Their lie was now public record. Our one, single, terrifyingly real moment had been captured, destined to become evidence in the trial of our very fake relationship.
I looked at Mario. He was staring at June, his face a mask of cold fury. He looked utterly, completely trapped.
Then, almost sheepishly, he glanced down at Olivia tucked between us and said, quieter now, “Stay here. I’ll see if I can get the tractor started so we’re not out here all night.”
He pushed himself up, brushed hay from his jacket, and moved toward the teenage driver like someone who’d rather fix an engine than stand under a flashlight’s glare.
And as I sat there, surrounded by hay, family, and the wreckage of my best-laid plans, I realized with a gut-twisting certainty that he wasn’t the only one.
CHAPTER6
Lily
The Saturday morningfarmers market was my weekly pilgrimage, a ritual as sacred as coffee and as necessary as breathing. Armed with my reusable canvas bags and a mental list of everything I needed for the week—fresh herbs for the shop, apples for Olivia’s lunch boxes, and the good sourdough that sold out by ten—I wove through the cheerful chaos of vendors and early shoppers.
The air was crisp with the promise of real autumn, carrying the competing scents of fresh bread, apple cider, and the earthy smell of late-season vegetables. Mrs. Wilkins was already set up with her famous apple butter, and the 70s band was tuning their instruments near the gazebo. It was exactly the kind of peaceful, predictable morning I needed after the emotional whiplash of the past few days.
Our hayride “moment” had been dissected, analyzed, and discussed by half the town, thanks to June’s perfectly timed photography. The image—blurry and poorly lit as it was—had taken on a life of its own on the Autumn Grove Community Facebook page. Every time I ventured out, I caught knowing smiles and speculative glances. The weight of maintaining our charade was starting to feel heavier with each public appearance.
I was examining a particularly perfect butternut squash when I spotted him.
Mario stood near the honey vendor’s stall, looking like a Formula One car that had been entered in a tractor pull. He was wearing his usual uniform of jeans and a plain gray henley, but everything about his posture screamed discomfort. His shoulders were hunched, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, and he was studying a display of wildflower honey with the intense focus of someone trying to defuse a bomb.
The poor honey vendor, an elderly man named Frank who’d been coming to the market for twenty years, was clearly trying to make conversation. I was too far away to hear the words, but I could see Frank’s animated gestures and Mario’s increasingly rigid posture. Mario looked like he was calculating the exact number of steps to the nearest exit.
Oh no. My fake boyfriend was about to flee the scene, leaving Frank to wonder why the town’s newest heartthrob had just ghosted him over artisanal honey.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I found myself walking toward them, my canvas bag bumping against my hip with each step.
“Good morning, Frank,” I called out as I approached, my voice bright and deliberately cheerful. “How’s the harvest been this year?”
Frank’s weathered face broke into a relieved smile. “Lily! Wonderful to see you. Just telling your young man here about the wildflower blend. Best batch I’ve had in years.”
Mario’s eyes met mine over Frank’s head, and I saw a flicker of something that might have been gratitude. Or possibly a silent plea for rescue.
“Mario was just saying how he’s never tried locally sourced honey,” I improvised smoothly, moving to stand beside him. The lie rolled off my tongue with practiced ease—a skill I was developing at an alarming rate. “Weren’t you, sweetheart?”
The endearment felt strange in my mouth, like wearing someone else’s shoes. Mario’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but he nodded with the enthusiasm of someone agreeing to a root canal.
“Right,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “Local honey.”
“Oh, you’re in for a treat!” Frank beamed, clearly delighted to have a captive audience. “This wildflower blend has notes of clover and basswood. Perfect for tea, or just eating straight from the jar. I use my grandmother’s recipe for the crystallization process. Did you know local honey helps with allergies?”
As Frank launched into what was clearly a well-practiced sales pitch, I felt Mario’s arm brush against mine. It was a light contact, probably accidental, but my nervous system responded like someone had just jump-started my engine. We were performing again, playing our parts for an audience of one elderly honey vendor. But standing this close to him, breathing the same crisp morning air, felt dangerously real.
“We’ll take a jar,” I said, cutting through Frank’s detailed explanation of bee foraging patterns. “The wildflower blend sounds perfect.”
“Excellent choice!” Frank wrapped the jar carefully in brown paper. “That’ll be eight dollars.”
Mario reached for his wallet, but I was already handing Frank a ten. “My treat,” I said, shooting Mario a look that I hoped conveyed ‘we’ll settle this later.’
As Frank counted out my change, I became aware of a familiar sensation—the prickle of being watched. I glanced around and immediately spotted the source. June was stationed at the produce stand directly across from us, her phone held up in a position that could charitably be called “casual” but was definitely strategic. Her expression was one of barely contained delight, like a nature documentarian who’d just captured footage of a unicorn.
My stomach dropped. Here we were, buying honey together like a real couple, and June was documenting it for posterity. Or more accurately, for the Autumn Grove Community Facebook page.
“Thank you, Frank,” I said quickly, tucking the honey into my bag. “We should get going. Lots of errands to run.”
I took Mario’s arm—a gesture that was half performance, half self-preservation—and steered him away from the honey stand. His arm was solid and warm under my touch, and he moved with the cautious precision of someone who’d just been handed a live grenade.
