Page 37 of Blue Jean Summer

Hallie snickered. “Good news travels fast.”

“Yeah, when you send it to the newspaper,” I countered under my breath.

“What?!” Mike shouted as he grabbed a newspaper, then nearly tumbled out the service window.

The photo Hallie had taken yesterday wasn’t just an inside column of The Honey Hollow Buzz.

It was the front page.

My jaw dropped as I saw the top to bottom photo of Hayes and me. I had to admit, Hallie took a great picture.

It wasn’t one of the posed shots. Instead, the photo was of Hayes fixing my hair as it blew in the wind. The look we shared was tender, a seemingly candid moment that was just between the two of us.

The headline, Hometown Royalty, was wildly overexaggerated, as was the story of the alleged longtime romance we had kept under wraps.

The long line of customers began to hum with excitement.

“Banana bread latte for me,” I said, trying to temper the other patrons’ enthusiastic energy over my upcoming fake wedding. Last week when I stopped for coffee, no one batted an eye. Being Miss Virginia didn’t matter. But now that I was a future Wilder, everything had changed.

“What’s the damage, Jer?” Hallie asked as she opened her wallet.

“On the house!” he exclaimed as he filled a treat bag with Hallie’s muffin, and then kept filling it. “We cater, you know. Have coffee, will travel. I’m throwing in some extras just in case you’re looking for someone to do a morning-after brunch or treats for your wedding party on the big day.”

“This is too much,” I said. “Besides, it’s going to be small. We’re not even having bridesmaids or groomsmen.”

“I insist,” Jeremiah said, pushing the bags into my hands.

“Gird your loins,” Hallie warned. “It’s gonna be like this all day.”

And she was right.

Jeremiah and Mike wanted to be the ones to offer breakfast pastries and coffees for the wedding weekend. After we had gotten our drinks, I was tackled by Honey Hollow’s long-standing florist, Hazel Prewitt.

She was flabbergasted when I said we didn’t need flowers because the estate had plenty of roses in bloom for decoration.

We had almost made it back to the car so we could eat in peace when the choir director from the Baptist church asked if we needed musicians for the wedding.

It was a small-town feeding frenzy.

“Come on.” A hand clasped my arm and I was dragged away from the car. I barely grabbed Hallie in time, pulling her with us.

I was unceremoniously yanked into the back door of the Ranch Dressing boutique and home of Scott Saddles by the one and only Savannah Scott. Her armful of gold bracelets jingled as she shooed Hallie and me into the narrow back hallway and locked the door behind us.

“I swear on the holy grail that is Dolly Parton’s wig, Honey Hollow gets one wedding announcement and everyone loses their marbles,” Savannah said as she flicked the lights on one by one.

“You’re a saint,” I said. We followed her through the stockroom and workshop that was packed to the ceiling with stacks of leather, machinery, shipping barrels for saddles, and piles of handwritten orders. The whole place smelled warm and musky. It wafted from the wall of boots, hats, and belts on display in the boutique and from the custom leatherwork she did. Savannah crafted saddles for thoroughbreds who always found themselves in the winner’s circle, chaps for rodeo champions, and everything in between.

Hallie and I set our breakfast haul on the counter by the cash register and doled out the treats.

“Want some? Jeremiah hooked us up,” Hallie said.

Savannah stole an apple pie croissant. “With pleasure.” She stuffed a large bite in her mouth. “So, what brings you to my corner of the Hollow?” she asked, chewing with her mouth wide open in the most unladylike way.

My mother and pageant coaches would have had a cow if I had done that.

“I need a favor,” I said.

Savannah eyed me warily as the croissant hung halfway out of her mouth. “The last favor I did for you led to me being busy for a damn year. I’m just now getting to the bottom of the stack of custom work you sent my way.”