“You look a little ill,” he says.
“Gee, thanks.”
He snickers. “You are stunning as always, sweetness, but I mean, you look worried.”
I put my hands on my hips and try not to play his words through my mind again to enjoy the imagined sound of them. “I volunteered for the kissing booth.”
“I was telling Argos that—” Cyrus’s eyes widen and he coughs. “Wh-what?”
I pat him on the back and take his half-empty plate. “Need some water?”
“No, no. I’m fine.” He straightens and thanks me when I put his plate in the cleaning basket. “I didn’t realize you were taking a shift. Or that you would want to do that.”
“I do. I need more experience with love-related, um, activities.”
Cyrus’s eyes do that smoldering thing, but this time they are more dangerous than seductive. “Activities.”
“Yes. I’ve only kissed, well, now two people.” I bite my lip and try not to go even redder than I already am.
Mouth opening and closing like a broken frog’s, Cyrus can’t seem to get a word out.
“It’ll be fine,” I say. “It’s just kissing. We did that and we are friends, right?”
I want him to argue, to shout and grab me and kiss me so thoroughly that there is no doubt in my mind that we are definitely not friends.
But I also don’t.
If he wasn’t here, I could have the simplest, most fun time. That’s an awful thing to think, but it’s true. He makes me crazy, and if I can’t have him forever—which I know I can’t—I need some space to get over these stupid feelings.
“Look, I have to go. My shift is starting. Bye!”
I leave him with his features churning like he doesn’t know what to say.
Well, it’s not his business. It’s my business. I want to learn more about the arts of love so I can be comfortable enough to seek out a true mate. Or at least a partner I can enjoy and live with.
At the booth, Betilda ties a ridiculous red heart hat onto my head, knotting the monstrosity’s strings below my chin. She clasps her hands and laughs joyfully.
“You look perfect. Thank you for doing this. The orphans thank you, too!”
“I’m happy to do it.”
She takes my hand and her face grows serious. “Remember, everyone is well aware of the rules. If someone comes up to get a kiss, you have the right to simply sayno. They will leave with no hard feelings and they will still donate. All agreed to this upon entering the festival. Understand?”
“I’ve been going to this festival for over a decade, Betilda, but thank you for the kind reminder.”
Nodding, she gives me a quick hug and leaves me to it.
I scoot my wicker chair closer to the table and eye the wood framing set up around me. May flowers and hearts are painted all over it and two oil lamps are suspended on each side by a brass hook. Very nice, really. I only feel a little bit like a complete idiot.
The second kissing booth is set up a few feet away. Widow Warton is there now, accepting kisses on the cheek from the children who danced around the maypole. It’s an unspoken tradition—one of the town's elderly gets first shift at the first booth—and it always warms my heart.
My first donor is Trustan from Cyrus’s pub. He wrings a balled-up cloak in his green hands and swallows, his skinny neck showing every move of his throat.
“Mistress Baker, may I? I have coins for the orphans.”
“Trustan, it’s lovely to see you. How old are you, dear? I don’t want to, uh, upset your parents.”
He looks offended. “I’m twenty!”
