“Even if she did, Linda wouldn’t share that,” I say. “But someone who plans on never coming back doesn’t ask about places to plant roots.”
“Exactly,” Quinn says, softer now. “She’s probably just coming home the long way.”
And it kills me she won’t let me help pack what she needs or toss what she doesn’t. I know she can do things alone, but she shouldn’thaveto.
“Don’t worry, though,” she adds, almost as a quietafterthought. “You know everyone will look after her when she gets back. No one will let anything happen. And if the rumors are true, Sebastian is on her side. That’s got to make you feel better, right?”
In a weird way, it sort of does. I saw the way Sebastian went toe to toe with Charlotte without even a flinch. They were too far away for me to know what was happening or being said, but I’m a pretty excellent observer of body language, and he got under her skin.
If he’s capable of rattling Charlotte, I’ll feel better once she’s back here and no longer in enemy territory.
I force a smile that feels like it might crack. “Yeah,” I drawl. “Guess if she’s got the town and Sebastian on her side, she doesn’t need me worrying.”
She studies me, something soft creeping into her grin. “Just don’t make me be the flower girl at your second-chance wedding. I hate pink.”
That pulls a genuine laugh out of me, quiet but genuine.
Gus chuckles into his coffee. “She’s right, son. We all saw how you looked at that girl. The whole town did. She’ll find her way back.”
I nod once, unable to trust my voice.
While Quinn works the espresso machine, I wander to a table by the window. I’m not sure what’s worse. Fall ushering itself out, or Christmas creeping in. Usually, I’m counting down until her arrival, but I don’t know when that’s going to be this year.
It should feel cheerful. It mostly feels like waiting.
I check my phone even though I shouldn’t. A photo from Dreamy Pines Farm, with the caption:It’s not the same.
She sends crumbs.
I send pages.
It would probably be easier to text, but somehow I thought letters were more old-fashioned and romantic. Like you put your heart on the page and trust it to find its way.
Quinn drops my to-go cup on the table with a muted thud. “I give you the good stuff. It’s like therapy, but cheaper.”
“Anything is cheaper than therapy,” I murmur.
She leans on the chair across from me, lowering her voice. “You know, if you’re not sleeping, I’ve got Violet’s bedtime tea behind the counter. Works better than prayer and melatonin combined.”
I hate that she isn’t wrong. A stranger could pack a vacation in the bags under my eyes. I always sleep better when Laila is close—that body doubling sort of thing, maybe?
Or maybe it’s just because I love her.
I’ve never had trouble sleeping when she leaves. I’m chalking this up to not knowing when she’s coming back. If she is.
A crooked smile is about all I have the energy to muster. “I’ll grab some tomorrow when I drop off the delivery.”
She nods, then straightens. “Good. Because I’m not dealing with you showing up here half-alive again. You scare the tourists.”
“Appreciate your concern.”
“Concern?” She grins. “No, this is self-preservation. And part protection—these people don’t show up to dine with a zombie. Halloween was over a month ago.”
Before I can fire back, a smooth voice cuts in, low and amused. “Don’t tease him too hard, Quinn. The man’s clearly haunted enough.”
Sebastian Gold slides into the empty chair across fromme like he’s been here all along. Sometimes I wonder if a mere mention of his name summons him, sort of like saying Beetlejuice one too many times.
“Morning to you, too,” I say.
