Chapter 22
“I think Dorian should’ve specified the formalwear is not from this century.” I grimace at an evening gown with shoulder pads so large I can easily pose as a linebacker. You know, if linebackers wore rhinestones. Because this number is glitzed up.
In all the times I’ve visited this town, I’ve never had a reason to go to the hotel.
I know from reading the flyer that SugarFest is an annual event that’s been steadily growing, but I have so many questions.
What’s the draw? And why does an inn in rural Ohio sell evening attire?
Hotel shops should have nail clippers shaped like flip-flops, license plate keychains with names on them, and T-shirts with sayings that were trendy five years ago.
While I do spot a sweatshirt that reads, “Powered by Cane Sugar and Bad Decisions,” it’s literally hanging next to a tiered chiffon gown that reminds me of a macaron.
I can’t make it make sense. Such has been the theme of my day.
“Nice.” Leo grins. “I can complement you in this.” He raises a neon pink button-down shirt.
“Gah! My eyes!” I hold up my arms, fingers splayed, as if Leo’s aiming a high-intensity searchlight at me. “That is not formalwear. It’s hideous.”
He appraises it again. “It might not be pretty, but it has an amazing personality.”
I laugh. “They take this SugarFest theme a bit too far.” I hold up a gown labeled “Cotton Candy Chic,” but nothing about this dress is posh. It’s blue, pink, and lavender tulle thrown together with a sequined bodice. If I wear this, I’ll rival a giant puff ball and get caught on everything.
“Yeah, but you can’t find this just anywhere.” He holds up a deep red, crushed velvet—imitation, mind you—dinner jacket with jeweled buttons resembling gumdrops.
I lean back with a hand to my chin and study the jacket as if I have my own fashion reality TV show. “All you need to complete the look is a top hat, and you’ll be the next Willy Wonka.”
He points to a shelf beside me that has, indeed, a top hat.
I gasp at the insanity of it all, but that doesn’t stop me from snatching the hat and holding it out to him. “I dare you.”
“Want to make it a true dare?” He asks this in a tone that makes me think of a heated kiss by a Christmas tree.
“It depends on the terms.”
“We pick each other’s outfits.”
A laugh bursts from my lips. Okay, not expecting that. “You’re willing to take that risk? It could be dangerous with my creativity levels.” I return the hat to the shelf but give a pointed nod at a bright orange suit coat that can moonlight as a creamsicle.
“I told you I like your kind of danger.”
He said that the day we met. My chest squeezes, but I’m never one to turn down a challenge.
“Okay, Mathis. You’re on.” I tell him my size, and we go to work outfitting each other.
I’ve never dressed a full-grown man before.
Well, not entirely true. I’ve sometimes set out Pap’s clothes for doctor appointment days to ensure he matches, but I’m much more invested in this dare than I ever was in grabbing an argyle sweater from Pap’s closet.
After a while, I stumble upon the perfect jacket and trousers for Leo.
They’re not the highest quality, but they’re the best I can find.
I discreetly make the purchase, and the cashier covers everything with a dark blue garment bag.
“Meet you back in the room,” I call saucily to Leo but don’t realize how I sound until the cashier lady snickers.
I was referring to the dare and how I finished shopping first, but, of course, she knows we have the honeymoon suite.
And now I’m running into a mannequin wearing a peppermint swirl bikini.
Nothing crashes, except my dignity. I scuttle out of the shop, Leo’s deep chuckle following me.
I zip up the side of the dress and study my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Leo picked out the “Sugar Plum Princess,” and I actually love it.
The gown’s a deep purple, bodycon maxi with crystal beadwork mimicking sugar-frosted glass.
Since the fabric is a polyester and spandex blend, the dress hugs my curves but has some stretch.
I sported a braid all day, so my hair has a wave to it.
I swipe lip gloss over my mouth and now …
this feels very date-y. Before, we had our little bargain as a buffer.
Even when Leo invited me to his house, it wasn’t an official date, but to review the Silver Creek Secret Santa letters.
Tonight, that folder is in the car, and the Vallerton is gone. Our agreement’s on hold.
I promised earlier to discuss the kiss, but my brain can’t focus on anything except the clump of mascara on the edge of my right lashes or how I wish I had better deodorant than the reserve one from my purse.
