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“Carolina,” is all he says while looking exhausted.
Sierra glances around. “Where is she?”
“Volunteering around here somewhere,” he answers, rolling his neck back and forth. “She forced me to come do all the heavy lifting.”
“Speaking of Carolina,” Kyle says, unable to control his grin as we all watch Carolina come our way, a stern face pointed toward Rex.
“Oh shit,” Rex says, rubbing a hand against his brow. “I might be in trouble.”
“Hey, Carolina,” Lauren sings.
Carolina smiles and waves at us before whipping her attention to Rex.
Rex throws his arms up. “Hey! Don’t get mad at a man for taking a break and saying hello to his family!” He taps his thigh. “You can sit and chat if you want.”
She pushes up her glasses before flipping him the bird.
Rex rises from his chair. “I’ll see you guys when my boss lets me clock out.” He throws his arm over her shoulders as they walk away.
“Are they a thing?” Chloe asks, her eyes on them.
Sierra shakes her head. “I wish they were. Rex is too chicken to pull the trigger.”
Our Rex talk is interrupted by Maven and Molly storming in our direction, and I tense up, waiting for Molly to fall, break a leg, scrape a knee—something with how fast she’s moving.
She makes it to us, safe and sound.
“We need ice cream money!” Maven shouts. “Pretty, pretty please!”
“And face-painting money!” Molly adds, sticking out her lower lip. “I want to get a unicorn face!”
“All right,” Dallas groans. “You talked me into it.”
He hands Maven money while I do the same with Molly as she jumps up and down in front of me.
They take off running, hand in hand.
That settles my heart.
Willow bumps Sierra’s shoulder. “Forewarning: that paint is a pain in the ass to get off their face.”
40
Sierra
“Where are we going?”I ask, rolling down the passenger window and sticking my head out like a little Chihuahua when Maliki turns onto a road that doesn’t lead to Down Home.
“I have an idea,” is his explanation as he continues driving.
I pull my head back into the car. “What kind of idea?”
“A good idea.”
“I have an idea. How about you stop being vague?”
He chuckles and keeps his eyes on the road, not revealing said idea. I’m jabbering on about how I hate when he’s vague and secretive, and I’m not a person who has patience when he pulls in the drive of an old farmhouse. It belonged to our town librarian before she passed a few months ago—in the library, not the house. Otherwise, I would be telling him to cut and run.
I don’t do ghosts.
