Chapter 3
booth buddies
. . .
Miles
Ishowed up to the festival grounds with my arms full of shit I didn't want to carry and a mood to match.
Orange banners tangled around my elbows, boxes of pumpkin muffins stacked precariously in my grip, and somewhere in the mess, a bag of zip ties that kept sliding down my shoulder.
The wind bit at my face, cold enough to make my eyes water, and I cursed under my breath as I tried to navigate the chaos of the fairgrounds without dropping everything.
Hay bales sat scattered across the field like forgotten toys.
Half-built booths lined the perimeter, skeletal frames waiting to be dressed up in Halloween finery.
Jack-o'-lanterns grinned from every corner, their carved faces flickering with battery-operated candles.
The whole place smelled like cider and woodsmoke and the faint, earthy scent of crushed leaves.
It should have been charming. Cozy. The perfect autumn scene.
Instead, it felt like walking into my own personal hell.
Because there, in the middle of it all, was Derek.
Of course he was already here. Of course his booth was half-assembled and somehow looked sleek even in its unfinished state.
Black wood panels, Edison bulbs strung overhead, everything lined up with military precision.
He stood in the center of it, hands on his hips, surveying his work like a general inspecting his troops.
He looked annoyingly good. Jeans that fit just right, a henley pushed up to his elbows, hair slightly mussed from the wind. Even from across the field, I could see the smug curve of his mouth.
I trudged toward my assigned spot, dumping the boxes onto the ground with more force than necessary.
The muffins shifted inside, probably crumbling into a disaster, but I was too pissed to care.
Lila had insisted I handle the booth setup while she prepped the café for the festival rush.
Which meant I was stuck here, alone, surrounded by overachievers and their perfect booths.
“Need a hand?”
I looked up to find Janet beaming at me, clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield. She was one of those aggressively cheerful people who made you feel guilty for being in a bad mood.
“I'm fine,” I said, forcing a smile.
“Great! So, I have some exciting news.” She flipped through her clipboard, eyes scanning the pages. “We've assigned you and Derek neighboring booths!”
My smile froze. “What?”
“Neighboring booths!” She gestured toward Derek's setup, then back to mine. “You two bring the most buzz to the festival. People are obsessed with your rivalry. It's so fun!”
“Buzz?” I repeated, my voice flat. “Try blood feud.”
She laughed like I'd made a joke. “Oh, you're hilarious. Anyway, you'll be right next to each other for the whole festival. Isn't that perfect?”
No. No, it was not perfect. It was the opposite of perfect. It was a disaster waiting to happen, and I could already feel the tension crawling up my spine.
“Perfect,” I said, because what else could I say?
Janet patted my shoulder, and wandered off to terrorize someone else.
I stood there, staring at Derek's booth, my mind racing.
Neighboring booths. For the entire festival.
Which meant I'd be stuck next to him for hours.
Days. Watching him charm customers, make perfect lattes, probably win the whole damn contest.
This was fine. Everything was fine.
“Careful, Miles.”
I turned to find Derek leaning against the edge of his booth, arms crossed, that smug grin firmly in place. “You look like you're about to have a stroke.”
“I'm fine.”
“You sure? Because you're gripping that box like it owes you money.”
I glanced down. He was right. My knuckles were white, fingers digging into the cardboard. I loosened my grip, shoving the box aside with my foot.
“Just excited to be neighbors,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Me too.” He pushed off the booth, sauntering over with the kind of lazy confidence that made my blood boil. Or maybe it made something else happen. Something I wasn't ready to think about. “Should be a fun few days. You, me, the whole town watching us compete.”
“Can't wait.”
He stopped just a few feet away, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes, the faint stubble shadowing his jaw. Close enough that I caught the scent of coffee and something else, something warm and clean that made my stomach twist.
“You're going to lose,” he said, but there was no heat in it. Just that same teasing tone that made me want to shove him and kiss him in equal measure.
“You wish.”
“I know.”
I stepped closer, closing the gap between us, and his grin faltered. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to see the flicker of surprise in his eyes, the way his breath caught.
“We'll see,” I said, my voice low.
