Chapter 9 #2
I jump—literally jump!—at the sound of Hollis’s voice behind me.
“Holy sh—” My mind has just enough time to recall that, given what I know about his wife and their B&B’s decor, Bud may not be cool with swearing.
I manage to course correct enough that it comes out as “Holy shooooooes,” which the two men thankfully ignore.
“Mornin’ again, sir.” Hollis gives Bud a polite nod, which Bud returns. “Everything okay? I thought you were going out,” he says to me.
“I was. I am.”
“Oh gosh,” Bud says. “I’m sorry. You were on your way somewhere and here I am waylayin’ ya.”
“No, no. I wasn’t in any hurry. Thanks for the information about the festival. Sounds like a lot of fun. Oh, but, um, Bud. Could I ask a favor before I head out? Do you have a book I could borrow? Maybe something about the local history, or...”
Bud’s face lights up like a kid’s when school lets out for summer vacation. “Got just the thing. One second.”
“Writing break?” I ask Hollis when we’re alone in the foyer.
“About to get on a call with my agent to discuss the marketability of my new idea, but wanted to grab a bottle of water first.” He frowns at me deeper than feels warranted, even for him.
“There’s a mini fridge in the kitchen with drinks, by the way.
Connie gave me a quick tour of the house after breakfast. And you? You’re... doing what, exactly?”
“Absolutely not thinking about you eating a pie,” I say. My hands clap over my mouth like I’m in a cartoon, then slide to my cheeks. Because maybe if I cover how much I’m blushing he will not register the strangeness of what I’ve said.
“I’m not going to ask,” Hollis says. But then as he turns to leave, the whisper of a smile appears. “Mm. Pie does sound good right now, though.” He bites his lower lip before disappearing into the dining room, and I swear my kneecaps tremble even though the rest of my legs are standing still.
The book about the town of Gadsley that Bud provides me—written by John Edward Gadsley V, who I was somewhat surprised to learn is Bud himself—winds up being the perfect thing to read at the little diner around the corner.
It’s interesting enough that I don’t zone out and forget to turn the pages, but undemanding enough that I can keep an ear on the conversations around me.
Just in case someone’s like, “I sure am excited to fly my private plane down to the Florida Keys today!” Or like, “Wow, I wish I had some nice folks who’d be willing to test out the amenities of my new yacht as I sail it down the East Coast.”
What? It could happen.
So far, though, all I’ve learned is that the town is extremely divided concerning the local high school marching band’s deviation from its usual John Philip Sousa medley for tomorrow’s Broccoli Festival parade.
There’s a new band director this year, and he’s either a “hepcat with no regard for tradition” or “just the young new perspective this town needs” depending on which diner customer is currently providing their opinion.
Also, someone named Karen is doing much better, though someone named Peggy is doing much worse.
Someone named Gary is doing about the same as he was last week.
“Can I get you more coffee?” the waitress asks, balancing a tower of empty dishes from a nearby table on her tray.
“I think I’ll actually switch to iced tea, if you’ve got it.”
“This is the South, darlin’,” she says with a smile.
My empty mug is whisked away, and a large, red, plastic Coca-Cola tumbler filled with crushed ice and tea appears in front of me.
A momentary silence falls over the restaurant.
Everyone is suddenly looking in my direction.
Did I do something weird without realizing?
Is the iced tea spiked with something and they’re watching to see if I notice I’m being poisoned?
Oh. They aren’t looking at me , just at the man who is suddenly standing beside my table.
He took the waitress’s place so seamlessly I didn’t even notice his approach.
But now, as I look up, I understand the silence: He’s gorgeous .
Tall, blond, green-eyed, strong-jawed, golden-beige skin.
A supermodel of a man, right here in this tiny diner in Gadsley, South Carolina.
“Hi,” he says, flashing an easy, brilliant smile. “Sorry to interrupt your reading.”
“What reading?” I ask, staring up at him with the same slack-jawed expression I probably had when I met John Stamos.
“I just assumed, since you have a book...” I follow the direction of his gesture.
“Oh! Yes. The book. I am reading it, yes. Hello. Don’t worry about it. It’s not very good.” My face goes tomato red with embarrassment and also a bit of shame that I’ve undeservedly insulted Bud’s hard work.
