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She steps around the booth.

And immediately notices that people are watching us.

A lot of people.

Uncle Hank stands near the cider tent wearing a ridiculous orange sweater, holding a beer despite the fact that it’s barely noon.

He spots me and raises his cup.

“Attaboy, Grim!”

Jesus Christ.

Somebody needs to confiscate that man’s alcohol.

Autumn looks around.

“Why is everybody staring?”

“Because you’re gorgeous.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Counting on it.”

I lead her toward the center of the square, where a small crowd has gathered near the fountain.

Her hand tightens around mine.

“Gray?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you do something?”

“Probably.”

“Something illegal?”

“Not this week.”

She laughs.

I stop.

Turn toward her.

And suddenly, every word I’ve rehearsed disappears.

Fantastic.

I can rebuild a motorcycle engine with my eyes closed, but apparently asking one woman a question is enough to short-circuit my entire fucking brain.

Autumn studies my face.

“Hey.”