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After Joe disconnected the call, Casey practically skipped down the sidewalk, Randolph Scott prancing along at his side. He wouldn’t mention it to Dev yet, not until he heard back from Rintoul, because he seriously doubted the band would go for it, and he didn’t want to get Dev’s hopes up. But the fact that they’d heard about Home Grown? That they’d expressed initial interest?
He grinned down at the cat. “You know what, Randolph Scott? I think this is actually going to work.”
Three weeks ago, on possibly the worst day of his life, Dev would never have imagined things could turn around so quickly. Home Grown Tastes and Tunes was coming together so seamlessly, he wondered why they’d never thought of it before.
Of course, he hadn’t thought of it now, had he? That had been Casey. All Casey. Casey, who now spent his nights in Dev’s bed, although with their crazy out-of-sync schedules—Casey dashing from before dawn and Dev working his contacts well past midnight—when they were actually both between the sheets and awake at the same time, they were usually too exhausted to do more than kiss.
Whistling, he strolled out the front door of his cottage a little before noon. His good mood probably had as much to do with setting his alarm this morning so he could ambush Casey with a morning blowjob before he could rush out the door as it did with the way the whole town was rallying behind the event.
Casey had put Pete in charge of logistics—sourcing the generators to run power for the stage and all the food stands, making sure there was enough parking, planning the layout of the food stands and food trucks—and Pete had stepped up with nothing more than a tip of his ball cap.
With the help of kids from the woodshop class he taught at the regional high school, Kenny had designed and built three dozen modular vendor stands that could be broken down and stored. “For next year’s festival,” he’d told Dev with a wink.
The artists at the co-op—who were usually more Artists Contentious than Artist United—had, with cajoling from Casey, designed the festival logo and graphics and produced all the signage.
And after fifteen years of animosity, Kat and Sylvia were suddenly best friends, either chatting over lattes at the Market or huddled together in the summer kitchen, sampling offerings from the food vendors who were clamoring for a spot.
Casey had been right. Home—its charm, its setting, its accepting community—had been exactly the draw that he’d promised Dev they’d be. And Casey had managed it all, including guilting Green Mountain Shadows’ manager into funding a massive cross-promotion campaign that was so successful in terms of resort occupancy that now she was more enthusiastic than Casey, even though she’d had to foot the bill.
Dev himself had been surprised and gratified that so many of the local musicians had remembered him and been happy to appear for the modest fee they were offering. He had enough acts now that he could finalize the roster tomorrow and add it to Casey’s marketing push.
When he slipped into the summer kitchen, Casey was leaning with his elbows propped on Peach’s counter, his hair flopping over his forehead as he gazed at Sylvia, who was shaking her head. Anyone unaware of Casey’s unexpected steely core might mistake that wide-eyed look for pleading, but Dev knew better by now.
Casey, determined to get his way, was about to move in for the kill.
Dev took a moment to admire the way Casey’s shorts hugged the curve of his ass before keying in to their conversation.
“Please? Come on, Sylvia, it’d be great PR for Summer Kitchen.”
“This festival isn’t about promoting myself, Casey.” She crossed her arms. “Can you imagine what Kat would say if I suddenly made it all about me?”
“But it’s not, don’t you see? More students at Summer Kitchen—and by the way, why not Fall and Spring Kitchen too?—means more people staying in Home. More people shopping at the Market. More people stopping in at Mountain Laurel or Artists United or Curiosity. It’s been literally two decades since anybody outside the school has tasted your food.”
“Kat has. So has Ty.”
“They don’t count.” Casey caught sight of Dev hovering in the doorway and his smile bloomed. “Dev!” He pushed himself off the counter and hurried over, although the kiss he pressed to Dev’s mouth was anything but quick. “Come here and help me convince this stubborn woman that she needs to have a spot at the festival, too.”
Dev slung his arm over Casey’s shoulder. “You need to have a spot at the festival, too.”
Casey nudged him with an elbow. “Maybe make a little more effort? Just repeating what I say isn’t the best argument.”
Dev chuckled and dropped a kiss on Casey’s curls. “You forget, Sylvia. I’ve eaten your food too. Just recently, remember? That picnic basket you put together for us was—” He brought his fingers to his mouth in a chef’s kiss. “Well, let’s just say perfection is an understatement.”
“That’s it!” Casey bounced under Dev’s arm. “Picnic baskets!” He looked up at Dev. “Where did you get that basket?”
“There’s an artist who works out of Simple Gifts, the Shaker immersion place across the Massachusetts border, near Devon. In fact, I think Kat buys a lot of produce from their farm.” He glanced at Sylvia. “What’s the owner’s name?”
“Tim, the Vegetable Guy,” Sylvia said. “He’s already booked a stand for the festival, as have some of the other artisans who work there. The gingham cover and napkins in your basket? Those were handwoven at their weaving studio.”
Casey’s eyes widened. “That cloth was handwoven? And I let Randolph Scott sit on it?”
Sylvia chuckled. “The folks at Simple Gifts pride themselves on practicality, just like the Shakers did. If the cloth can’t stand up to one little cat—”
“Bite your tongue,” Casey said in mock outrage. “Randolph Scott would be mortified to hear you call him little.”
Dev reeled Casey back in. “Don’t worry. The cloth will survive, as will Randolph Scott.”
Casey gave him the side-eye. “If you say so. But never mind. What if we partnered with the artisans and offered premium picnic baskets? People could eat out on the lawn in front of the stage while they watch the performances. They’d enjoy your delicious food, Sylvia, and go away with an outstanding memento of the day.”
