Page 101 of The Worst Possible Plan

I liked her. There wasn’t much point pretending otherwise anymore. Jenna had seen through it. Hell, I’d finally seen through it.

I more than liked her. That was the part I’d been avoiding. Liking someone was manageable. You could ignore that. More than liking someone… that tended to ignore you right back.

That kiss hadn’t surprised me because she’d kissed me. If anything, some part of me had been hoping she’d do exactly that. Maybe not in the middle of the festival. Maybe not within eyesight of half the town. Hartwell wasn’t exactly known for choosing conventional timing.

It had surprised me because it felt exactly like I’d imagined it would. I’d wondered more than once what it’d be like to kiss her. I’d never admitted that to another living soul, but the thought had crossed my mind often enough.

Only better. Reality had outperformed imagination by a comfortable margin, which was irritating because imagination had set a fairly high standard.

I’d wanted to pull her closer. The memory came back with uncomfortable clarity. Her hands against my face. The warmth of her standing so close. The surprised little sound she’d made that she’d probably hoped I hadn’t heard. I had.

I wanted to kiss her again, slower this time, longer. Without the entire population of Maplewood Falls serving as accidental witnesses.

The gravel road appeared ahead. Tires crackled beneath the SUV as I eased onto it, a light cloud of dust rising in the rearview mirror. The farm sat somewhere beyond the trees, hidden from the road like most places out here preferred to be.

A weathered wooden sign stood beside a white fence.

HILLS FARM

The paint had faded in places, but somebody had clearly taken the time to repaint the letters every few years. Flower boxes overflowed beneath the sign with purple petunias and yellow marigolds, giving the entrance an unexpectedly welcoming feel.

I slowed the SUV and turned into the long driveway. Ahead, I could just make out the roof of a farmhouse, several paddocks, and a large red barn sitting against a backdrop of green pasture.

Whatever happened next, running away from it wasn’t an option anymore. Not from the conversation. Not from the apology. And definitely not from the woman who’d somehow managed to steal a truck, rescue livestock, arrest my common sense, and make me hope—against every instinct I’d spent years cultivating—that maybe this time, doing the harder thing was worth it.

25

SOPHIE

Five minutes later I was heading out of Maplewood Falls again, Sarah’s little Jetta buzzing along Route Twelve while my phone cheerfully announced directions from the cup holder. The engine made its usual determined little humming noise every time I asked it to climb a hill, like it was encouraging itself with positive affirmations. I appreciated the effort. We were both operating on questionable emotional fuel at this point.

“In two miles, turn left.”

“I’m on it, Gerta,” I told the GPS. Yes, I named my GPS. And, yes, that was a tad crazy. But I didn’t care.

I tightened my hands around the steering wheel, mostly because it gave them something to do besides dramatically gesturing at empty passenger seats.

“He’s an asshole.” I said it firmly, like repetition alone might eventually convince the tiny optimistic part of my brain that kept filing formal objections.

“You hear that?” I told absolutely nobody. “An asshole.”

The word didn’t fit. Which was inconvenient. I’d really wanted it to fit. Life would’ve been considerably easier if he’d simply turned out to be awful.

I tried again.

“A… frustrating asshole.” Better. More nuanced. Slightly less satisfying.

Still not quite right. Ugh. Why did reality always insist on being complicated? Couldn’t people just neatly fall into categories? Villain. Hero. Person who leaves shopping carts in the middle of parking lots. Simple.

“An emotionally constipated asshole.” I nodded slowly. There it was. That felt medically plausible. Someone should probably prescribe him feelings twice daily with meals.

Closer. Not perfect. But definitely moving in the right direction. If nothing else, I’d created an entirely new psychological diagnosis.

“He kisses women one night, arrests them the next, and then refuses to answer basic questions about innocent farm animals.” I pointed one finger toward the windshield as if presenting evidence before a jury. “That is not normal behavior. I feel like we can all agree on that.”

I nodded to myself.

“Yes.” Convincing. Decisive. Almost presidential.