I adjust my bra straps, so they’ll stay in place, then wet a wad of toilet paper and wipe the mud from my black heels, smearing white nubs all over them instead.
I spend the next five minutes controlling my breathing while picking soggy paper from my shoes.
Leo and I are just grabbing dinner downstairs because room service is a no-go. That’s all.
After one more calming inhale, I open the door and step into the room.
Leo’s gaze sweeps over me. “I’m calling it. I won.” He seems to consider his words as he lounges on a marshmallow-shaped bean bag. “Or maybe you won. I don’t even care. All I know is that you look amazing and that slit will torment me all night.”
While I was getting ready, it was like open mic night in my brain, with all my insecurities elbowing for center stage.
My physical defects on full display, like how my right front tooth is slightly more forward than my left front or the small scar near my hairline from when I smacked my head off the monkey bars in elementary recess.
How, when I get chilled, my skin turns freakishly translucent, and the blue vein lines and goosebumps make my arms look like raw chicken meat.
Because of this, I nearly struggle to believe Leo’s sweet words if not for the arrested expression on his face.
Too bad I can’t switch off my screaming insecurities. “Really?” I hate the wobble in my voice.
He misses nothing and approaches me like a man on a mission. “Yeah, really.” He catches both of my hands in his. “You know why I picked this dress?”
“Because it came with a pack of Nerds?”
His smile is the stuff of poems. “No, it reminded me of your dress at the firefighters’ gala. I nearly choked when I saw you from across the room.”
“That’s because you weren’t expecting me.”
“It was more than that.” Hunger flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone so quickly that now I’m wondering if I imagined it. “You’re beautiful, Greta. And if you’re doubting yourself, I’m not doing a good job as your hype guy.”
Oh great. Now he feels forced to give me compliments. “You don’t have to be.”
“Ah, but I want to.” His thumb slides over my knuckles, slow and rhythmic. “You’re the only one on Earth that I will wear purple pants for.”
My laugh is small because my heart’s doing some big things right now. Like writing Leo’s name all over it in permanent marker. “I wouldn’t call them purple. More like lavender.”
His nose wrinkles as if that’s worse.
Smiling, I smooth a hand over his lapel.
“You fill out this jacket nicely.” Almost too nicely.
He’s wearing an ivory coat with trim that’s the same shade as his trousers.
“Look at us.” I gesture at our reflection in the mirror above the dresser.
I find it amazing we both chose colors that blended well.
“We unintentionally match.” And I realize that sums up our relationship.
Nothing about our meeting last Christmas had been planned.
Two random strangers from two different worlds collide beside one old street clock. Yet, somehow, we’re good together.
“We do.” He looks at me as if he understands the subtext.
His hand slips around my waist, the warmth of his palm seeping into my skin.
We’re smiling at each other with this unreserved energy like we’re in fifth grade, and he just asked me to sit by him in the cafeteria, during the last week of school.
Growing up, we always had assigned lunch seats except for those final days.
That was when everyone asked their crushes to meet them at their table.
The gossip would fuel the summers. But here Leo and I stand, aware we’ll probably spark rumors in Silver Creek—because that’s just the way it is in small towns—but we only seem to care about sharing our chicken nuggets.
Figuratively. Although if he ever literally offered me nuggets, I would do my part.
We make our way downstairs and, after we surrender our Dough Ball tickets, we’re granted entrance into the convention hall. I expected the room to be gauche, like our suite, but it’s surprisingly pretty.
The recessed lighting is dim, allowing rows of bistro bulbs to offer a soft glow.
The pillars framing the room are wrapped in pastel pink and ivory fabric.
A wide center row leads to the dance floor in the back area, with a DJ station sitting to the side.
Tables, draped in ivory with crystal candied centerpieces, are strategically situated throughout.
While this aesthetic is top tier, I’ve come expecting to see pastries and baked goods in abundance, considering it’s called a Dough Ball.
To my disappointment, I only spot one dessert table.
What’s up with fancy events not delivering the good stuff?
I blow out a sigh and resort to people-watching as we wait in line for food, which is a buffet-style ordeal. Attendees are either dressed absurdly, like the woman wearing a gingerbread crown, or elegant, like … “Candy Cane Kelly,” I blurt.
