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‘What wedding?’ I shout back, making him chuckle. I divert my attention to Ryan. ‘In the past twelve hours, there’s been talk of moving in, babies, and now a wedding?’
‘You panicking?’ he asks, shoving a chunk of muffin in his mouth and chewing as he watches me.
‘No.’ I down the rest of my cider and place the glass on a nearby table. ‘I have to go check on my budding artists.’ I walk away but stop, feeling his smirk burning my back. ‘I’m not marrying you,’ I declare to the blank space before me.
‘We’ll see,’ he muses casually.
This smile on my face is so big, it’s reaching both ears. ‘We will,’ I retort, lifting my chin and getting on my way. I hear him chuckle as I go, and all I can wonder is what it would be like to be married to Ryan. To be his wife. I wouldn’t be a trophy. He wouldn’t dictate . . . everything. He loves me the way I am.
The warm fuzzy feeling inside is squashed when I see Darcy approaching. Oh no. She stares me down as we walk toward each other, and just as she’s passing me, she stops briefly. I fear the worst. ‘Don’t try to replace me,’ she mumbles, and then she carries on her way.
‘Darcy, I would never—’ I’m cut short when her silencing hand lifts, and she looks back over her shoulder, a filthy glare being fired my way.
Oh boy. I sigh and continue back to my artists to check their progress. ‘Looking good, guys,’ I say, nodding my approval. ‘You have an hour remaining.’
‘I’m almost finished,’ Alex yells back at me. ‘The pageant starts soon.’ Her tongue comes out and rests on her lip as she leans in, concentrating on the last finer details.
‘Alex, this is so great,’ I say, taking in her effort.
‘Thanks. Do you think I’ll win?’
‘It’s going to look a bit dodgy if you win the pageant and the painting competition, especially since your granddad is judging both.’ I reach forward and point to one of the shop fronts. ‘A little more shading there.’
‘I knew there was something missing.’ She dunks her brush in the grey paint and gets to shading quickly.
‘And what’s this?’ I ask, pointing to a black blob in the background. ‘Oh, that’s a truck.’
I peer up, looking for it. ‘Where?’
‘It drove off so I had to use my memory. I mean, didn’t he know I was painting it?’
I laugh. ‘How inconsiderate.’
Alex jumps up. ‘Done. I’ve gotta go.’
‘I’ll look after it for you!’ I call as she dashes off.
‘Okay!’
I straighten and take in the busyness around me, unable to stop myself wondering how I got so lucky to choose Hampton. I see Molly blowing her whistle, declaring the start of the egg-and-spoon race, and Mr Chaps is outside his shop dishing out toffee apples. Mrs Hatt is holding a crocheting class, and then I see Ryan, who’s on the stage shifting boxes so Cyrus can sweep it clean, ready for the pageant. No matter where I turn, I see smiles. I see happiness.
Ryan looks up at me as he unbends, a heavy box in his hands, and he flashes me his crooked smile that sends my insides to mush. That makes my heart swell. It’s the smile that was the start of something beautiful. I see a million promises in his eyes as he watches me watching him, and I believe every one of them. I nod and he nods in return as he turns and follows the directions being given to him by one of the volunteers. I sigh, utterly content, and slowly peruse the high street.
The cotton candy stall, the apple-bobbing barrel, the face-painting tent, the . . .
I do a double take, back to the top of the street, seeing it again. A truck. I step forward, squinting, but a few people walk across my path, and I quickly step to the side to get it back in view.
There’s no truck. But there was a truck. A black one. A Mitsubishi. Didn’t Ryan say it was an idiot in a Mitsubishi who ran him off the road? I find myself reaching to my nape without thought and rubbing there, my feet suddenly welded to the ground. Chills. They glide down my spine like melting ice, and I look around me, a horrible sense of unease rooting itself in my gut.
‘Oh my God, Hannah.’ Molly appears beside me, but I can’t see her face because it’s concealed behind a huge spray of red roses. ‘These were delivered to your shop this morning before you arrived. I totally forgot and shopd them under the toffee apple stall.’ She thrusts them at me, and my arms automatically come up to take them. ‘Who knew Ryan Willis could be so romantic?’
As she hustles off, I stare at the flowers, my unease not leaving me. I pluck out the card nestled amid the roses but have to put the arrangement on the ground to free both hands and open the envelope. I pull the card out, and I frown when I see a photograph with it. What? I stare down at the image, confused for a moment, until I realize what I’m looking at. My paintings. The ones I sold. They’re hanging on the bare brick wall of a room. I open the card, but there are no words, just one single x. A kiss. My head tilts a little, my stomach turning. The man who bought my paintings sent me flowers? Why? I pull the photograph back to the front, gazing down at my art, and the temperature of my blood seems to drop a few too many degrees. I look up and around.
