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“And who knows?” He smiles. “Maybe we could even be friends again.”

Friends. Right. The word is starting to feel like a swear.

Against my better judgment, I smirk back, crossing my arms over my chest. “Yeah, don’t push it.”

He holds his hands out in front of him. “Hey, a guy can dream.”

We walk on, and after a few beats of silence, I pick up a crocheted stuffed animal from one of the booths and look at Noble. “You never told me the other thing you know for sure.”

He frowns for a second like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

“About dating?” I say, hoping it’s enough to jog his memory. “When I got knocked over . . .” and that was a dumb thing to say because now I’m thinking about how it felt to be pressed up against him.

“Oh, right.” He reaches over and tugs the brim of my hat. “You should never make yourself up and wear anything you hate just to impress some guy.” He drops his hand. “The right one isn’t gonna care.”

Chapter Twelve

Hattie

Noble walks over to a leathersmith whose booth is set up beside me, leaving me standing there, still processing.

Because hearing him mention “the right one” only conjures one name.

His.

I turn on my heel, feeling a little like all these people around me can see straight through me. Like I’m walking around with a sign that says Secretly pining for Noble Kane pinned to my back.

As if anyone cares what Noble and I are.

He wants to be friends.

I try the word on.

Friends.

I can do that, right? It doesn’t have to be weird. It’s just me doing the mature thing and letting go of the past.

And my feelings.

And my feelings about the past.

Yeah, that’s not going to happen. My first plan was better. Stay mad.

I watch as Noble talks to the leathermaker in the booth. He’s holding something I can’t see, and seems to have struck up quite the conversation. About leather.

It’s strange to think he’s back here trying to win people over, when he was never a person who seemed to care what anyone thought of him.

But . . . my brain stops me. That’s not quite true, is it?

Maybe the reality is that Noble always cared a little too much what people thought of him. And I start to concede that it’s possible this isn’t all for show. Maybe Noble is still that fourteen-year-old kid, dropped off in Silverwood to live with an aunt he hardly knew, pretending he didn’t care about anything while desperately wanting to fit in.

I suppose being abandoned by your mom would do that to you.

He turns over his shoulder, and I realize I’m staring. He gives me a quizzical look, and I force a smile. Empathy is the last thing I should be feeling for him right now, but here we are.

I’m stuck in my own head as we finish at the market. I pick up small jars of local honey and some handmade natural soy candles for the welcome baskets, along with some locally made gourmet chocolate.

Twice, Noble asks if I’m okay, and both times I do a mediocre job of pretending I am.