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She’s not wrong about that last bit.

“Now let’s go before Momma has a coronary.”

I nod and watch as Rowena jogs off to cast her vote for the “Scarecrow Princess” my nieces entered into the decorating contest, and all I can think is . . .

Is he different?

Can people change?

I catch Noble’s eye from a distance. It settles—and excites—something inside me, but I’m not fifteen. I’m thirty-one. Butterflies are great, but I know we need to have the hard conversation. I just don’t want to. I want to stay in this bubble for as long as possible.

I rejoin my family, and Noble finds his way over to where I’m standing, filling out my ballot. He takes a step toward me, keeping his voice low when he says, “You okay?”

I look up into his brown eyes, my mind replaying the last twenty-four hours with a kind of aching nostalgia that should be reserved for years and years of memories.

“That promise you made last night—” I say.

“To kiss you again?”

I look around, worried someone might hear him. “The other one,” I say quietly.

His smile fades, worry knit across his brow. “Yeah, I know the one.”

“You meant it, right?”

He tilts his head and studies me. “Every word.” His hand finds my elbow, and he squeezes it gently. “And I know you have no reason to believe me.”

He’s right. I don’t. He hasn’t even been here two weeks.

“But give me time to prove it, okay?”

I press my lips together, knowing there are no takebacks here. Finally, I nod. “Okay.”

“Hattie,” Momma walks over, then points to the paper in front of me. “Ballot.”

Noble smirks, so of course, I smirk, then walk over and drop my ballot in the “Scarecrow Princess” box.

Once we’ve all voted, my mom shoos us all out onto the street to “lobby for more votes.”

“It’s not the governor’s race, Momma,” Rowe says, holding each of our nieces’ hands. “They don’t even care if they win.”

“Well, they have the best scarecrow, so they should get the prize.” She shoots my sister a look. “Now get out there and tell people to get over here and vote for this scarecrow. It’s your civic duty.”

We all shake our heads, but take the opportunity to get away from her because competition makes her crazy.

“She hates fun,” Boone says wryly.

Main street is flanked on both sides by small local stores—some appealing to tourists, with their Silverwood or Glacier National Park merch—others showing off local artisans and jewelry makers. They’re all decorated for the festival, doors flung open, wide and welcoming. Most have merchandise on the sidewalk, which means now and then, we get a whiff of something delicious.

Rowe takes the girls across the street for pancakes while Noble and I pop into one of the coffee shops because I happen to know they’re serving Miss Betty’s huckleberry pie.

The second he sees it, Noble’s eyes light up. “Is that . . .?”

I wag my eyebrows. “Miss Betty’s huckleberry pie.”

“It’s not even noon,” he says with a smirk.

“It’s noon somewhere.” We order coffee and pie and take it outside where we sit at one of the tables. The streets start to fill with crowds of people, most of them locals, but some tourists mixed in too.