Page 16 of Fall Love

She’s right. I know she’s right. Especially now that I know who Tate really is.

Once upon a New Year’s Eve, he was simply Driver, a hot man in a racecar driver costume who knew how to rev my engine.

Now, he’s Tatum Love, town royalty.

But he’s also so much more than a simple title. Since our reintroduction, Tate has been considerably kind, almost compassionate about my pregnancy. He’s worried about my swollen feet and breathing fumes in the garage. Even deeper, his soft brown eyes express genuine concern, not pity, for me. Like he’s just a good guy, and I should not be so surprised by that.

It isn’t like I attract bad men. I just don’t attract men on a level that involves staying power.

And after Tate’s confession yesterday, about how he wants the full-package experience, involving love and commitment, a strong relationship and partnership like being a husband and a father, he seems like a man who wants to stick.

Which is not what I expected about him.

Yet, none of that is the reason a little part of me wants to hold back. Telling him the truth would be like giving him one more sliver of me. He’s lingering in town to chat with Lumi about the sale of the garage, and that truth stares me in the face. She’s going to want to sell . . . to him.

“Are you drinking?” The sharp masculine voice turns both our heads, and I meet the face of a very concerned Tate staring back at me.

Isolde and I have been leaning on a standing table. In this crowded space, stools aren’t available. Only tall tables are provided for craft brew connoisseurs to rest their drinks while standing. In the corner of the tent, a modern folk band is setting up. This place is about to crank it up a notch and turn into a proper revelry.

And no, I am not drinking, but I do have a sample of zero-alcohol beer from The Moose is Loose in my hand.

“Yep.” I pop the -p before winding up the sarcasm. “Getting drunk as a skunk in a funk.”

Tate’s eyes widen. The man standing beside him looks equally aghast. And both men are wearing flannel shirts. While I expect the attire on Landon Abbott, seeing Tate in yet another clothing combination is deliciously disturbing. I’ve seen him in a racecar driver costume (and out of it), plus a tailored suit, running attire, and now this, the official uniform of all Maine men.

The flannel shirt.

I hate how well he wears this one in shades of blue with dark jeans.

“It’s a double-O,” Isolde clarifies, unable to keep up the ruse.

Landon snorts. His dad owns HammerTime Hardware Store, and Isolde worked there as a teenager. She still works there during her summers off. Teachers do not make nearly as much money as they deserve. In addition to Landon’s red flannel shirt, he wears a knit cap over his brown hair. His sexy smirk enhances the lumberjack look. He’s also a bit of a town player, like me, I guess, although we never . . . just nope.

He has a reputation for flatlanders, people who aren’t from Maine, but visit our little hamlet. His preference stems from the lack of anyone else in town for him to sleep with, except my sister, and she’s not interested.

Landon, on the other hand, has a serious crush on the unobtainable, and the only one who doesn’t see it is Isolde.

“Do you know my cousin?” Tate addresses me while waving the plastic cup of beer in his hand toward Landon.

“Your cousin?” That’s right, he mentioned the family connection the other day.

“The Snowe sisters and me go way back,” Landon says, giving Isolde a wink. She scrunches her nose, lifts her beer for a sip, and turns her head, blatantly ignoring him. The problem with Landon is that he’s ruggedly good-looking and difficult to dismiss in a crowd.

Tate nods, and the conversation instantly stalls, which leads me to hope he’ll walk away. He’s just too pretty to look at, and he’s been exceptionally nice to me. I shiver at the thought. Not that I want him to be mean, but I don’t know how to handle a good guy. And he seems genuinely good. He keeps worrying about my feet and lifting my legs, as if he actually cares about me. I could joke that he probably treats all the girls like that, but how many pregnant women can a guy know?

Mentally, my head says hold out on talking to him. He’ll be gone after the holiday weekend. Tuesday at best, Wednesday at the latest.

But my heart knows I owe him the truth.

Isolde explained that if Tate’s company acquires Rusty’s Wrecks for Bucky Beaver Body Shop, Tate might be back. He wouldn’t be my boss because he’s only brokering the sale for someone else. Which leaves me hoping he’ll disappear after the sale. If we sell.

Still, my sister is right. Tate needs to know the truth. I just don’t know how to tell him.

“We should play a drinking game,” Landon blurts.

“Uhm.” I hold up my plastic cup, jiggling it side to side. Pretty certain, I’m not going to catch the slightest buzz with this double-O, which is exactly the point and the exact opposite of a drinking game.

“You’re so fifteen,” Isolde counters, glaring at Landon.