Page 57 of The Worst Possible Plan

Her eyes widened. “You know. I’ve got just the stuff to make that go away.”

“You do—ow.” Pain flared in my neck as I’d twisted it to look at her.

“In fact, I just finished a batch last night,” she said happily. “A little goose fat, crushed garlic, cayenne pepper, pine tar, and just a sprinkle of well-aged horse manure. Nature’s anti-inflammatory.”

I slowly lowered my mug. “Horse manure?”

“Don’t worry. I boiled it first.” She beamed. “I call it Dottie’s Miracle Muscle Melt. It works miracles. Trust me.”

“Okay.” Hell, I was willing to try anything at this point. Looked like that was going to be horse manure. Excellent.

“Be right back!” She spun around, bare feet slapping, and disappeared into the kitchen.

And she’d left with the breakfast plate too.

I let out a breath as I rubbed my neck. Having a stiff neck on the festival’s first day was probably one of the worst things that could happen.

I couldn’t exactly project calm, capable festival coordinator energy if every time someone called my name, I had to rotate my entire body to look at them.

Dottie appeared a moment later with a tiny jar in one hand, and thankfully my breakfast plate in the other. “Here,” she said, holding out the jar. “Rub some on. You should start feeling better in no time. Oh, it might burn a little. Don’t worry. That means it’s working.”

“Right.” I took the jar and twisted the top. Of course I had to smell it. I brought it to my nose and took a sniff. “Dottie.”

“Yes.”

“It smells like manure.”

Dottie gave me a light smack on the back of the head. “Don’t be a baby. Now put some on. It works. I rubbed some on my hands earlier. Nobody’s complained.”

Yet. “Fine.”

I dabbed two fingers into the ointment, trying not to breathe through my nose, and rubbed it onto my neck. The moment it touched my skin, my neck caught fire.

“Sweet mother of…”

The burning faded almost as quickly as it started. I rolled my shoulder. “Oh my god.” I turned my head to the right. “I think it’s actually working.”

“Told you,” said Dottie proudly.

I twisted the lid back onto the jar and set it on the table. I might smell like a stable, but at least I could turn my head again.

“So,” began Dottie, her expression softening. “You ready for today?”

I nodded, not finding the words. Mostly because they’d all been replaced by caffeine and low-grade panic.

Yes. Today was festival day. The real one. No more planning or pretending I still had time. In a few short hours, Maplewood Falls was going to fill with hundreds, possibly thousands of people. Children. Parents. Tourists. Vendors. Musicians. Volunteers.

And today, I’d find out whether forty-eight hours of controlled panic had actually been enough. Whether every checklist, every frantic note in Helen’s binder, every near-disaster, every conversation with Sheriff Walker, every escaped goat, and every cup of coffee had somehow added up to something resembling competence.

I took one long drink of coffee. “Maybe I should make a run for it.”

Dottie snorted. “You can panic after breakfast. Eat. You’ll feel better. Trust me.” She slid the plate toward me. On it sat a perfectly golden pancake.

My stomach answered with an enthusiastic growl. “Fine. But I also think I might throw up if I eat.”

“Don’t be silly. You’ll be fine.” Dottie propped a hand on her hip, studying me with that look she had, half maternal, half amused, fully unbothered. “You can do this.”

“We’ll see.” I slumped in my chair, my fingers shaking from nerves. Great. Now I had the shakes to go with my not-so-stiff neck.