Page 9 of The Worst Possible Plan

The truck driver leaned out his window. “Boss, I still need to know where you want the stage.”

I looked back at the sheriff, my face feeling like I’d stuck it in Dottie’s oven. It was entirely possible my cheeks were now visible from space. Which was unfortunate because he was standing close enough to witness every second of my professional collapse.

The sheriff glanced at the truck still blocking half the street. His gaze lingered on the line of cars forming behind it and then on the volunteers wandering around holding folding chairs like confused migrating birds.

A folding chair collapsed somewhere behind me. The loud crash was followed by an offended yelp.

I sighed. “Mostly under control.”

Captain Competent nodded once. “Looks like it.”

Fantastic. I had known this man for approximately forty-five seconds, and he’d already caught me in a lie. Not the big lie about having three years of event-planning experience. Just the smaller lie about having any clue what was happening at this exact moment. Although, now that I thought about it, maybe they were related.

I pressed my lips together and tightened my grip on the binder. Okay. Fine. So things weren’t going perfectly. I had a few minor setbacks—a blocked street, a missing stage location, an electrical guy looking for answers I didn’t have. Nobody had died. That felt important.

Besides, I could do this.

Probably.

People planned festivals every day. Thousands of people.

How hard could it be? Actually, don’t answer that.

I straightened my shoulders and gave myself a mental shake. I had survived being dumped by text message. I’d survived losing my job. I’d survived explaining to my landlord why twelve strangers were doing yoga in my living room. Compared to that, organizing a small-town festival should have been manageable.

The fact that I had absolutely no evidence to support that conclusion felt irrelevant.

I was doing this. I could do this.

And if I couldn’t do this, I would simply continue pretending I could until somehow it became true.

A volunteer rushed over. He looked to be in his early thirties, wearing faded jeans, work boots, and a baseball cap with MAPLEWOOD FALLS MARINA stitched across the front. He had an open, friendly face like he probably helped old ladies carry groceries without being asked and volunteered for things because he genuinely wanted to help. Unfortunately, he had also made the mistake of assuming I knew what I was doing.

“Where do you want the petting zoo?” asked the volunteer.

I blinked. “The what?”

“The petting zoo.” He shifted his weight. “The animals are arriving tomorrow.”

There was a petting zoo? Of course there was a petting zoo. Somewhere between the stage, the vendors, the electrical hookups, the chairs, the permits, and the growing traffic problem, I had completely missed the fact that livestock were also about to become my responsibility. Which felt like information I should have received before accepting the job. Or before lying about being qualified for it. One of those two moments would have been helpful.

The sheriff crossed his arms over his wide chest. “You sure you’ve got everything under control,” he repeated.

I stood my ground. “Yes, I do.” I even lifted my chin a little. Not because I was confident. More because if I didn’t commit fully to the lie, it might collapse under its own weight.

Captain Competent watched me a beat too long to be considered polite. Long enough for me to become aware of every ridiculous thing about myself. My hair, my red face, the droplets of sweat trickling down my armpits, and the very real possibility that I smelled like a gym locker.

“I’ll be seeing you soon, Hartwell,” he said finally and then spun around and walked away. His long stride carried him toward the traffic backup with the calm efficiency of a man who solved problems for a living.

Me? I was creating them professionally.

“Can’t wait,” I told him, my traitorous heart pounding. Which was annoying. I’d spent the last six months dating a perfectly normal man who sold insurance and had never once caused my heart to do anything except maintain a steady and medically acceptable rhythm.

I thought I saw the smallest hint of amusement cross his face before he turned around. Like he’d already reached a conclusion about me and found it entertaining.

Like I was entertainment.

Was I irritated? Yes. And I may or may not have stared at his ass as he walked away.