Page 66 of The Worst Possible Plan

And checking to see if the sheriff was still around. I hadn’t seen him in about two hours, since I’d ducked behind the pretzel booth.

He’d simply disappeared. Maybe he’d been called away on more important matters than a street festival. That made sense.

Still, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed.

I enjoyed stalking the sheriff. A little too much.

A minute later, I found myself at the petting zoo.

And I wasn’t the only one.

Dottie was inside the pen standing beside Bandit and holding a faded cloth bag embroidered with tiny daisies. She was talking to the animals in the same calm, matter-of-fact voice she used with people, as though discussing important business. Bandit stood in front of her with perfect attention, Theo hovered nearby with hopeful eyes, and even Daisy and the donkey had wandered a few cautious steps closer.

Somehow, in the space of a single afternoon, Dottie had become the livestock equivalent of a beloved grandmother.

Curious, I wandered closer. “What are you feeding him? Are those… cookies?”

Dottie beamed at me. “Grass cookies. They love them.” She reached into the bag and produced another perfectly round little biscuit, which Bandit accepted with surprising delicacy.

I stared at her, open-mouthed. “Grass cookies?”

“They’re gluten-free.”

“For the goat?” I wasn’t even sure why I asked. At this point, I’d accepted that normal rules no longer applied in Maplewood Falls.

“He has a sensitive stomach,” she explained.

“Ah.”

Bandit happily accepted another cookie.

“I made carrot ones for you, sweetheart,” said Dottie, smiling at Theo.

I laughed. “Of course you did.”

“They’re part of the festival.” Dottie shrugged as though that explained absolutely everything. “Besides, happy animals make happy children, and happy children convince their parents to stay longer. It’s practically marketing.”

“Okay then.” I couldn’t even argue with that logic.

A slow country song floated across the square. I turned as the lead singer stood at the microphone in worn cowboy boots and faded jeans, an old acoustic guitar hanging comfortably against his chest like it had belonged there forever. His warm, easy voice wrapped itself around the lyrics while a woman with long auburn curls added soft harmonies beside him.

The stage itself glowed beneath strands of golden lights and old-fashioned lanterns hanging from wooden posts. The flower boxes tucked along the front made the whole thing feel less like a concert and more like somebody had invited the entire town into their backyard.

I loved it.

Conversation softened. Couples drifted toward the open space in front of the stage. An elderly couple who looked well into their seventies moved together with the effortless rhythm of people who’d been dancing the same songs for forty years. Nearby, a little girl stood on her father’s boots while he guided them in slow circles, her giggles carrying through the warm evening air.

Movement caught my attention.

Lola sashayed toward the dance floor—with both of her admirers.

One man held her right hand while the other rested a respectful hand against the small of her back, and Lola drifted between them as though dancing with two men at once was perfectly normal. Every few seconds she’d twirl from one to the other, neither man looking remotely bothered. If anything, they both looked delighted just to be included.

I watched them for a long moment, and something inside me loosened.

The frantic knot I’d been carrying around for two days untied itself one careful loop at a time. I wasn’t mentally rehearsing my next apology. I was simply… there, watching people smile because of something I’d helped make happen.

It was a strange feeling, wonderful and terrifying, like happiness had shown up uninvited. I was afraid to make any sudden movements in case it changed its mind.