25. Alice
ALICE
Colt has me pinned against the siding of my house, his warm hand sliding up my sweater, his mouth dragging down my neck.
I’m in heaven as my fingertips trace the protruding veins in his arms and then grip the hard ridges of his abs.
In the backyard, the hens cluck softly in their coop, disturbed even as we strive for absolute silence.
I lift my right leg, trying to get Colt closer to where I want him. He hooks his arm beneath my knee, tugs it upward, and steps in, grinding against my core with a groan deep in his throat. My head falls back against the side of the house.
“Colt.” His name rolls off my tongue like a prayer.
Colt is a man of few words, but the way he’s breathing—ragged and desperate—tells me everything I need to know. He brushes his thumb over my nipple through my lace bra and my hips buck. I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I need him closer. I need him inside of me.
A sudden sound makes us both freeze. We’re on the side of the house, and it’s dark out, but we’re still terrified that Grant will catch us in the act. We remain still for another beat, ears straining for my brother’s voice or the telltale squeak of the screen door. But nothing comes.
Colt’s forehead drops onto my shoulder and he releases a groan of frustration.
“This is ridiculous,” I breathe, running my fingers through the blunt hair at the nape of his neck. “Come on, Colt. Let’s just go to the inn. You’ve got a room.”
I feel his forehead shake back and forth against my shoulder. “Someone will see you go in with me.” He presses a kiss to my shoulder, my neck. “By morning, everyone in Holly River will know.”
And what’s so wrong with that? I wonder. But then my stomach flips, because what would my parents say? Or my brother? I’m not ready to find out until I figure out where this is going.
I consider suggesting his mom’s place, because at this point I’m thinking only of the ache between my legs, but then Colt lifts his head to meet my eyes, and my mouth snaps shut. “Okay,” I say through a sigh. “I need to go anyway. They’re waiting for me.”
Colt releases my thigh and steps back. “Go on then,” he says, but the words sound pained leaving him.
I turn to rush off, and he gives my butt a playful slap.
I yelp, and then giggle, grabbing my purse and wine bottle from the ground.
When I near the front of the house, I turn back to find Colt standing there, head bowed, drawing in a centering breath.
In the light of the moon, he adjusts himself, trying to coax his erection into submission.
Colt turns his head, and when he sees me watching him, he says in a hushed voice, “I can’t get this thing gone until you’re out of sight.”
I do a sultry little dance and Colt lunges forward.
I squeal and race for the sidewalk, purse bouncing against my hip. Somewhere over my shoulder, I hear Grant’s voice ringing out, asking where the hell we are.
The walk to Pardon My Garden is short, red brick streets lined with oaks dropping their gold and crimson cargo.
I head for the exterior stairs that lead to Maggie’s second-story apartment.
The railing is wrapped in twinkling orange lights, and a wreath made of glittery black maple leaves and white pumpkins hangs from her front door.
I knock, then turn to see the Texas redbud rooted between her shop and my previous place of employment. It’s fully decorated now, glowing orange against the night, plastic pumpkins dangling from various branches, each jack-o’-lantern grin lit from within.
Maggie’s voice reaches me through the door. “It’s open!”
I step inside and am greeted by candles flickering across every surface. It looks like a scene ripped from the pages of a romance novel instead of a girls’ night in. The various, strategically placed flower arrangements aren’t helping matters.
“Am I about to be seduced?” I toss my purse onto a kitchen chair and reach for the wine opener. Pausing, I point to the pie on the counter with the quirk of an eyebrow.
“Sweet potato pie,” June chirps.
I swoon, letting my knees go wobbly, falling back against the kitchen counter while clutching my heart.
“Get over here, you freak,” Maggie orders with a laugh. “We already have glasses.”
I walk toward where they sit around the coffee table, gripping the wine bottle by the neck, and stop when I spot a tan board spread out before them. “And what do we have here?”
Maggie leans her head back on the couch cushion. “June brought an Ouija board.”
I immediately cross my fingers and hiss. “Witch!”
June curls her hands into claws and then flexes her fingers as if casting a spell on me.
I set the bottle down robotically, my stare going blank, voice distant. “I’m suddenly…overcome…with desire.” Dropping to my knees, I hunch over Maggie, pretending to hump her.