For a moment, neither of us moved. We just stood there, staring at each other, the air between us crackling with something I didn't want to name. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of him toward me, and I felt my pulse kick up, heat crawling under my skin despite the autumn chill.
Then he smirked, stepping back, and the spell broke.
“Good luck, Miles.”
“Go to hell, Derek.”
He laughed, walking back to his booth, and I turned away before I could do something stupid. Like watch the way his jeans hugged his ass. Or admire the flex of his shoulders. Or think about how close we'd been standing and how much closer I wanted to get.
This was going to be hell.
I spent the next hour trying to assemble my booth, which was harder than it sounded.
Lila had given me a rough sketch, some vague instructions, and a box of tools that looked like they'd been dug out of a garage sale.
The wood panels didn't fit together properly.
The string lights tangled every time I tried to hang them.
And the banner kept flapping in the wind, nearly smacking me in the face.
Meanwhile, Derek's booth looked like it had been designed by an architect.
I hated everything.
I was wrestling with a particularly stubborn support beam when I heard footsteps behind me.
“You're doing it wrong.”
I turned to find my dad standing there, arms crossed, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Richard Carter. Fifty-two, silver hair, broad shoulders that filled out his flannel shirt like he'd been carved from stone.
He looked like he'd stepped out of a lumberjack calendar, all rugged masculinity and quiet confidence.
“Dad,” I said, straightening. “What are you doing here?”
“Lila called. Said you needed help.”
“I don't need help.”
He raised an eyebrow, glancing at the mess of my booth. The crooked panels, the tangled lights, the banner lying in a heap on the ground. “Right.”
I sighed. “Fine. Maybe I need a little help.”
He grinned, stepping forward, and within two minutes, he'd fixed the support beam, straightened the panels, and secured the whole thing with a level of ease that made me feel like an incompetent child. I stood back, watching him work, equal parts grateful and embarrassed.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
“No problem.” He wiped his hands on his jeans, surveying the booth. “Looks good.”
“It looks okay.”
“Better than okay.”
I didn't respond. My dad had always been good at this. Building things, fixing things, making everything seem effortless. Meanwhile, I could barely hang a string of lights without nearly strangling myself.
“Your dad's like a lumberjack superhero.”
I turned to find Derek standing at the edge of my booth, watching with obvious amusement. My dad glanced over, then extended a hand.
“Richard,” he said.
“Derek.” They shook, and I watched as my dad's expression shifted into something warm, friendly.
“Nice to meet you. Miles has mentioned you.”
“Has he?” Derek's grin widened, and he glanced at me. “All good things, I hope.”
“Mostly cursing,” my dad said, deadpan.
Derek laughed, and I wanted to die.
“Dad,” I said, my voice strained. “Don't you have somewhere to be?”
“Nope.” He leaned against the booth, clearly settling in. “Thought I'd stick around, see what all the fuss is about.”
Great. Perfect. Just what I needed. My dad and Derek bonding over my misery.
Derek turned back to my dad, his expression curious. “So, Richard. What do you do?”
“Carpentry. Been at it for thirty years.”
“Explains the arms.”
I choked on air. My dad just laughed, the sound rough and warm.
“I like this one,” he said, glancing at me. “You should keep him around.”
“We're rivals,” I said quickly. “Not friends.”
“Sure.” My dad's grin was knowing, infuriating. “Whatever you say.”
Before I could respond, another voice cut through the chaos.
“Richard Carter? Good god, is that really you?”
My dad straightened, his expression shifting to surprise. “Edward Walsh. I'll be damned.”
“How long has it been?” Edward stopped in front of us, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “Twenty years? Thirty?”
“Something like that.” My dad extended his hand, and they shook, the gesture firm and friendly. “You look good. Better than you did in college.”
Edward laughed. “You're one to talk. Still built like you could take down a tree with your bare hands.”
“Some things don't change.”
They stood there for a moment, and I could see the easy familiarity between them. The way they sized each other up, not competitive, just... comfortable. Like picking up a conversation they'd left off decades ago.
“What brings you out here?” my dad asked.
“Same as you, I'd imagine. Checking in on my son's booth.” Edward glanced at Derek, who was watching the exchange with barely concealed curiosity. “Making sure he doesn't set anything on fire.”
“I'm standing right here,” Derek said.
