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I’m sure she’s torn about what’s going on between us. I’ve caught glimpses of it a few times this past week. Sometimes she’s all sunshine, keeping up with me on a mountain bike, or sneaking chunks of sugar-coated apple from the mixing bowl while I try to bake a pie.
But sometimes, like in this moment as she worries about her ring, she turns stormy. There’s trouble brewing in her soul, and if I don’t understand it I won’t be able to fight for her in the way I know I have to, when the storm breaks.
“We could swing up there again, now, and take a look around again,” I suggest. “Maybe someone picked it up.”
“Like who?”
“The neighbors down the road.”
She bites her lip. A crease forms between her brows. “That house with the horses? That was a mile away, at least.”
I trace my thumb over the back of her hand. “We’ll find it. I promise.”
Her eyes connect with mine. There’s a message in them, but I can’t decode it.
She swallows and looks away. “Maybe…” She sighs. “Hey, what was going on, out in front of the library? Those tents we passed?”
“Fall Festival. Happens every year. You want to hit it?”
“Um… do you really need to ask that to the city girl basking in the best Vermont vacation of her life?” She bounces up and grabs her duffel. “Yes, Parker. The answer’s definitely yes.”
I laugh, even though some part of me knows this is a distraction.
There’s something going on with Gemma.
If I don’t find out what it is, it won’t matter how good my tennis shots are. This is a game that I’m going to lose.
Chapter21
Gemma
How is it that I’m at a fall festival straight off of a postcard, sinking my teeth into a caramel covered apple, and I feelworried?
There’s something wrong with me.
Really wrong.
Because I should be enjoying the smell of wet leaves, and savoring the feeling of the warm sunshine that’s so busy drying them.
The sweet, buttery caramel under my teeth gives way to juicy McIntosh apple. The mix of flavors is sugary and tangy all at once.
Inside Parker’s sweatshirt, I feel cozy and comfy. And he’s at my side, talking to Delilah, who’s running the animal shelter booth at this adorable little festival.
I should be enjoying all of this.
But a number keeps surfacing, in my mind.
93 percent.
My compatibility score with Mortimer.
The number first popped up in my head again on Wednesday evening, while I watched Parker coach Ransom. I had my cell phone in my pocket and it rang. Because I was expecting—and nervous about—a call from Jocelyn Radner, I checked the incoming call right away.
If it was Jocelyn, I wanted to pick up, to hopefully finally figure out what she was so eager to get in touch with me about.
But it wasn’t Jocelyn.
It was Mortimer.
