Page 11 of Fall Into Love

Some old man in a cardigan may have planted that particular idea.

“Here’s where I’m at,” I tell her. “The Fall Festival is next weekend, and I want a booth in the square and the shop open at the same time—which is physically impossible for one person. So I need somebody I can trust to run one while I run the other.” I take a breath, because hiring my first-ever employee feels bigger than I expected. “I can’t promise a mountain of hours once the season slows. But if the weekend goes well, and we click? I’d like it to be more than seasonal.”

Abby’s smile lifts. “Yeah?”

“Yes. Can you do a trial? Through the festival—paid, obviously. We’ll see how it feels for both of us.”

“Thank you, Miss Jones.” She sticks her hand across the counter, and there’s something almost relieved in her grip when I take it. “You will not regret this. You’ll see I am extremely good at showing up, and I’m a very dedicated worker.”

I believe her. I also notice, because noticing is a curse of mine, the little flicker under the bubbliness when she says it. But I don’t ask. It isn’t my business, and anyway, I know that particular white-knuckle ‘everything is fine’ all too well to go poking at somebody else’s.

“Call me Emma. And welcome to Marigold’s,” I say, and mean it. Her smile could light up the whole block.

Abby’s barely out the door—off to shift number two of the day, heaven help her—when the bell chimes again and Molly breezes in on a cloud of cinnamon, apron still on, two coffees in hand.

“Was that the Abby? Danny’s new-to-town Abby?” She sets a cup in front of me without asking. “Please tell me you hired her.”

“She’s going to help me through the festival,” I say. “And you knew about this?”

“Everybody knew about this. Danny’s been working the phones like a tiny cardigan’d mob boss wanting to help that girl find an extra job. Not that I think she needs it, but either way.” She hops onto the stool across the counter. “So… You’ve got your new-boss face on, but you’ve also got your other face on. Talk.”

And here we go. The thing I’ve been half-dreading, half-craving her company for all week.

“It’s been eight days,” I say with a heavy sigh.

I don’t have to say since what. Molly’s known since the morning after, when I came to unlock our shared delivery door with a puffy, crying face and told her the whole thing in ninety seconds flat.

Eight days since Caleb kissed me in ways that have my heart singing still, days later. And then he stepped back, said give me a second, and walked me home in silence.

Eight days of nothing.

Not a call or text. Not a nosy-neighbor drop-by. Not one word from the man who couldn’t stay out of my shop even when I asked him to, who came running twice, and then suddenly went quiet the instant things got real.

“He’s ghosting me,” I say.

Molly winces. “Have you reached out to him?”

“No.” And this is the part I’m weirdly proud of, so I sit up a little straighter. “And I’m not going to.”

Her brows lift. “No?”

“Nope.” I turn my cup in a slow circle. “And not because I’m playing some game, or because I don’t—” I stop, then start again, trying to be more honest with myself. “I like him, Molly. That’s the stupid part. Eight days of silence and I like him more, not less, which is either growth or a head injury. But I spent years chasing a man around, making myself more available while trying to earn his affection. I’m not doing that again. Not even for a good one.” I meet her eyes. “If Caleb wants me, he knows exactly where I am.”

Molly reaches over and squeezes my wrist. “That’s fair,” she says. “Honestly, Em, that’s really fair. And totally different from the boutique owner I met a year ago.”

I smile. “Yeah?”

“That girl would’ve texted him six times and apologized in four of them.”

I laugh, because she’s right, and because the not-texting feels good. It feels like standing on my own two feet in a way that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with me. Because I decided I’m allowed to hope. I can hope like crazy. I can want the whole ridiculous thing with my whole chest.

But I will not beg for it.

Hoping and chasing aren’t the same, I think—and somewhere in the back of my mind, a meddling landlord cheers me on.

“Anyway,” I say, taking a sip of my cinnamon-roasted coffee. “I’ve got bigger problems than him. While I haven’t had another break-in, something’s been in the alley bins again. Third time this week—trash strung halfway down the block, lids everywhere. I keep thinking somebody’s casing the place, but Dale says—” I do the voice, gravelly and unbothered. “—it’s ‘critters.”

Molly snorts. “That man, I swear. He seriously needs to retire.”