Chapter Twenty-Seven
Nate
The second Jo and I stepped out of the car, I knew I’d made a tactical mistake.
A harmless one.
A good one, even.
But still a mistake.
Because the moment her boots hit the pavement, the entire town reacted like we’d just walked onto a stage.
One man stopped mid-shovel-scoop and stared.
A middle-aged woman plastered herself to the hardware store window.
And someone inside the café shouted—actually shouted—“YES!”
Jo muttered, “Oh God,” under her breath.
I kept my expression neutral. Laughing would’ve earned an elbow to my ribs.
We made it five steps before people descended on us as if we’d returned from war.
“You two look perfect together!” one woman exclaimed.
Jo choked. I blinked.
A man in religious collar offered a warm smile. “Lovely day for a date.”
Jo’s eyes did a full rotation toward the heavens.
I opened my mouth to clarify—something bland and noncommittal like, We’re just—
But it was too late. The crowd was buzzing, delighted, and Jo was bracing, as if she I might make things more awkward.
I stepped slightly closer, feeling protective. She leaned toward me. A small shift, one most might not have noticed, but her shoulders eased.
Then Mr. Carlisle pushed through the crowd with the determination of a man who didn’t yield to anyone. He stopped in front of Jo and gave me one sharp, assessing glance before focusing entirely on her.
“Everything all right, Miss Jo?”
She lifted her chin. “Yes. Everything’s fine.”
She wasn’t looking at me, but I could tell she wanted backup. I gently took her hand.
No pressure. No expectation. Just a steady line of support.
She tensed but didn’t withdraw.
Mr. Carlisle nodded. “Good. You two seem to be getting alone. Silas would have been pleased.”
I felt Jo’s breath catch. Without thinking, I squeezed her hand in support.
Inside the café, the enthusiasm was immediate. The moment we stepped through the door, the café went dead silent. Then—
“You go, Jo!” someone yelled from the back.
Milo popped out from behind the counter, grinning like he’d been waiting for this episode all season.
“Well, look at you two,” he said. “Small-town royalty.”
I didn’t know what that meant. Jo groaned.
We took a table. Sitting felt safer than remaining a walking spectacle.
Milo brought coffee. Then pastries. Then more coffee. People kept glancing our way, whispering at a volume that wasn’t remotely discreet.
“They’re adorable.”
“He’s besotted.”
“She is too—look at her blush.”
Jo looked moments away from homicide.
I hid a smile behind my cup.
Then Milo cracked a joke I didn’t catch, and Jo laughed.
A real laugh.
Bright. Full. Uninhibited.
It hit me harder than it should have. I hadn’t realized how badly I’d wanted to see her truly smile again.
The conversation around us shifted toward Cutting Day—bonfires, sleigh rides, food, the tree for city center.
“You ready for it?” Milo asked.
I didn’t know if I was ready for anything, but I heard myself say, “Sure am.”
Jo glanced at me, her expression warm and curious. Her hand brushed mine on the table. That brief touch was nothing and somehow everything.
We both went still.
Time froze.
Neither of us moved away.
I asked her if she knew the names of all these people, and she did. “But you’ve only been here a few months?”
She shrugged. “Small town and Silas introduced me to everyone.” There was a shadow of sadness in her eyes, before she continued, “Would you like me to introduce you?”
I didn’t care about anyone beyond her, but I said yes because it felt important to her.
For the next few hours, she and I talked to what felt like the entire town.
They came to our table. They waved us over to join their table.
People shared stories about memories they had of Silas and how they knew Jo.
In the short time she’d been there, she’d made an impact by being kind and generous–like Silas.
Eventually, it was time to head back. We were driving back in a somewhat comfortable silence that I broke when I said, “Well . . . that was not a miserable day.”
She let out a soft huff. “No. It wasn’t.”
“I want to trust you,” I said, “even though it makes no sense to.”
She didn’t get defensive. She didn’t throw it back at me. She just turned her head, her expression unexpectedly open. “I feel the same.”
Something warm tightened low in my chest. “So we’re making progress?” I asked.
She shrugged lightly. “I guess so.”
Our hands rested on the bench seat—close enough that I felt the heat of her skin.
She glanced down at them, then at me. Color rose in her cheeks before she turned toward the window again, pretending interest in the passing trees.
I watched her for a moment, then focused on the road.
The realization slid in quietly, with surprising clarity . . . getting to know her shouldn’t feel this good. And if this was what it felt like now—before trust, before answers, before she was safe—I couldn’t imagine what it would feel later.
Later?
I snorted at the realization that I was already fully invested in seeing this all the way through . . . whatever this was.