Page 92 of The Worst Possible Plan

“So…” Lola began.

“No.” I kept my focus out the window. A squirrel darted across somebody’s lawn, carrying what looked suspiciously like an entire hamburger bun.

“I haven’t even asked anything.”

“I know.” Which was exactly the problem. I knew Lola. Her opening questions were never actually questions. They were tiny conversational fishing lures designed to hook embarrassing confessions.

“Then how do you know your answer is no?”

“Because I know you.” I’d grown up with her. I’d seen her interrogate people at family dinners with nothing but one raised eyebrow and a strategically timed sip of wine. Resistance was largely theoretical.

She smiled. “Fair.” She accepted that answer with suspicious ease, which made me nervous. Lola agreeing too quickly was usually the conversational equivalent of watching someone light a fuse.

Another minute passed. Long enough that I briefly convinced myself I’d survived the interrogation.

“I will say one thing,” added Lola after a moment.

I groaned. Right on schedule. Hope really was a remarkably fragile little thing.

“I knew this romance was going to be exciting.”

“It isn’t a romance.” It barely qualified as emotional stability. At this point it was more of a public service announcement about making impulsive decisions.

“No?”

“No,” I repeated.

“Well, I’ll just say, that I’ve had less eventful first dates.” She said it with genuine admiration, which somehow made everything worse.

I dropped my forehead lightly against the cool window. “That wasn’t a date.” Although, admittedly, it did involve dancing, kissing, and emotional devastation. Which, now that I thought about it, covered a surprising number of first-date categories. “I would like to get out of this car now.”

“We’re still three blocks away,” said Dottie, turning around in the front passenger seat.

“I’ll walk.” I’d crawl if necessary. My dignity was already gone. Exercise couldn’t make things much worse.

“No.” Lola locked the doors, and they clicked with cheerful finality.

Wonderful. I’d survived jail only to become a hostage in Lola’s luxury sedan. Which, admittedly, was considerably more comfortable than the holding cell. Leather seats. Air conditioning. Subtle perfume that probably cost more than my monthly grocery bill. Still technically captivity.

By the time we pulled into the inn’s parking lot, I was emotionally exhausted in that peculiar way where your body wanted a nap, your brain wanted answers, and your heart wanted to file a formal complaint with management.

I’d kissed the sheriff… voluntarily, enthusiastically, and with very questionable timing.

I’d been arrested by the sheriff… less enthusiastically and considerably more publicly.

I was then ignored by the sheriff, which somehow had managed to sting the most. Funny how silence could outperform handcuffs.

I was finally released by the sheriff. Or at least by his office. I still wasn’t entirely sure who deserved credit for that one anymore.

I climbed out before Lola could say anything else. If she opened her mouth again, there was at least a seventy-five percent chance the words Sheriff Sexy would appear somewhere in the sentence, and I simply didn’t have the emotional bandwidth.

I made a beeline for the inn’s front door and stepped inside. The lunchtime crowd had thinned. The cheerful clink of dishes drifted from the dining room, mixed with the smell of fresh bread and soup.

Sarah smiled the second she spotted us. “There you are.” She hurried over, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “I heard there was some kind of misunderstanding at the sheriff’s office?” Her expression stayed reassuringly casual, the kind people used when they suspected something embarrassing had happened but hadn’t yet learned the details.

Misunderstanding.

I liked that word. It sounded soft around the edges. Forgiving. The sort of word that didn’t suggest fingerprints and holding cells.