“What?” Leo dips his head close to hear me over the music.
“Nothing.” Except there’s a woman, speaking to a group of guests near the dance floor, who looks exactly like my Hallmark Barbie Collection ornament that Gran got me when I was little.
She’s wearing an A-line silhouette in crimson with white panel cut-outs that swish about her long legs.
Even her hairstyle is the same, her dark waves cascading down her back with a few locks framing her face.
She’s stunning, in a way that women stare, trying to find fault, and men stare because there isn’t any.
I’m also thinking she’s someone important because, yeah, she’s got that air about her.
Leo and I load our plates as if we hadn’t eaten in weeks.
I snag the last two-person table while Leo fetches our drinks.
A man walks by wearing a cellophane jacket, making him look like a giant candy wrapper.
I press my lips together to stifle a laugh, but his clothes make that all-too-familiar crinkling sound as he passes, and I’m too tired for self-control.
Leo returns, placing my Sprite in front of me.
I smile my thanks. “This feels otherworldly.” As soon as Leo sits, I’m reaching for a roll. Ah, hot carbs. “It’s like we’re extras in a live action of Candy Crush.”
Leo shakes his head with a laugh. “Yeah, I don’t think anyone would believe us if we tried.”
We are both absorbed in our food, which is actually good, but then, I sip my Sprite and nearly spit it out.
“What’s wrong?” He sets down his fork.
I examine my glass. “This tastes like salt.”
“The fountain must be out of syrup. What else can I get you?” He’s already up on his feet before I can protest.
“Anything’s fine.” I just want to get this bitter flavor from my mouth.
He strides toward the drink station, and I allow my gaze to follow him as he moves effortlessly through the crowd, that is, until he gets stopped by Candy Cane Kelly.
She’s smiling at him, not in a seductive or even a flirty way, but like she knows something he doesn’t.
I can’t explain it. I take another bite of my roll and watch as they chat like old friends.
Maybe they are. I’m expecting jealousy to twist my gut because she’s gorgeous and probably never in her life compared her skin to raw poultry. But there’s no twisting.
Because of Leo.
He’s offering polite smiles and contributing to the conversation, but he’s not looking at her the way he looks at me.
As if he can sense my thinking of him, he glances my way and unleashes that signature grin.
They finish their discussion, and Leo retrieves another drink.
I don’t care if it’s bitter Sprite or flat Coke because I don’t think I’d be able to taste the difference. I’m numb in the best kind of way.
“Here you go.” He sets my drink down and reclaims his seat. “Guess who I was talking to.” He jerks a thumb toward Candy Cane Kelly. “That’s Mrs. Langston.”
My mouth drops. “The pie lady? No way!” Mrs. Langston Pies are to Ohio what Marie Callander’s desserts are to the rest of the country.
Since this state is all about loyalty to their own, households have been buying Mrs. Langston Pies for decades.
I squint at her. “How does she not look a hundred years old?”
He laughs. “Because she’s not the original Mrs. Langston. She’s the granddaughter.”
“Ah, that explains it.”
“It also explains this event. The Langston family owns this inn.” He cuts into his steak. “She told me her grandmother once worked in the kitchen here and?—”
“It’s where she made her first pie.” Because of antiques, I’m always fascinated by origin stories. “And that’s why they celebrate SugarFest.”
He smiles at my enthusiasm. “Right on both accounts. Most of the attendees are Langston employees or vendors.”
“Which is why it’s so crowded. And probably why we look so out of place.”
“As to that.” He tugs his lapels. “The reason she pulled me aside is because of my coat.”
“See? I told you that you fill it out nicely,” I tease and take a bite of potatoes.
“Her mother designed it. She recognized the style. I guess the second-generation Langston wanted to be a fashion designer but couldn’t make a go of it.”
“So all of her creations ended up at the Sugarvale Inn’s shop.” And why the formalwear looks like it’s straight from the eighties and nineties. Because it is. “Finally, it makes sense. All our mysteries from today are solved.”
“Not all.” His gaze fixes on me. “Not the most important.”
Oh, the Vallerton. Of course that would be at the forefront of his mind.
He leans close and drops his voice. “You promised to explain about the kiss.”