And if nothing else, I’d get roasted marshmallows out of it.
Win-win.
I had exactly twenty minutes of daylight left and one mission on my mind as I grabbed my keys, slung my canvas tote over my shoulder, and bolted out the door.
Buttercup Market was only a five-minute drive, maybe four if I hit the one blinking light at the right moment. I was halfway down the gravel driveway before I realized I hadn’t even changed out of my lodge apron. Whatever. If anyone asked, I was embracing a chic small-town hustle aesthetic.
I rolled down the windows, letting the early evening breeze tangle through my hair as I hummed along to the oldies station. The plan was simple. Okay,relativelysimple. It involved food, light, a touch of ambiance, and the slightest hint of subterfuge.
But halfway through the produce section, staring down a very suspicious pile of lumpy apples, it hit me.
I froze.
Mouth parted.
Heart sinking.
“I left the list,” I whispered.
Right there. On the counter. In my planner. The one with the pink cover and three hundred sticky notes.
I had madea very detailed list.
S’mores ingredients, maybe cheese, maybe wine. Apples. Something with caramel. Napkins. I’d even drawn tiny little doodles of marshmallows next to the items, for emotional support.
And now? Nothing.
I spun my cart around slowly, trying to jog my memory as I moved. Crackers? Definitely. Marshmallows? Obviously. Chocolate? Yes—dark, preferably. The rest? Debatable. Possibly invented by a fever-dream version of myself who thought mood lighting was critical to happiness.
Still, I couldn’t help it.
My steps got lighter as I walked.
Because even without the list, theideawas still there, buzzing in the back of my brain like a firefly that refused to be caught.
It didn’t have to be perfect.
It just had to feel like a moment filled with something real and something that might makehimpause.
And if I could pull it off without tripping over my own ambition, maybe I’d see the corners of Ben Jensen’s mouth twitch upward in something resembling a smile.
The thought alone gave me a jolt of energy as I rounded into the snack aisle.
No list?
No problem.
I had instinct.
Optimism.
And the burning desire to gently dismantle a man’s grumpy emotional armor with the strategic deployment of chocolate and charm.
Game on.
Chapter Eighteen
Ben
