Page 73 of The Worst Possible Plan

I rubbed the back of my neck and turned around, my gaze going toward the petting zoo. Sophie had already slipped through the temporary gate. The little goat lifted up its head at her and then bounded across the pen so enthusiastically all four feet seemed to leave the ground at once.

She laughed, the same laugh she’d tried so hard to hide earlier. And even through the music and the voices of the crowd, I could hear it.

I watched as she dropped into a crouch. The goat practically climbed into her lap demanding attention.

“There you are,” I heard her say. She scratched behind his ears.

Then the alpacas and a miniature donkey followed a moment later. Within thirty seconds every animal in the pen had gathered around her like she’d become the center of gravity.

I’d spent enough years around animals to know the difference. Trust couldn’t be faked. Dogs, horses, goats… they either liked someone or they didn’t.

Especially that goat. That little menace had chewed my card. I wondered if she kept it or tossed it.

She laughed again as one of the alpacas insisted on resting his head against her shoulder. She rubbed its head and kept talking to it like it had just shared something important.

She looked happy. Genuinely happy.

It suited her.

I stayed where I was a little longer, watching her. I’d spent the last few days seeing her stressed, exhausted, second-guessing every decision she made. This was different. The worry was gone, if only for a minute.

And I liked seeing her like that more than I probably should have.

When I realized I’d been standing there watching her for entirely too long, I pulled myself away.

I got back to work, walking the festival to make sure everything was running smoothly and everyone stayed safe.

I stopped at the main entrance to answer a tourist’s question about parking, helped an elderly man carry two folding chairs closer to the stage, and pointed three different families toward the public washrooms. One little girl proudly held up the oversized stuffed bear she’d won at one of the midway games and insisted I admire it before she’d let her parents continue walking.

A vendor selling homemade fudge asked whether he could start packing up early while another wanted to know where to leave tomorrow morning’s extra supplies. Near the information booth, I checked in with two of my deputies, who reported nothing more serious than a missing wallet that had already been returned and one teenager who’d climbed onto the gazebo roof for a better view of the band before being politely convinced that gravity wasn’t a suggestion. Exactly the sort of problems I liked. Ordinary ones. The kind that meant people were busy making memories instead of emergency calls.

By a little after ten, families began drifting toward their cars. Children clutched oversized cotton candy that had somehow survived the entire evening and stuffed animals tucked beneath sleepy arms while parents negotiated the familiar balancing act of carrying exhausted kids, leftover funnel cakes, and souvenir bags all at once.

Couples lingered around the stage for one last song before slowly making their way toward the parking lot. The whole festival settled into that contented rhythm that only came after a genuinely good day, when nobody seemed particularly eager to leave because everyone knew they’d be talking about it tomorrow anyway.

The Riverstone Ramblers finished their last song to loud applause, the lead singer tipping the brim of his cowboy hat as whistles and cheers echoed across the square. The fiddle player gave one last playful flourish before lowering his bow, and the drummer stood to wave at the crowd while children near the front enthusiastically clapped long after the music had ended. One by one, microphone stands disappeared, guitar cases snapped shut, and thick black cables were neatly coiled across the stage.

Food trucks closed their serving windows. Volunteers folded tables, stacked chairs in neat towers, rolled up extension cords, and gathered overflowing garbage bags. They removed temporary barricades as Main Road gradually transformed from festival grounds back into an ordinary small-town street.

I helped where I could, moving fencing, loading traffic cones into the back of a town pickup, and answering three last-minute questions about parking. I gave directions to a family looking for the quickest route back to the highway and helped one exhausted vendor wrestle a stubborn canopy back into its storage bag before it won the fight. One elderly couple insisted on thanking every deputy individually before they left. The husband shook each of our hands with both of his while his wife hugged anyone who stood still long enough. It took nearly ten minutes, but not one of us minded waiting.

I found myself looking over my shoulder, searching. I could try and lie to myself, saying I was just checking up on things. But I wasn’t. I was looking for Hartwell.

I spotted her. She was still here, helping volunteers clean the petting zoo while laughing with Dottie and Helen.

Two volunteers waved as they climbed into the back of an old pickup. A middle-aged man stretched his back with a groan while the woman beside him tucked a bag under her arm.

“We’ll pick up the rest tomorrow morning,” called out the man.

“See you tomorrow,” Hartwell said with a wave.

“Great job today,” said the woman. “Best festival we’ve had in years.”

Hartwell smiled, that little surprised smile I’d seen earlier, like she still wasn’t used to people saying nice things to her.

I turned away and walked over to my SUV. I couldn’t really do anything else, and hanging around like a fucking stalker wasn’t my style. I didn’t want to creep her out.

I climbed in, closed the door, and sat there for a moment. I should have started the engine. Instead, I replayed the kiss.