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I lift my chin with a toss of my head as my only response, then face forward. The elderly couple is only halfway through the crosswalk. Dad’s still talking to Lisa.

Archer’s still looking at me.

I glance back at him. His grin remains, and he lowers his window before motioning for me to do the same.

No chance.

I stick my thumb over my shoulder and motion to Dad, who’s so deep in his plans with Lisa he still has no idea I’m speaking with—according to him—the worst man in Autumn Ridge.

“My dad,” I mouth out.

Archer’s grin widens. “So?”

I never should have told Archer I had a crush on him. I definitely shouldn’t have told him that I expected him to cower around Dad. I feel like he’s just trying to prove me right in the first regard and dead wrong in the second.

He motions again to the window, then gives me a quick, encouraging nod.

I have no idea what he’s going to say to me, and though I’m desperate to find out, I have to stick to my guns.

“Nope,” I mouth out.

The couple finally reaches the other side of the road, and Dad pulls forward. I wiggle my fingers at Archer as we pull away, and he shakes his head, though the lines still splay out from his eyes.

“Sorry about that, honey,” Dad says as he finally hangs up. “As you can see my day is swamped, too. I’m afraid I can’t introduce you to anyone.”

“That’s okay. I’m a big girl. I can meet her on my own.”

“She’s really nice—from what I hear. I’m sure you’ll be just fine.”

I’m sure I will be, too. At least in regard to meeting Genevieve, Dad’s potential third girlfriend.

But in regard to my wondering what Archer was going to say to me from his truck window? I’m never going to live that down.

Juliet

Dad’s right. Genevieve is really nice. Gorgeous, too.

She already knows who I am—“Everyone knows the mayor’s daughter”—and is about as genuine as they come, asking how college is, listening to my answers, and complimenting my outfit and ability to work.

I do wonder if she’s being nice on purpose—to get on my good side, perhaps earn some brownie points?—but for now I’m setting aside my sleuthing to finish up this list.

She tells me about her activity on the first day of the Fall Festival, how she’ll be setting up an area for people to make their own autumn candles.

“They’ll be able to choose colors, scents, the size of the jars,” she says, tucking her feathery, short, brown hair behind her ear. “I have a few hundred people signed up already, but I’ll have extra for those who sign up on the day. I think—I hope—they’ll have fun with it.”

“Well, it sounds great,” I return. “If I wasn’t overseeing so many things, I’d want to sign up myself.”

“I teach classes monthly. I’d love to have you anytime.”

I promise to take her up on the offer—though I don’t tell her my real reasoning for wanting to get to know her better—then follow her to the window display inside the shop.

“These are the candles we’ll be making,” she says, pointing to the various sizes scattered about the space.

Every autumn color imaginable stretches across the display, light green and shades of orange, yellow, and red. Jars are scattered about mini crates, while fake leaves hang from the ceiling, dangling around them. It all makes me want to wrap up with a blanket and hot chocolate in front of a fireplace.

“I’ll also have a label maker there so they’ll get to choose that for themselves, as well.”

I nod, taking mental notes about the size, space, and logistics of her activity and where to place her.