Picked and Playing Along (Small Town Protectors #1)

Chapter 1

The Wrong Kind of Surprise

Maisie

By the time I spot the giant compatibility quilt going up in the town square, the mayor’s voice is already echoing from the loudspeaker. It’s loud enough to catch, but just distant enough that the words blur into a garbled stream.

Somewhere hidden by the crowd, kettle corn crackles in an iron drum, and a little kid squeals with delight as a balloon slips free and dances into the sky.

I dodge Peaches—the town dog and part-time celebrity—as she trots past in a pink bandana with a red rose tied to her collar. No one’s sure who she belongs to, but she shows up to every festival like she’s on the planning committee.

I’d laugh, but I’m too busy stumbling across the cobblestones.

I’m still wearing my lime green linen apron—the one with deep pockets, streaked with potting soil and a stubborn smear of yellow stargazer lily dust, the kind that clings to your fingertips no matter how careful you are.

In one hand, I’m squeezing a pair of floral scissors with a stress-ball grip.

The breeze snatches at my sometimes frustratingly strawberry-blonde curls, and I can feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead.

The scent of eucalyptus and lilies perfumes the air behind me like a floral contrail—an unmistakable tell that I just sprinted here from a last-minute bouquet drop-off at Dr. Samuel Brook’s place.

Even though I’ve got natural strength from years of hauling flower buckets and arranging weddings under pressure, I’m still breathless by the time I reach the town square.

My curls are escaping their scarf, my cheeks are flushed, and I’m gasping for air as if I just finished an underwater breath-holding contest. I bend over, palms on my thighs, taking a second to compose myself.

Blood rushes in my ears, and my heart’s doing double time beneath the apron straps. Somewhere in the square, someone laughs, and it feels miles away—as if, in a strange way, I am losing control of my story, not just my breathing.

“Maisie Quinn . . . and Beau Calla…”

The mayor’s voice crackles through the air just as I reach the edge of the crowd. I barely register the second name—it blurs at the edges, swallowed up by the roaring in my head and the distant clang of the church bells, announcing my doom.

Wait—what?

My phone buzzes in my pocket again. Five missed texts from Jenna. All caps. All increasingly urgent. I duck behind a planter of ornamental kale and check the most recent:

WHERE ARE YOU?? THEY’RE ANNOUNCING MATCHES!!

I suck in a breath, slide the scissors into my apron pocket, and scan the square.

It’s already a mess of heart-shaped balloons, flower streamers, and a terrifying amount of glitter.

The Stitch Sisters, Sweetpines’ very own beloved quilt club members, are out in force, wielding clipboards and highlighters as if they’re about to direct a military operation.

Nearby, a child wails dramatically as a sticky lollipop splats against a vendor’s sandwich board.

The vendor groans. The mom sighs. A pair of teenagers burst into laughter.

And smack in the middle of it all, I spot Jenna. Beaming. Waving me over.

“Sorry I’m late,” I puff as I reach her side. I half-expect her to glare or lecture me for cutting it close, but instead, she looks as though she’s been hooked up to a caffeine IV and a gossip column all at once.

Jenna squeals, but barely looks at me. “Maisie Quinn and Beau Callahan,” she repeats like a prophecy. “You heard that, right?”

My pulse jumps. Not the excited kind. The roller-coaster-plunge kind. “I’m sorry—who and what now?”

Her earrings jingle with the force of her excitement, and her lipstick is an unapologetic cherry red, definitely brighter than it was this morning. She’s practically vibrating with matchmaking energy. She grins wider than the Cheshire Cat.

“You. Matched. With. Beau. Callahan.”

A slow-motion reel kicks on in my brain.

Beau Callahan. Older. Quiet. Tess’s big brother.

He left town before I could drive, but I must’ve seen him once or twice—back when Tess, Jenna, and I were inseparable.

One of those bestie sleepovers, probably.

I turn to study the compatibility quilt, recently hoisted high with the ceremony due an ancient relic.

Its themed squares—theater masks, pies, cowgirls—are all filled in, except for one.

But a volunteer is temporarily scrawling our names with a fabric pen onto a square adorned with a toolbox and a bouquet of roses.

The Stitch Sisters will make the names permanent with thread overnight.

The quilt flaps gently in the breeze, neat stitches of metallic thread catching the light. You can see the town’s pride woven into every square.

I gape at Jenna. “You didn’t.”

She waves a folded event program above her head like a victory flag. “You needed this.”

“Jenna—what did you do?”

She just grins. “And now you’re matched with Beau Callahan,” she says smugly. “You’re welcome.”

Something about her smile tells me I’m going to regret this. But the bells are ringing, people are clapping, and I’m too stunned to demand a full explanation.

Speed-talking, Jenna launches into a recap of everything I apparently missed. “They just started calling the matches. Team Let’s Go Viral is back again this year. Strolled up as if they own the place—ten minutes early, matching smiles, and already vlogging like professional marketers.”

She jerks her chin. “See them over there? Matching outfits in attention-grabbing neon. Coordinated social media poses. A whole influencer aesthetic.”

I huff.

“Bet they’re going to make TikTok videos of every second of the matchmaking contest with their flawless faces, filter-ready lighting, and followers for days,” Jenna continues.

My gaze tracks hers, and I spot Brittany Marlow fluffing the curls she coaxed into place this morning with a one-inch curling wand. Her bleached blonde hair is naturally pin-straight, but you’d never guess it from the bounce she’s achieved. She adjusts the glossy spirals with practiced flair.

Beside her, Chase Donovan launches a confetti popper with the fanfare of announcing a royal baby. I blink as glitter flutters through the air—because of course they brought a confetti popper and a glitter cannon. Jenna snorts, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

Jenna gives into her impulse and does roll her eyes—dramatically. “They even brought a full-size ring light.”

