Page 23 of The Fall Classic

I have not.

“I don’t have the tickets yet,” I assure her. “I’ll check with Nicolette first. Thank you for the reminder.”

In the back of my mind, I can hear the espresso machine whirring and whining that I should have turned it on ten minutes ago.

“Yes, well. Good,” Marlowe says. She looks back around the shop, straightening her jacket around her hips. “Now what were you doing here? Why aren’t you in Sugar Maple?”

I don’t know if Alma has the best hearing on the planet or if she’s simply watched Marlowe in action for all these years, but she shows up as Marlowe is tapping her foot, waiting for an answer.

“Here’s the oat milk,” Alma says, giving me two cartons I need emotionally, not logistically.

“Thanks, Alma,” I say.

Alma is six inches shorter than Marlowe, but her presence is much larger. Marlowe is a businesswoman, and she goes through life calculating risks and rewards. Engaging with Alma is all risk for my Type A stepmother.

“What do you need?” Alma asks Marlowe.

“I came to check on inventory,” Marlowe says. “And it’s a good thing I did. Clearly we’re not keeping the truck appropriately stocked.”

“The truck is stocked. Mija, go,” Alma says, waving me away. Marlowe’s nostrils flare, but she doesn’t argue that she should have been the one to dismiss me.

“Okay. See you guys!”

I rush out the door and into the muggy morning before anyone else can stop me.

“Hey—”

Logan’s voice stops me.

I whip around, holding the oat milk guiltily, which is dumb, because it’s not like I’m doing anything wrong holding it.

“Hey! What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I left my book in the booth,” he says, though I know he didn’t. I watched him stuff it in his bag.

“I think it’s in the drink pouch thingy,” I say, pointing at his duffel bag, where his collection of Frost poems is sticking out of the mesh side pocket.

“Oh,” he says, turning around to see it. “My bad.”

I smile, adjusting the oat milk in my arms. “So … tonight?”

“Yeah, I thought it might be easier for me to text you the tickets instead of leaving them for you at the booth. The Outlaws are our biggest rivals, so the game could be packed. Can I, uh, get your number?”

He wants my number?

I grab both cartons in one arm and pull my phone out of my back pocket, the sun blistering through the clouds. We bump our phones together to swap numbers, and our knuckles touch.

I say a silent prayer that our phones don’t upload too fast so we can keep touching⁠—

“Done,” he says, looking up at me, his bright blue eyes making my breath catch. We’re close enough that I can see how long his lashes are, both the top and the bottom ones.

“You have nice eyelashes,” I say. Then I throw my hand over my mouth, except I’m holding two cartons of oat milk and one slips⁠—

And Logan catches it before it can crash to the ground.

“Nice save,” I say.

“It’s the lashes. They give me super reflexes.”