Page 35 of The Worst Possible Plan

“When is it scheduled?” Her voice was steadier this time. Not completely confident, but confident enough. There was a difference.

Tony looked surprised. “One o’clock.”

She nodded and wrote it down. “Perfect. We’ll make sure nobody blocks access before then.” She flipped the binder shut with a small nod, as if she’d known the answer all along. If I hadn’t been standing beside her the whole time, I might’ve believed it too.

Tony stared at her. His expression softened almost immediately. “Okay. Thanks.” Then he walked away without another question, already calling instructions to someone across the lot. One answer. One decision. That was usually all people wanted before they moved on.

Hartwell looked after him. “Did that work?” she asked quietly.

I nodded. “It did.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I sounded like I knew what I was doing.” She looked genuinely puzzled.

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“I know.”

She laughed. Actually laughed. Not the nervous kind she’d been hiding behind all morning. A real one that escaped before she could stop it, bright and warm enough that a couple of nearby volunteers glanced over with small smiles. It caught me off guard because I found myself liking the sound of it a whole lot more than I should have.

Funny. In less than a day I’d watched this woman put out one fire after another. A goat. Alpacas. A miniature donkey blocking traffic. Food trucks parked in the wrong places. Somehow, trouble kept finding her.

But the first time she stopped pretending she had all the answers. The first time she asked a good question, listened, and made a decision. People started listening.

She hadn’t changed. Her approach had.

Yesterday she’d tried to prove she belonged.

Today she was letting people do what they already knew how to do.

I watched her scribble another note into Helen’s binder before tucking a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear with the back of her wrist, careful not to smear ink across her face. She looked tired with faint shadows under her eyes that she hadn’t bothered trying to hide. A smudge of blue ink stained the side of her hand, but she probably hadn’t even noticed. A strand of hair escaped again almost immediately, falling back across her cheek. She blew at it absentmindedly without looking up from the page. It didn’t move. Neither of us mentioned it.

She’d hate knowing I’d noticed.

Not because she wanted to impress me. Because she wanted to convince everybody she belonged here. That she knew what she was doing. Pride had very little to do with it. It looked more like determination. The stubborn kind. The kind that kept people showing up after bad days instead of packing a suitcase and calling it quits.

I’d seen that look before on new deputies, firefighters, first-year paramedics, and people thrown into jobs that felt one size too big. Some rose to it. Some didn’t. The ones who succeeded usually weren’t the loudest or the smartest. They were the ones willing to ask one more question, work one more hour, and come back after making a mistake without pretending it hadn’t happened.

She caught me looking. “What?” she asked. She glanced down at herself, checking for spilled coffee or something, and then looked over one shoulder as if she expected to find another disaster standing behind her.

Considering the last twenty-four hours, I couldn’t blame her.

“Nothing,” I answered.

She narrowed her eyes. “That wasn’t a ‘nothing’ look.”

“I don’t have a ‘nothing’ look.”

She raised a brow. “You absolutely do.” She pointed vaguely toward my face. “It’s the same one you use for traffic violations, escaped livestock, and event planners.”

“I have one look.”

She smiled. “Exactly.” The smile arrived before she could stop it, small but genuine. It changed her whole face. I found myself noticing that too, which was becoming an increasingly inconvenient habit.

I looked away first. She wasn’t my responsibility. The festival wasn’t my responsibility. Technically, the only reason I was still standing here was because of permits and public safety. That’s what I’d tell anyone who asked. It also happened to be true.

That was the story.