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I shake my head playfully before leading him through the heart of the square where people are picnicking on the grass with colorful quilts, dancing to the live music echoing from the lawn, and meandering through tents and booths along the walkway.
Rowan watches a group of elderly women with bright pink hair and vibrant spandex rollerblade past us. Their trailing cackles widen his eyes. “You should know that if this is a ploy to soften my view of this town, it’s not going to work.”
“Will you relax?” I tease, adjusting the shoulder straps of my bag so they’re nice and snug. “You look as spooked as a cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs.”
He scoffs, but I don’t miss his subtle curiosity as we stop and check out the local vendors.
“Listen, Magnolia Creek has its shortcomings, but the community is full of heart. You’ll see.”
A cacophony of cheers erupts from a red- and white-striped booth where Eleanor, Agnes, and Beatrice are clapping for a young boy who’s holding a whipped cream pie. He rears back before letting it soar at a man sitting on a stool, who’s egging him on.
“Poor bastard,” Rowan mutters when the man laughs through layers of fluffy white now streaking his face.
I take his hand this time, tugging him behind me. “Come on.”
“Well, if it isn’t the happy couple!” Beatrice greets us while she swipes at the man’s face with a towel, revealing her husband, Ernie.
“What are you guys up to?” I ask.
“Trouble, surely,” he pipes up, earning a cheeky grin from Agnes, and when I realize I’m still holding his hand, I quickly release him.
“We’re raising money for Pickles.” Eleanor points around a table full of pies to the banner hanging from it, and sure enough, there’s an image of a rusty-brown dog with its tongue hanging out and an older woman sitting in a recliner next to him.
Beside the image, in all caps print, reads HELP US HELP PICKLES!!!
“He was surrendered about a month ago after our friend Tabitha was admitted to the long-term care facility,” Beatrice explains. “We’re taking turns caring for him until he can get adopted, but he fell out the back of Ernie’s truck last week and broke his leg.”
Ernie leans forward, one hand on his knee. “Damn near gave me a heart attack.”
“Oh my gosh. That’s awful.”
I give Rowan the saddest eyes I can conjure, but he’s immune to my begging. “We’re not adopting a dog.”
We all boo at him and Eleanor chucks a clean rag at his head. He dodges it easily, but that scowl of his makes me giggle.
“Fine. No dog.” I pick up one of the pies, testing the weight of it. “I’ve got a better idea.”
“I don’t like where this is going…”
Ernie rises from the stool, grinning from ear to ear when I say, “If I manage to hit you with one of these, you donate a little something to our poor friend Pickles here.”
I fully expect him to tell me to stop being foolish or that we’ve got somewhere to be, but a faint dimple creases his cheek. “I’ve seen you play darts, woman. You couldn’t hit me with that pie if I were standing right in front of you.”
After dropping my backpack, I move in front of where Ernie was sitting. “Scared, pretty boy?”
His eyes flit between me and the empty stool at my back. “If, by some miracle, you hit me, I’ll pay for the whole damn surgery.”
“Oh, you’re so on.”
Me and the three older women are in stitches just minutes after I’ve nailed my target, and when Beatrice hands him a towel, Rowan grumbles at them to send him the bill.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asks, as we walk down a less crowded path toward the restaurant.
I beam at him, cocky as can be. “Actually, I am.”
And try as he might to hide it, I think Rowan is, too.
Swiping at the damp spot on his shoulder, he says, “I can’t believe I let you do that.”
