archer helped me with the pumpkins. I didn’t—don’t—have the energy to convince him again that there’s nothing going on between me and his arch nemesis.

“I’ll be finding more volunteers to help with all the different leads,” I say. “We’ve got someone running the Main Street décor now, someone in charge of ensuring all the vendors are ready. Food and beverage is taken care of, as well as the parade and the safety and first aid tent, but we still need someone to run the kids activities and to be over the petting zoo.” I skim through the master list I now have on my phone. “Let’s see, what else. Oh, I’ll be sorting what to do if it rains or we have power issues, and then I’ll be meeting with a few of the people who have specific activities that still need the green light. Specifically Linda Tolman over the carnival games, Sherry Hoskins over the fall wreaths, and...There’s one more...”

I swipe through my phone again as Dad takes a swig from his water bottle.

“Oh, that’s right,” I say. “I’m meeting to make sure the candle activity is all set with Genevieve Hazelton at The Velvet Wick.”

Dad takes a quick breath in, then sputters and coughs as he inhales his water. Droplets spew across the dashboard and steering wheel as he tries to gain control.

“Woah, Dad. Are you okay?”

I reach over to take the wheel just in case, but he nods, managing to gulp down whatever liquid remains before coughing hard and finally drawing a settling breath.

He clears his throat and taps his fist against his chest. “Went down the wrong pipe.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“You bet. Sorry, I interrupted you. Sounds like a busy day.”

But I’m not ready to move on. I thought I’d heard him gasp right as I mentioned the candle shop. The subsequent gagging on water confirmed it.

He’s surprised I’m going there. But, why? Or was it the mention of Genevieve and not the shop that made him react that way?

I don’t know much about the candle shop owner, other than she moved in around the same time I moved to Boston. But does Dad? My direct approach with him hasn’t been beneficial. Maybe a more subtle approach will serve me better.

“Things are only going to get busier,” I reply. “I’m happy to help though. Rosie seems more relieved, too.”

“It’s nice of you to be doing so much to help.” He pauses, chewing on the inside of his cheek before leaning back in his seat a bit too casually. “Is Rosie hard at work, too? Couldn’t she take charge of the activities—visit with Sherry Hoskins or-or go to The Velvet Wick for you?”

Turns out I don’t have to be subtle. He just gave away his position himself. He’s acting the same as when I questioned him about Lisa, then Sharon. Is there a third woman in his life?

“Rosie would be more than happy to,” I say, staring out my side window. Hopefully I’m a better actor than Dad. He’s so tightly wound, one wrong word might send him wildly unraveling. “But she’s doing a billion other things already. I don’t mind. Anyway, I don’t really know Genevieve, so it’ll be nice to get to know her.”

Dad’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel. It’s taking everything within me not to ask him flat out if she’s the woman he’s dating.

“Oh, hey, do you know her?” I ask.