Page 8

At the festival, we find a bench beside the cider barn. Our knees meet when I sit. I pretend to be absorbed in my coffee, but Silas notices and doesn’t move.

“You’re being careful with me.” I watch him over the rim.

“I’m thirty-four.” He looks from our knees to my face. “I’ve never wanted to get anything right as badly as this.”

I used to worry he thought my flirting was childish. Now I notice how his fingers grip his cup, even though his voice is steady. I wasn’t the only one who was scared. Realizing that makes me want to touch his face. I move closer.

“I marked the craft tents.” He unfolds the map. “We can change anything.”

He has circled the places with handmade clothes instead of the lumber demonstration he would prefer. The care in that small pencil mark warms me more than the coffee.

“You can choose something too.” I tap the paper. “We should do something you want to do too.”

He looks at my mouth, and I want to kiss him in front of everybody. Instead, I break off a piece of the cinnamon roll and give him the bigger half. His smile tells me he notices that too.

eight

Silas

Anissa studies a scarf at the first craft stall, asking about dyes with the familiar concentration of someone who knows the work. Last night she called herself a failure. This morning, her face reminds me how much she still loves the work.

Someone squeezes past, and Anissa steps back into my chest—I steady her waist. Her hand settles over mine. When she looks up, lips parted, I nearly forget where we are. Then the path clears, and I release her slowly, missing the warmth of her body immediately.

“Last night, by the fire.” I wait until she meets my eyes. “I kept thinking about kissing you. I haven’t stopped.”

“Neither have I.” She looks down, smiling, then threads her fingers through mine.

I consider taking her somewhere quieter when she spots the ring-toss booth and points at a stuffed bear hanging beside the prizes with a disappointed expression. “You look like him.”

“I don’t wear a waistcoat.” I glare at the bear.

“Not yet.” She tugs my hand. “Win me something.” I should recognize the look. She used it years ago to persuade me to repair unsalvageable furniture. I hand over five dollars and assess the rings’ width and distance to the bottles. “You’re measuring.” She leans on the counter with an elbow.

“Estimating.” I throw, and the ring hits three bottles and lands around none.

“Would a pencil help?” She watches the second attempt fail too.

“A less judgmental audience.” I try again.

By the fourth miss, she bites back a laugh as I put down another five dollars, but she accepts the rings before I can.

Her first throw lands perfectly, and I can only stare, offended by how little calculation it took.

“No.” I look at the attendant. “She’s going to be unbearable.”

“Already am.” She chooses the grumpy bear and tucks it against my chest. I take it rather than drop her prize in the mud as a passing child stops to admire a man my size holding a tiny waistcoat. “We’ll call him Silas.” Anissa straightens the toy’s collar, skimming my shirt.

“Call him Earl.” I tuck it beneath my arm. “He asks unnecessary questions.”

She catches my sleeve, laughing. I don’t care how ridiculous I look. Being part of her happiness feels worth considerably more than ten dollars.

At another stall, she buys a silk ribbon the color of copper leaves. I offer to pay, but she declines, reminding me of my humbling experience in athletics. I let her, and she rests an affectionate hand on my jacket afterward.

“You’re having fun.” She studies my face.

“Don’t spread it around.”

At the inn’s canopy, she stops beside my walnut table, her hand tightening around mine. “This is the one.” She touches its edge. “From your website.” Seeing her fingers trace something I built makes me feel exposed. I remember the quiet nights working on it, hoping she’d like it. “I looked more than occasionally.” She turns toward me. “At the picture.”