The corners of Rhett’s lips drooped. “Wouldn’t want that,” he mumbled, sounding almost annoyed.
My hands shook as I bent to gather my balls of paper. “Can I count on you to come to the town’s festival?” If I focused ongathering the scraps, I was sure I could keep my voice from wavering.
He stood slowly and swiped a piece of trash on the way. “Do you even have to ask that?”
Of course I had to ask that. I wasn’t sure if I’d wake up the next day and find out that he had already disappeared to the West Coast. And I wasn’t sure how long it would take me to recover.
“I’m glad to hear it,” I said instead, nearly tripping over the words.
Swiping the trash bag from the other side of the shop, he watched as I stuffed my collection inside and began to tie it closed.
“Here.” Rhett extended the fragment of paper.
I whispered a thanks and reached for it blindly, more than ready to run out the door and let the cool air calm my flaming cheeks. Our fingers brushed. Swallowing, I moved to snatch my hand back, but he caught it with his own.
Blood rushed in my ears as I met his eyes and froze.
He took a step forward, then another. The air grew dangerously thin. His Adam’s apple bobbed as his gaze drifted over my face.
“Georgie,” Rhett said, voice low.
Every muscle fiber screamed to melt into his arms—to forget everything and believe for just a second that someone was choosing me. But as much as I wanted to ignore reality, I knew it would only make the leaving that much worse.
So I flashed the smile—the one that fooled everyone—and slipped my hand away. “Thanks for all your help, Rhett.”
I turned before he could see it fall. Shoving that stupid ball of trash in the garbage bag, I tied the strings and shouted a goodbye as I ran out the door.
Around the corner, though, I sunk back onto the wall and let out a shaking breath.
I couldn’t love someone who was leaving. Not again.
???
The next morning, the gossip mill was already churning at full speed.
I couldn’t walk down Main Street without snippets drifting to my ears:
“Georgie really pulled a crowd last night—”
“—Claire’s gala sounds more elegant…”
“—Rhett lifting her onto the counter? Bold move.”
By the time I reached the Morning Bell, my thoughts were spinning. It was still hard to wrap my mind around last night—from the packed shop, to the community rallying together, to a certain carpenter who seemed intent on setting up camp in my mind.
Their division over the subject was no surprise to me. For some reason, though, I hadn’t fully anticipated that all the tongues would be wagging inmydirection.
That morning turned into a blur of festival prep.
First stop: the high school art room.
Kenzie and Wyatt sprawled across a table, surrounded by vibrant paints and a slew of poster boards. One readSAVE OUR SUMMERin giant bubble letters, and another was littered with sketches of pies.
“What do you think?” Wyatt asked, barely audible over the music blaring from his phone speakers.
“They’re perfect,” I said, genuinely. The bright colors made me giddy. “Hang them anywhere people can’t avoid looking—shop windows, telephone poles—the school, even.”
He sent me a goofy grin. “Miss Anderson already volunteered the entire Visual Arts class to help.”
