This was supposed to be simple. A business arrangement. A seasonal solution.
But looking at Olivia’s radiant face, at the careful way Mario’s hand rested on her shoulder, at how natural this felt despite being completely fake—I realized we’d crossed a line we couldn’t uncross.
In the parking lot afterward, while Olivia ran ahead to show off her costume to a friend from her art class, I turned to Mario.
“She’s getting attached,” I said unnecessarily.
“I know.”
“This is going to hurt her when?—”
“I know.” His voice was rough around the edges. “I didn’t mean for... I just wanted to help with the costume.”
“And the Italian lessons. And fixing our toilet. And being at every event.” The words came out sharper than I’d intended, tinged with frustration at the situation we’d created.
He flinched like I’d slapped him. “You want me to stop? To distance myself?”
I opened my mouth to say yes—that would be the smart thing, the safe thing. But then I saw Olivia racing back toward us, her face bright with joy, practically bouncing as she called out, “Mario, did you see Sarah’s costume? She was a butterfly, but not nearly as fast as my car!”
“No,” I admitted, the word escaping before I could stop it. “I don’t want you to stop. And that terrifies me.”
Something shifted in his expression—a softening around his eyes that made my chest tight. “Lily?—”
“We should get to the festival,” I interrupted, not ready for whatever he was about to say. The air between us felt charged, dangerous. “I promised to help with the cider stand.”
But as we walked to our cars, Olivia chattering between us about the parade and her heritage project and how Tommy Patterson claimed her car wasn’t aerodynamically sound but clearly didn’t know what he was talking about, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were walking toward something inevitable.
Something that would either complete us or shatter us entirely.
And I honestly didn’t know which possibility scared me more.
CHAPTER14
Mario
Ben’s cottageat seven in the morning smelled like burnt coffee and regret. He’d texted at dawn with “Coffee and real talk. Not optional,” which in Ben-speak meant I was about to get lectured while severely under-caffeinated.
“You look like hell,” he said by way of greeting, handing me a mug that had seen better decades.
“Thanks. Great talk. I’m leaving.”
“Get in here before Mrs. Winters sees you and adds ‘early morning visits’ to June’s conspiracy board.” He gestured toward his living room, where his laptop sat open to what looked like Facebook. “We need to discuss your spectacular mess of a situation.”
I followed him inside, noting the stack of pancake mix boxes on his counter. “Making breakfast for the whole town?”
“Kate’s coming over later. I’m trying to impress her with my domestic skills.” He flopped onto his couch. “Spoiler alert: I have none.”
“Maybe stick to takeout.”
“Already ordered pizza for backup.” He turned his laptop toward me. “But we’re not here to discuss my dating disasters. We’re here to discuss yours.”
The screen showed June’s Facebook group page, complete with our hayride photo as the header image. Below it, a poll titled “Where Should Mario Propose?” was currently neck-and-neck between “Pumpkin Patch (Classic!)” and “Covered Bridge (So Romantic!).”
“Two hundred and thirty-seven members,” Ben said, scrolling through comments that ranged from wedding venue suggestions to speculation about my ring budget. “There’s a betting pool on the proposal date. June’s got money on this weekend.”
“There’s no proposal to plan.”
“Right.” He studied me over his coffee mug with the laser focus of someone who’d caught me stealing cookies as a kid.
