“I’m not sure why now,” I reply carefully. I can’t tell Nate that I think he’s filling some sort of void. “I guess I really like Italian food?”
He laughs, and his arm shifts so close to mine that I can feel the heat coming off his freckled skin. “To be honest, I don’t really like Italian, but I like you.”
I stifle a snort-laugh. “Sounds like what you like ischeese,” I tease, which he totally deserves for that cute but schmaltzy comment.
His brows gather. “No, I really don’t like cheese either. Especially blue cheese. Why would anyone want to eat something that smells like unwashed feet?”
Another chuckle bobs in my throat. “You’re really turning me on right now, you know that?”
His eyes bulge. “I am?”
Oh god. Is this guy going to get any of my jokes?
“Yup,” I say seriously. “Feet and men in uniform. They’re my fetishes. Mmm.”
When his brow pinches like he’s considering that combination, I rescue him by getting up and tugging on his thick arm beneath his plaid shirt. “Come on, I’m sure there’s something left here that we haven’t eaten yet.”
We weave our way through the spectators lining up at stalls selling everything from homemade pasta sauces to bright yellow bottles of limoncello.
I pick up a pouch of Italian coffee beans and sniff it. Nate may dislike Italian food––is he the only person on earth who does?––but I can’t get enough of it. “I hope they do this fair every year.”
“Things are definitely picking up in this town,” he agrees, stepping past an artist painting Renaissance-style couple’s portraits, even though they’re damn cute and I would’ve loved one. “The fall festival’s gonna be huge this year,” he adds. “We’re having to bring in extra officers for security.”
“Really?”
He nods. “The county’s really pushing it. Hey, I thought about you when I read about that magazine article thing in the local paper. Are you going to do it?”
My steps slow. “What magazine article thing?” I barely have time to keep my house clean or get my hair cut, let alone read theStill Springs Gazette.
“Some travel influencer is doing an article for a big magazine about Fall Fest, and she’s looking for one local business to feature, which she’ll choose at the festival.”
“Wow, really?”
“Yeah. At least, I think that’s right.”
My mind explodes with possibilities as we stroll toward the road that cuts through the center of the fair. I can’t imagine our convenience store holding national appeal, but if I ramped up the stock of our local wares that are unique to the town, that could make Quinn Brothers more interesting to this reporter. And it’s not like the competition’s that stiff; now that the famous Harringtons restaurant has shut down, the best stores in town are the bookstore, the small shop that sells rocks and minerals, and the florist.
If I could turn our convenience store into a boutique of sorts that showcases the finest locally made specialty items that Still Springs has to offer, maybe we could win this feature spot and put our business back on the map, especially for the tourist market.
Nate ducks into a portable restroom, and I wait outside and cling to this glimmer of hope that I haven’t felt in months when something firm and warm brushes against me. My face flies up to find Dylan King’s ridiculously blue eyes staring down at me.
“Hi, neighbor,” he says.
“Hey.” I’m sure I’ve turned crimson.
“Ella, you remember Jade, right…the big monster?” Dylan says as his niece peeks out from his opposite side.
I morph my face into something monster-like, and she giggles, hiding behind her uncle. My eyes lift back up to meet Dylan’s gaze, becoming trapped there, when a heavy hand lands on my left shoulder.
“Is everything okay over here?” Nate says firmly, stepping between Dylan and me.
Dylan makes a show of looking over his shoulders. “I don’t know, Officer. Have there been some complaints?”
Nate tuts and uses his grip on my shoulder to guide me away from Dylan. But when we all head across the street, the swarm of visitors keeps us pushed together, and the four of us end up standing in front of a photo shoot tent. The tent’s backdrop is painted with a colorful scene of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and a tangle of Italy-themed costumes sits scattered along a table.
“Look! Dress-ups!” Ella cries, bounding into the tent.
The stallholder, a spotty-faced teen, slips lazily off his stool. “It’s twenty dollars for a group of four,” he says, sounding bored to tears.