She doesn’t stop there. “That’s Lucy Brandt from the library,” she adds, nodding toward a couple standing stiffly near the cider cart. Matched with that guy who just bought the old Holloway place.”

The two of them stand a foot apart, smiling politely but clearly not comfortable with each other.

Lucy fiddles with her glasses. The guy is tall and stocky, with a mustache and the glazed-over expression of someone still recovering from whatever home-reno disaster he walked into.

He nods and smiles awkwardly, as if he’s at a job interview.

“And those two?” I nod toward a girl in a cowboy hat and a guy with purple hair, and Jenna smirks. “No clue who thought that was a match, but I’m living for it.”

They stand by the jam tent. Cowgirl is offering purple hair guy a spoonful of strawberry-lavender jam to sample, and he’s pretending not to notice the Stitch Sisters photographing the whole thing.

The crowd erupts in squeals and camera flashes. Team Let’s Go Viral is now performing synchronized hair flips.

Jenna points toward another pair near the fountain. “And there’s Team Barbie’s World. Also back again. They’ve already handed out heart stickers to half the square.”

Sure enough, Parker—aka Ken—dips Barbie Trina into a theatrical kiss worthy of a pageant finale. He yells, “LOVE IS IN THE AIR!” loud enough for the next town over to hear.

Peaches barks approvingly.

I fidget, scoping out the sneakiest way to get out of here.

Jenna elbows me & leans closer, staring me down. “You’re not leaving.”

I consider the scissors in my apron. Probably not the ideal scare-my-BFF-so-I-can-depart tool. I sigh.

“Fine. But only because I can’t find the exit through all these decorations.”

We ease our way through the crowd. Gretchen Asher and Gregory Williamson are making out under a rose arch despite their very public breakup yesterday in front of the fudge stand. They’re one of the newly matched couples this year.

The whole town knows they’ve been dating on and off for ages, but the Stitch Sisters must have decided the contest might actually help them figure it out once and for all. Jenna dubs them Team the Maybes on the spot, muttering something about delusions, chemistry, and questionable judgment.

Across the square I hear, “It’s pancakes.” Amanda Smith declares this in a no-way-I-am-wrong-on-this-one tone, pointing to a copy of her husband’s entry form as though it betrayed her. “Our first date was at the pancake fundraiser in the gym.”

“You just like being contrary,” Luis counters.

“You like me contrary.”

“Unfortunately, I do.”

The two of them have perfected bickering to the level of a competitive sport, but no one in Sweetpines is fooled.

Everyone understands it’s their version of affection.

Amanda and Luis Smith both teach at the high school and treat the festival like annual marriage therapy.

Jenna nicknamed them Team Tune-Up, and no one argued. Not even Amanda.

The Stitch Sisters radiate pride in what they see as their unparalleled matchmaking skills. Reenie winks at me from under her lavender sunhat.

Jenna nudges me as we inch closer to the front. “Maze, look alive. That’s your match.”

Maybe I could fake a twisted ankle. Or blame pollen allergies. Or disappear into the Stitch Sisters’ tent and pretend I’ve been taking quilting lessons. But then, Beau Callahan turns—and all my excuses go fuzzy around the edges.

There he is.

For a second, everything else fades—the applause, the glitter, even Jenna’s hummingbird energy beside me. My breath catches.

Beau Callahan stands near the edge of the main stage platform, flannel sleeves rolled up, one scuffed boot propped against the corner trim. He’s staring straight at me like I’ve just announced I’m selling his secrets in the church bulletin.

Beau is tall. Lean yet muscular. Broad-shouldered in a way that speaks to years spent building fences, fixing porches, and hauling lumber.

Tousled dark brown waves brush his collar, long enough to tie back or tuck under a well-worn ballcap.

The kind of length that looks effortlessly handsome—he didn’t try for it, but somehow got it just right anyway.

Backlit by the sun, his hair looks as though it probably feels as lovely as velvet or a dryer-warmed plush baby blanket—soft enough to make you wonder, unruly enough to draw the eye.

A well-groomed beard frames a face that’s older now—sharper cheekbones, more angles—but still familiar enough to stir something in my memory.

Suddenly I remember once, years ago, spotting him crouched in the gravel driveway outside their house, fixing Tess’s bike chain with precise, capable hands and a smudge of grease across his cheek.

He hadn’t noticed me watching from across the street, but I’d stood there longer than I meant to, wondering how someone so unassuming could still draw my attention like a magnet.

And those eyes. Blue-gray and clear as a tide pool. Watchful. Reflective. Deeper than they seem at first glance. He studies me, and I sense he is trying to compare the present version of me with someone he might’ve once passed in a hallway.

At five foot four, I don’t take up much space.

But the way he’s looking at me? It makes me feel that I do.

As though every inch of my curvy, soft frame is being seen and measured—not in a critical way, but in a way that still makes me shift my weight and tug at the edge of my apron.

I’m not overweight. I know that. But I’ve never been willowy or svelte.

I’m shaped like a woman who lifts flower buckets for a living—cushiony, full curves, strong arms, and hips that bump into narrow doorways.

The rest of the crowd is clapping, chatting, calling out names. From the back, someone shouts, “Ooh, good luck with that one, Beau!” followed by laughter. I barely register any of it. Just him. Just that look.

Under his direct gaze, there’s a twinge of self-consciousness. Not because I feel wrong, but because his eyes don’t flit away at all. And something in me is bracing, unsure what he sees. There’s a strange vulnerability to being seen and not knowing what that means yet.

Jenna whispers, “Still want out?”