Page 28

It’s really not that cold; the sun is warming up our skin and the breeze is so light that my own leather jacket is enough to protect me. “Maybe if you wore, like, a few inches more of fabric.”

“Oh wow, are you dress coding me? Are my knees too scandalous for you? Shoulders too fit?”

I roll my eyes. “Less scandalous,” I say about her mini jean skirt and sleeveless top, “more out of season. Literally. I have like ten jackets you could have borrowed.”

“And ruin my outfit? You’re out of your mind.”

Once we make it on the boardwalk—a stretch of wood the width of a small highway—the crowd disappears into different areas so there’s room to walk without being elbow-to-elbow with anyone.

Dad leads the way, passing multiple tents pushed against the boardwalk, parallel to another one on the opposite side of the signature creek running at the center, filled with people floating by on boats, paddleboards, and kayaks. On the opposite boardwalk, at the very edge, is a smallish Ferris wheel slowly circling itself.

Opposite the tents are waterfront restaurants and stores overlooking the creek. I can imagine just how pretty it all is at night, with the decorative lighting everywhere, leading all the way down the boardwalk to the long walkway that goes deep into the marsh, farther than where my eyes can see from here.

“Look at those necklaces.” Lexie yanks me toward a booth run by a beautiful woman with the longest hair I’ve ever seen.

I yank her back. “I have to get my dad to the pot-painting class.”

“Look.” She pulls me again. “Someone is eyeing the sapphire gem, that’s my birthstone.”

I unravel myself from her. “Then go,” I hiss. “Who is stopping you?”

She gives me wide eyes as she places her hands together in a prayer gesture. “I’m cold.”

In a harsh breath, I pull my bag from my shoulders, yank my jacket off, and throw it in her face, then run to my dad getting distracted by a bunch of little kids selling platters of cookies. I pass a five along to the largest one, take a packaged cookie, and loop my arm through my dad’s. “We’re going to be late.”

“Late for what?” My dad grabs the cookie from me, takes a bite, makes a grossed-out face, but continues eating it anyway.

“They’re doing this supercute, super mandatory for you pot-painting class.” I scan the tents, waiting until I reach The Sweetest Reads, a cute little bookstore that stands directly across the open plot of space between two restaurants where Flowers and Soil is hosting the craft time.

“That’s perfect, you know; I just got those new hydrangeas seeds but all my pots are taken,” he says, smiling at me. “Are you going to help me paint it?”

“Only if you want it to look like it was created by a five-year-old.”

“A five-year-old prodigy,” he says as we make it to the small circle tables occupied by adults and kids alike, tiny planter pots and paint supplies on each metal stand.

A woman with actual flowers braided into her dark hair greets us. “Hi, did you sign up or did you want to purchase a pot and seeds here?”

“We signed up under Fernando,” I say, scanning the tables until my gaze catches on the profile of a woman with copper curly hair and brown skin. I feel my nerves crackle under my fingertips.

“Perfect,” the woman says. “I’ll grab your stuff; take a seat anywhere. Feel free to sit with a stranger, make a friend.”

“Great idea,” I say, giving my dad a quick once-over. He shaved his beard this morning, so his face is smooth, and I purposely put out his better smelling cologne on his bathroom counter, so he smells great too. I pat down some frizz on the side of his hair.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Nothing.” I grab his arm and pull him to where Risha sits.

Once we’re across from her, her dark eyes widen. “Fernando, what a lovely surprise!”

“Risha,” my dad says in his easygoing way, immediately shifting to friendly mode. “Of course you’re here. Painting and potting—it’s like this was specifically made for you.”

I nod enthusiastically. I don’t have to worry about easing any suspicions because my dad has zero, which worries me about the likelihood of him being scammed in the future (like the time he got a text that read Your order has shipped, click the link to track the status, and he clicked it despite never having ordered anything in the first place) but works perfectly for the present situation.

Yesterday I had Lexie go into Risha’s store pretending to be working with the owners for this event and hand Risha a flyer. Lexie can pretty much get anyone to do anything if she tries hard enough.

“Let’s get comfortable,” I say, dragging my dad to sit on the tiny chair across from Risha.

“No, you sit.” Dad tries to get up. “I’ll pull over a chair.”