“I know.” Edward's tone was affectionate, teasing. He turned back to my dad. “I heard you moved back to town. Carpentry work?”
“Yeah. Steady enough. Keeps me busy.”
“Good. That's good.” Edward's expression softened slightly. “We should catch up properly sometime. Maybe grab a drink, talk about the old days.”
My dad nodded. “I'd like that. Been a while since I've seen anyone from college.”
“Most of us scattered after graduation. You went west, I went east. Life gets in the way.”
“It does.”
Derek cleared his throat, and I realized I'd been standing there frozen, watching this exchange like it was a tennis match. Edward glanced at me, then at Derek, his smile widening.
“And you must be Miles. Apparently, you're quite the competitor.” Edward's tone was light, good-natured.
“The feeling's mutual,” I muttered.
Edward laughed, then clapped my dad on the shoulder. “Richard, seriously. Let's grab that drink soon. I'm usually at The Black Cat on weekends. Good cider.”
“Sounds good. I'll find you there.”
“Perfect.” Edward turned to Derek. “Come on, son. Let's let these two finish up.”
Derek nodded, but not before shooting me one last glance. His eyes lingered just a second too long, and I felt that familiar heat crawl up my neck.
When they walked away, my dad turned back to the booth, that knowing smile still on his face.
“So,” he said casually. “That's Derek, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“He's got good taste in coffee, I'll give him that.”
“Dad.”
“What? I'm just saying.” He grabbed a hammer, testing the stability of one of the panels. “Seems like a decent guy. Polite. Good-looking, too.”
“Oh my god, stop.”
He laughed, and I groaned, scrubbing a hand over my face. This was a nightmare. My dad approving of Derek, being friendly with Derek's dad, probably already planning double dates or whatever the hell dads did.
“For what it's worth,” my dad said, his tone more serious now. “Edward's a good guy. We had some classes together back in the day. Smart. Grounded. Lost touch after graduation, but it was good to see him.”
“That's... nice, I guess.”
“It is.” He set the hammer down, turning to face me fully. “And Miles? That boy's into you.”
“He's not.”
“He is. I saw the way he looked at you.”
“You're imagining things.”
“I'm really not.” He squeezed my shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. “Just don't be an idiot about it, okay?”
I didn't respond. Couldn't. Because the truth was, I didn't know what Derek felt. All I knew was that every time he looked at me, I felt like I was standing on the edge of something dangerous, and I couldn't tell if I wanted to step back or jump.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of booth assembly, banner hanging, and trying not to think about the fact that our dads had apparently been college buddies. Derek worked on his booth, I worked on mine, and we maintained a careful distance, only interacting when absolutely necessary.
But I couldn't stop glancing over. Watching him move, the way his muscles flexed when he lifted a box, the way his brow furrowed in concentration. The way his tongue darted out to wet his lips when he was focused, a gesture so unconscious and distracting that I nearly hammered my own thumb.
At one point, we both reached for the same roll of duct tape sitting between our booths. Our hands collided, fingers brushing, and I jerked back like I'd been burned.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
“No problem.” But his voice was rough, gravelly, and when I glanced up, his eyes were on me, dark and intense.
We stood there, frozen, the tape forgotten. The air between us felt heavy, charged, like a storm waiting to break. I could feel my pulse in my throat, my skin too warm despite the chill. His gaze dropped to my mouth for just a second, so quick I almost missed it, and my breath caught.
“Miles—”
“Derek—”
We spoke at the same time, then stopped, both of us fumbling for words. The tension stretched between us, taut and electric, and I wanted to close the distance. Wanted to know what he tasted like, what he felt like, wanted to stop dancing around whatever this was and just give in.
Finally, Derek laughed, shaking his head, the sound breaking the spell.
“You first,” he said.
I didn't know what I was going to say. Something sarcastic, probably. Something to break the tension, to put distance back between us. But before I could speak, Janet's voice rang out across the field.
“Looking good, you two! Can't wait to see you compete!”
The moment shattered. Derek stepped back, grabbing the tape, and I turned away, my heart still racing, my hands trembling slightly as I reached for another box.
This was a problem. A big, messy, inconvenient problem.
And I had no idea how to fix it.