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“Why not just introduce yourself?”

“Conversations about vanished family, money, and the dead tend to go better without an audience.” Money.

A flash of black catches my eye beyond his shoulder. Gage is still thirty yards away, trapped by children with wooden swords trying to duel the Dread Pirate Roberts.

“You could talk to both of us,” I opt.

“I could.” The answer sits wrong. “Call me. You choose the place, and bring Mr. Cannon if you want.” His voice softens. “I didn’t come to ruin your day. I’d like to know my niece. And I think you deserve to know who your father really was.”

I swallow the ache in the back of my throat.

I don’t get the chance to answer before he disappears into the crowd.

The card goes damp between my fingers as I stand there, frozen. A license and a business card. Neither proves Jacob York was once Jacob Ricketts, that this stranger is my uncle, or that he knows anything useful about my father. For all I know, he’s a very polished scammer.

Unfortunately for him, he approached a hacker.

I slip the card into the hidden pocket of my gown. After my shift tonight, I’ll start digging. If his story survives me, I’ll tell Gage I may finally have a real lead, and we’ll arrange a meeting somewhere public. If it doesn’t, I’ll tell Gage some quack tried to pass himself off as my long-lost uncle, and the next time Joshua Ricketts shows up at Saint Violet, security can introduce him to the sidewalk.

Either way, I’m not handing this man ten years of hope because he knew the right nickname.

Across the lane, Gage extracts himself from his tiny assailants and heads my way. I draw a slow breath and tuck the shock away. Joshua Ricketts can wait.

I meet Gage halfway, determined not to look rattled, and grab his hand. “Come on! I want to see the mermaid cove. And then the fairy forest. We both know I have a twinkle-light addiction.”

He studies me a beat too long through the mask. His cheeky grin returns, and he lowers his head until his forehead rests against mine. “As you wish.”

I laugh at his perfect timing and lace my fingers through his. “Come on, Westley.”

“Where are we going?”

“Oooh!” My squirrel brain snaps to something else. “They’re selling flower crowns.”

“You’re wearing a literal crown,” he points out.

“Sure, but those have ribbons!”

His laugh rumbles through his chest and into our joined hands, and for a few steps, I almost let it carry me back into the day. But the edge of the cream business card presses against my hip through the hidden pocket, and the name on it follows me down the lane.

Joshua E. Ricketts. For the first time in ten years, someone other than me claims to have answers about my father.

CHAPTER 24

Gage

For three days, Jubilee and I have mostly communicated through refrigerator notes, half-conscious kisses, and evidence that one of us occupied my bed before the other got there.

The Renaissance Faire rolled straight into a clusterfuck of a weekend. She picked up an extra shift Saturday and didn’t crawl into bed until almost six. I spent most of Sunday catching up on sponsored videos, then disappeared for three hours to handle a far more important issue on the property next door. By the time I got home, she’d already left for work again. A note waited on my espresso machine: MISS YOUR FACE. STOLE TWO MACARONS. DON’T BE DRAMATIC. Underneath, much smaller: Used a coaster. You’re welcome.

I took a picture. Obviously.

Monday has finally arrived, and Jubilee stands in my foyer, staring at the black sleep mask in my hand like I’ve suggested an amateur kidnapping. “No.”

“Princess.”

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s just a blindfold. It’s for the surprise.”