Chuckling to myself, I stop and buy a bunch of beautiful vegetables that smell incredible, then some fresh fruit for breakfasts. There’s an adorable stand selling macramé butterflies, and I pick one Abby will love, then browse for a bit, munching on grapes.
I’m contemplating walking to the library to peek at their yearbooks for some information about my mom when I run right into the last booth I’d expect.
I stop dead in my tracks.
Of course they’d be here.
It’s a farmers market. Farm is in theirliteralbusiness name.
My swallow is all gravel as my eyes fly around, searching for a certain Archer in a cowboy hat who haunts my dreams—and a pair of too-tight jeans I’ve thought about way more than I should.
I hover a few feet away, watching who I can only assume are his twin sisters as they pass out golden plastic sticks to a line of little kids, all squealing and bouncing chaotically.
Someone bumps into me from behind, and I stumble forward, catching myself against one of the crates stacked beside their booth.
“Oh, honey, are you okay?” The voice is soft and warm—motherly in the kind of way that makes my throat tighten before I even see her.
A familiar face pops up from behind the crate, blue eyes kind and wide.
“Umm,” I breathe, startled. “Hi, Bea. Sorry. I wasn’t… uh… I didn’t mean to…”
Get it together, Georgia! You have to stop stammering in front of this family!
“Hush,” she chides, waving off my apology. “You’re allowed to look before you leap, though I don’t recommend leaping directly into the honey display. That stuff’s not as forgiving as it looks.”
I huff a small laugh, though my cheeks burn. “I was just… admiring from afar.”
“Why?” she asks, tilting her head with a knowing grin. “We’re perfectly friendly up close.”
Before I can come up with a graceful excuse, Bea slips her arm through mine like we’re old friends and drags me toward the booth. I tense for a split-second, then force myself to relax.
Apparently, not all Archer’s are born with sticks directly up their asses.
“Girls!” she calls. “Look who I found sneaking around!”
The twins turn at the same time. One’s got a golden stick in her mouth, the other a pair of shears in her hand.
“Georgia.” Bea beams, giving my arm a little squeeze before shuffling around the other side of the table. “These two cuties are my youngest daughters, Colby and Clementine.”
I smile, offering a small wave. “I love your names.”
They scoff in unison.
“You can say that”—the one with the curls sasses, shooting Bea a pointed glare—“because your mom didn’t name you after cheese.”
“Cheese?” I echo, grinning as I glance between the three of them. That must make her Colby.
“At least you weren’t named after a piece of fruit,” Clementine mutters dryly, adjusting a flower arrangement on the table.
Bea cackles, not the least bit sorry. “What can I say? I was pregnant, emotional, and extremely snack-driven. Couldn’t get enough cheese and oranges.”
She throws an arm around each daughter, hugging them tight against her sides as they squirm and roll their eyes.
“Honestly, I almost named them Brie and Tangerine. Their father had to stage an intervention in the dairy aisle.” Bea presses a wistful hand to her chest. “To this day, cheese is still my favorite food.”
“Plot twist,” Colby mutters. “We’re both lactose intolerant now.”
“We blame it on our mom,” Clem adds with a nod.
