Page 112 of Fall Fake-Out

His laugh fills the cab as we enter Main Street, parking in front of Once Upon an Inn. The house looks old and charming, like it belongs on a postcard for Vermont.

We walk up the porch steps together, and before we can knock, the door swings open. Rosie stands there, wearing overalls with a few splatters of paint on them. Her hair is in a messy bun, and there’s another speck of paint on her cheek.

“Ari!” Her smile widens, then she sees I’m not alone. “And Wade?”

Wade steps forward with all his principal confidence. “I’m here in an official school capacity.”

“Okay.” Rosie looks at me, but I just shake my head. “Come in.”

The inside of Once Upon an Inn smells like cinnamon and something buttery baking somewhere behind a door. The main floor features all dark-wood floors, dark trim, and an impressive staircase rising straight ahead.

“Rosie,” I say, looking around, “this is beautiful. I love what you’ve done with the place.”

“Thank you. I’m trying to make it feel magical.”

We follow her into the sitting room, where she has a table with papers scattered everywhere.

“Sorry, everything is such a mess.” She tries gathering the papers, but it’s no use. “Festival planning has taken on a mind of its own.”

I sit down across from her. “No problem. It’s a big undertaking.”

“Yeah, you have no idea.”

We spend the next hour reviewing the high school students’ assignments.

“I think that’s everything.” Rosie scans the schedule we just went over. “Wow, you two are going to be working together a lot next week.”

“Are we?” Wade answers. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Same.” I nod.

Rosie presses her lips together. “I guess it’s a good thing you two have each other.”

“For help,” I say.

“And support,” Wade agrees.

The front door opens before Rosie can say anything else.

A man steps into the entryway, carrying a paper bag from Keller’s Bakehouse and looking entirely too comfortable for someone walking into a bed-and-breakfast he does not own. Tall. Dark hair. Nice coat. The kind of man who looks like he understands property taxes.

His gaze moves from Rosie to Wade to me. “Sorry to interrupt.” But instead of excusing himself, he walks into the room like he has no boundaries.

“Dean Alden,” he says to us.

“The old Alden apple orchard that burned down,” Wade says. “You inherited it from your grandma, right? I remember hearing that.”

He shakes Wade’s hand. “Yeah.”

“Wade Stevenson.” He points to me. “Ari Langford.”

Dean looks at the festival papers spread across the table. “Fall festival?”

Rosie reaches for the folder, trying to physically shield it from him. “We have it handled.”

Dean leans closer anyway, glancing at the schedule. “If both of you are overseeing all those activities together, you’re wasting manpower.” Dean points to the list and all the times where both of our names are written down. “If you divide and conquer, you cover more ground. One of you takes the cider press and face painting. The other takes tailgate and movie setup. Makes more sense.”

“No,” Wade and I answer automatically.