Page 156 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

Beau

You’re impossible.

I stared at the words for a long while. Longer than necessary.

Carson

You seem to keep coming back anyway.

The typing bubble appeared and I immediately regretted sending it.

Beau

Yeah. Funny how that keeps happening.

My stomach tightened, and I locked the phone and turned it face down.

Meme noticed.

She sat at the kitchen table clipping coupons she would probably never use, her reading glasses low on her nose.

“You’re doing that thing again,” she sang.

“What thing?” I opened the refrigerator.

“Looking happy and then immediately punishing yourself for it.”

I reached for a bottle of water. “You’ve become dramatic in your old age.”

“I’m seventy-three. I earned it.” Meme folded one coupon carefully along the perforated line. “Are you going to Clover’s tonight?”

“How do you know about that?”

“She called earlier.” Meme didn’t even look at me as she kept clipping her coupons.

I leaned against the counter. “Why would she call you?”

“She wanted to know whether I needed anything from the bakery.”

I narrowed my eyes. There was something deeply irritating about being surrounded by people who seemed to know my schedule before I did.

Clover had invited me to her house for dinner three days ago.

Not a Jones family dinner.

Not a festival meeting.

Not some elaborate social obligation.

I had almost said no. Then realized I had no actual reason. And a small part of me was excited to be doing something so normal.

So I said yes.

Clover and Hunter lived on the edge of town in a cedar-sided house tucked far enough into the trees that I almost missed the driveway. String lights hung beneath the porch roof. Two rocking chairs sat near the front door. Two pairs of muddy work boots had been left beside the steps. A stack of firewood leaned against one wall, despite Georgia having no business requiring firewood in September.

And a ceramic snowman sat beside the front door.

I stopped and stifled a giggle at seeing a Christmas decoration two months early.