“May I join you?”
“Join me in reading?”
The man chuckles. “Join you at your table. I’d like to chat with you about something, if you have a minute.”
“Oh. Sure.” My mental database tries to bring up the search results for “topics about which a hot stranger might want to chat.” Error: No results found.
“Millicent Watts-Cohen. Penelope to the Past , right?”
Ohhhh. Right. I am ever so slightly famous, and this Adonis is the exact right age for having watched the show when it originally aired.
A fan. I know how to talk to fans. In fact, I can pretty much go through this script in my sleep—assuming my scene partner doesn’t start ad-libbing like that creep at the airport—so I can probably get through the rest of this conversation without making a further fool of myself.
“Yes. That’s me.”
He smiles again, and my brain goes completely offline. Uh-oh. It takes me a while to respond after he says, “I saw you coming in here this morning on my way to work. Really glad you’re still in town. Heard about what happened with the deer.”
“Wow. Word got around quick, huh? Guess it’s true what they say about small towns.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” he says.
“When I got here last August, I already had parents lined up outside my house the day I moved in, wanting to inform me of Aiden’s desire to switch from trombone to trumpet, and Chloe’s severe peanut allergy, and how Elijah and Hailey P.
should never sit near each other on the bus to away games. ”
“Wait! You’re the hepcat!” Hmm. That actually explains the silence and the staring more than every single person in the diner being in awe of his good looks.
His eyes dart in the direction of the group of older men sitting at the counter.
“You’ve met Barney, I take it?” Before I can admit that I haven’t met Barney so much as eavesdropped on his and his friends’ conversations for the last three hours, the hepcat continues.
“I’m as big a Sousa fan as the next band geek, but the kids are so tired of playing the same thing for the parade every year.
This would be the fourth time for the seniors, and their last performance before graduation.
No idea why some people are so opposed to changing it up.
It’s just Fleetwood Mac, for Pete’s sake. ”
I clutch the edge of the table in my excitement. “You’re having the marching band play Fleetwood Mac?”
He smiles. “?‘Tusk.’?”
“I love ‘Tusk,’?” I say.
“Me too. It was between that and Paul Simon’s ‘You Can Call Me Al.’ But ‘Tusk’ has a part where the kids get to run around and yell a bit, so it won in a landslide when we put it to a vote.” He lets out a charming, almost dorky laugh that only makes him more attractive. “Ha. ‘Landslide.’ Get it?”
Boy do I ever. “I know we just met,” I say, “but I think we should be best friends.”
He laughs again. “In that case, you should probably know that my name is Ryan.”
“Nice to meet you, Ryan the hepcat,” I say.
And then I maintain eye contact with him as I wrap my lips around my straw and take a sip of my iced tea.
The intense sweetness comes as a shock to my tongue.
“Holy shoes, that’s like straight-up simple syrup that might’ve brushed against a tea leaf a few years ago. ”
“Ha, yeah, they take their sweet tea very seriously in these parts. I grew up in Vermont and I prefer my tea unsweetened, which might be the real reason half the town hates me. Um, so, Ms. Watts-Cohen—”
“You should call me Millie if we’re going to be best friends.”
“Millie,” he repeats with that easy smile of his that momentarily pauses my brain. “I’m here to ask a very big favor of you, but I think I can make it worth your time.”
Oh, right. He came over here to chat about something and presumably it was not the speed with which information spreads around Gadsley or his excellent taste in marching band music. “Sure, I’m listening,” I say.
“Our mayor went to this small-town tourism convention last month and now he’s obsessed with getting ‘younger’ people to think Gadsley’s hip and fun.
And by ‘younger’ people, he apparently means millennials.
So he started this Young Residents Advisory Council, which is really just me and his daughter.
Which... now that I think about it, maybe the council is all just an elaborate matchmaking attempt?
” His jade-colored eyes drift away for a moment, considering, before refocusing on my face.
“Anyway, he asked me to find a grand marshal for the Broccoli Festival parade who would match our new hip and fun millennial vibe. And, uh, I procrastinated on it because I’ve been busy with the band, and because his daughter told me that he’d probably change his mind anyway and want to be the grand marshal himself like every other year but.
.. parade’s tomorrow, he hasn’t changed his mind, and I’m completely screwed. ”