“Getcha’ some!” Maggie hollers. She rolls over, wrapping her legs around me and thrusting wildly.
“Aww,” June says.
We both turn and look at her. “Aww?”
“You’re in a good mood,” June notes, filling our glasses.
Maggie untangles herself, sitting up and casting suspicious eyes in my direction. “Yeah. You are. I’m usually the resident perv, but you’re radiating perv power. Did you finally get that Marine to report for duty? Between your thighs?”
I stiffen, because Colt and I haven’t discussed whether it’s okay to tell anyone. But the flush in my skin is practically radioactive in the glow of eight thousand candles. “No?”
June points her wine glass at me. “Liar! No pie for you.”
“No pie for Colt,” Maggie clarifies. “Sounds like he’s eaten plenty.”
“Nothing happened!” I grab a pillow and bury my face in it.
“Uh, huh.” Maggie rises to cut the pie now that it’s become the hot topic of conversation. She doesn’t add anything else as she navigates the kitchen, and eventually, I remove the pillow from my head because Maggie is rarely quiet. When I find her frowning, worry tugs at me.
“What?” I ask. “Say it.”
Maggie shakes her head, nudging slices off the cake cutter and onto dessert plates. “No. It’s nothing. Don’t listen to me.”
“Maggie, talk,” I press.
She sighs and carries the plates back to the coffee table, handing them out.
“I was just thinking…” Maggie lowers to the floor, folding her legs beneath her and leaning back against the couch.
“I mean, Colt doesn’t really have family outside of you guys.
I wonder what happens if things go south. Especially since his mom just passed.”
The bubble of euphoria I’ve existed in since Colt and I first kissed suddenly pops.
It’s something I’d considered before, but Maggie articulating it so clearly makes the topic unavoidable.
If one of us hurts the other, does Colt feel like he can no longer come around?
Yes—he, Grant, and my parents haven’t been in touch as much lately, but they’re still like family to him.
And what was with Colt not wanting me to touch him? Did that have anything to do with this? Because he seemed all too eager to touch me, but every time I tried to pleasure him in return, he turned the focus back on me.
Maggie must see the light leave my eyes, because she reaches out and squeezes my arm.
“Hey. Forget what I said. You can’t help who you want, and neither can he.
Besides, you’re my priority. Why am I even worried about Colt?
” Maggie’s head pops up like a dog that’s detected a distant sound.
Her wide eyes dart around the room. “Oh, my god. Do I like Colt now? Is he a…man friend?” Maggie feigns retching, shoulders hunched.
June shoves Maggie playfully. “Hey! Man friends are the best. They can fix things and reach things and check closets for burglars."
“Dalton is an outlier.” Maggie grabs the teardrop-shaped pointer and slides it around the Ouija board. “Can men and women really be friends?” Maggie shoves the pointer violently toward No and nods toward the answer as if that’s undeniable proof.
We laugh and place our fingertips lightly on the device and begin cycling through questions.
Maggie asks if she’ll ever find a man who sets her whole body on fire.
The glass window on the pointer—which June declares is actually a planchette—displays an illustrated sun, which we take as a sure sign of Maggie’s impending engulfment.
Next, June asks if she’ll win the pie contest at the Fall Festival, and the planchette moves immediately to yes, which we agree with wholeheartedly, especially since June’s won that contest the last four years in a row.
We ask other things:
Will June have more than two kids? Yes.
Will Maggie eventually get a bigger storefront? Maybe.
Will Grant ever stop being an idiot? Yes. (Still yes after Maggie requests a redo).
Are there aliens? Maybe.
Who does June have a crush on? D-A-L… (June threatens to take our pie away at that one).
At last, I ask a question of my own, feeling obscenely idiotic for assigning any weight to what this toy blindly spits out. And yet… “Will my bookshop be a success?” I force out. Maggie and June meet my eyes before glancing down.
The candles flicker and music plays softly in the background as the pointer whooshes softly around the board in lazy circles. Finally, it moves toward Maybe before thudding off the corner and onto the table.
Maggie leans over the board. “The board says…” She looks closer before her head snaps up. “That you need a soft opening for your bookshop.”
June claps, and I gather that they’ve had this conversation already.
“What?” I cover my glass when Maggie tries to refill it for the third time.
Maggie sets the bottle down and leans back. “We think you should have a soft launch for your bookshop. Next Saturday. And that you should invite your parents so they can see what you’ve accomplished.” Maggie wags her eyebrows. “And Colt’s fireman brother.”
June twists her hair into a bun. “Next weekend is only a few days before Halloween, so we can make it Halloween-themed! I’ll decorate and bring spooky treats and—” She holds up a finger when Maggie opens her mouth to speak. “—yes, apple cider doughnuts.”
Maggie nods, pleased.
My stomach flips. It can’t be possible that next weekend would make for a good soft launch date. But when I do the math, I realize that’s a little less than two weeks before the Fall Festival.
“And,” Maggie continues as if sensing my hesitation. “I’ve been tracking the engagement on your posts. Alice, it’s moving from serious numbers to potential for media coverage. We have a few reels that may tip over a million views.”
“What?” I grab her phone and look, my eyes bulging when I discover she’s right. There are four thousand comments on the last post. How is that even possible?
“A soft opening would give us tons of content. And Alice? We need it. We need every opportunity we can get to drive festival attendance. For the sake of our shops, and yours.”
I raise my head from the phone, and for the first time, I see genuine worry etched on my friends’ faces. “You’re really concerned.” Guilt cuts through me that I never appreciated the gravity of the situation until now.
“You will be too once the bookstore opens.” June shakes her head. “Our businesses depend on tourists and events to stay afloat.”
I knew this already, but for the first time, it truly sinks in.
The look in their eyes makes it impossible to turn away from.
This isn’t someone else’s responsibility.
These are my friends. My town. Handing Maggie’s phone back, I ask, “What do you need from me? Outside of the soft opening, which is a yes. And a very grateful yes at that.”
June pumps a celebratory fist into the air as Maggie unfolds her plan—a plan I swiftly agree to, with the caveat that Colt must also agree, as it involves him.
We spend the next hour back on the board, asking increasingly preposterous questions—like which Holly River bachelor is actually a werewolf (Frank), and who would serve as our hypothetical town serial killer (Pickles)—until the wine is gone and we can’t possibly eat another bite of pie.
“I should go,” I say, standing up and stretching and swaying a bit, because Maggie ultimately succeeded in refilling my wine glass. “We’re still playing catch-up after our second delay.” I hold up two fingers. I’m fairly certain it’s two fingers.
“Fucking Travis,” Maggie groans, her head falling back.
I throw a hand in the air. “Night, witches!”
“May ye bring a handsome man to thine threshold and—”
I close the door before I can hear the rest of June’s spell. The air is even colder now, and I wrap one arm around my waist, shivering as I navigate the stairs. When I reach the bottom, a familiar, broad-shouldered figure rounds the corner.
“Dalton?” I squint.
He stops, holding a white paper sack, neatly folded. “Hey, Alice. Heading home?”
“Hear, hear!” I respond with a raised finger, certain that’s an appropriate usage. “What’s in the bag?”
“Dinner for June,” he explains. “The woman is a master baker, but she subsists on bread and sugar alone.” He glances down at the bag, lifting it a fraction. “Chicken. Mashed potatoes. Green things.”
“Good man,” I say, patting his arm as I pass.
“You okay to walk home?” he calls after me.
“Are you okay to walk home?” I fire back, and then shake my head, because that made no sense.
Dalton laughs and heads up the stairs right as Frank steps out of The Buttermilk Cafe. He lights a cigarette and, before I can bypass the diner, he points the cherry at me. “Drunk,” he announces.
“Affirmative.”
“Wait there,” he says, and vanishes inside his restaurant. I wait obediently, swaying only slightly, until he reappears with a sleeve of French fries. Right before he hands them over, he yanks them back. “Next time, you invite me.”
I salute him.
He hands me the fries, visibly amused, almost…
proud. I resume walking, stuffing the greasy, salty goodness into my mouth, moaning because they’re damn good.
It takes a single moment of pleasure before my mind zips back to Colt.
And then I’m smiling around the fries, practically bouncing on my toes because that man will be at my front door within a few hours.
The smile falters for a beat when Maggie’s warning ricochets around my mind.
I wonder what happens if things go south?