Chapter 17
Lily
By Friday morning, I had the binder open, pen uncapped, and music already pouring from my boombox before Ethan even flipped the sign on the bookstore door. Alanis was wailing “Ironic,” my phone was ringing, and I was scribbling notes fast enough to dent the paper.
One vendor wanted a different booth spot, another still hadn’t mailed back their check, and the printer needed my final poster order by Monday.
I had a to-do list longer than my arm, but I thrived on it.
This was the part I knew I could handle—spreadsheets, deadlines, juggling twenty things at once.
The bell over the door jingled, and Lynn breezed in with a bakery box in hand. “Just stopping by on my way to school. Brought sustenance,” she announced, dropping it on my stack of folders like the world’s most welcome paperweight.
I popped it open to find a pile of lemon muffins. “You’re a lifesaver. I forgot breakfast.”
She perched on the edge of the chair across from me, sipping her coffee. “So, how’s it going, Lily? You’ve been buried in here all week.”
“Busy, but good,” I said, flipping my pen between my fingers. “We’ve got vendors locked, music booked, posters in design. I’m pulling it together.”
Lynn gave me a slow grin. “That’s what I like to hear. The town’s buzzing already. You’ll be fine.”
I smiled back, but my chest still felt tight.
David Erwin’s polite smile from yesterday kept looping in my head.
Fine wasn’t enough. I had three more interviews coming, and I couldn’t afford to look like an outsider again.
Not when every instinct screamed that belonging was something you had to earn before it all got taken away.
Lynn tapped the corner of my binder. “I’d say you’re earning your keep.” She stood, brushing muffin crumbs off her jeans. “Don’t forget to eat lunch, okay? You need to keep up your energy so we can pull off the best fair ever!”
She winked and headed out, the bell jingling behind her.
By the time the clock crawled past five, my pen had run dry, and my brain buzzed like a beehive. I stacked my papers into the binder, shut off my music, and leaned back in my chair. Across the store, Ethan was straightening a display shelf, and when he glanced over, I already knew what was coming.
Crash course: Day One.
I still couldn’t believe he’d offered. Ethan Calloway—stoic, prickly, king of the side-eye—was actually giving up his weekend to drive me around and fill in the blanks on this town’s unwritten script.
I’d expected more teasing, maybe even a smug “figure it out yourself, city girl.” Instead, he’d offered help. Real help.
His eyes caught mine for a second too long, and something in my chest fluttered—surprised, unsteady. I told myself it was just nerves, but I couldn’t quite ignore the way my pulse skipped when he looked at me like that.
I closed my binder with a snap, straightened my cardigan, and pushed back my chair. “Ready?” I asked, more to myself than him.
He nodded once, grabbed his keys, and held the door. I hesitated, smoothing my skirt. “So… what exactly are the plans? Am I supposed to have a syllabus for this crash course?”
One corner of his mouth ticked up. “Dinner first. Joni’s.”
I glanced down at my outfit—a plaid miniskirt in shades of red and black, a fitted white cardigan buttoned just enough to be playful, and strappy block-heeled sandals.
My hair was set into a perfect blowout, gold hoops catching the light.
Totally overdressed for a diner, but when had that ever stopped me?
“Well?” I asked, slipping my bag over my shoulder. “Do I pass the Willowbrook dress code?”
Ethan’s eyes flicked over me before he could stop himself, slowing just a heartbeat longer on the hem of my skirt. For just a second, his grip tightened on the keys—a tiny giveaway he probably hoped I hadn’t noticed. “You’ll pass,” he said gruffly, pushing the door open.
I raised a brow. “That’s all I get? Not even a gold star?”
He muttered something about city girls always needing extra credit, and I bit back a smile, warmth blooming at the base of my throat.
We crossed the street together, and Ethan pushed open the glass door to Joni’s Diner. A bell jingled overhead, and the smell of frying onions, coffee, and maple syrup wrapped around me like a hug I hadn’t asked for but almost wanted to sink into.
The place was buzzing—farmers in ball caps crowded the counter, a family squeezed into a booth with coloring pages scattered across the table, a pair of teens fed quarters into the jukebox in the corner. It was loud, a little cramped, and so alive it was impossible not to smile.
“Calloway!” Joni herself shouted from behind the counter. Her apron was splattered with grease, her greying hair pinned back in a messy bun. “Haven’t seen you in a week. Carol feeding you too well again?”
Ethan’s mouth tugged into the smallest smile. “Can’t complain,” he said.
Half a dozen people turned in their seats to wave at him, calling his name like he was some kind of local celebrity. He answered each one with a nod or a quick word, as if it were this easy to belong everywhere you went.
I slid into a booth across from him, trying not to stare. I couldn’t help but admire it—how effortless he was here, how respected. He wasn’t loud, didn’t work a room with charm the way I did, but people leaned toward him anyway. Trusted him.
A pang cut through me before I could shove it down. I’d never had that. Not in foster homes where I was the extra kid at the table, not in the city where friends were more like colleagues. I’d built a career, not a community. And now, sitting here in this noisy diner, I felt the hole of that truth.
I shoved the feeling back where it belonged and slapped on a smile, leaning forward as if I were completely at ease. If Willowbrook was going to keep testing me, then I’d keep performing. It was the only way I knew how.
“Here you go,” Joni said, sliding two laminated menus toward us. “Special tonight is meatloaf with mashed potatoes, and the chicken noodle soup’s fresh if you want to start light.”
“Meatloaf,” Ethan said without hesitation, handing his menu right back.
I took my time, flipping pages, humming under my breath. “You weren’t even going to pretend to look?”
“Why would I? It’s Joni’s.” He gave me a look like that explained everything.
“Well then…” I tapped my nails against the menu. “I’m torn between the BLT and the pancakes. Do people really eat breakfast for dinner here?”
“Every day,” Joni said proudly, hands on her hips. “Half the town practically lives on my pancakes.”
“Then pancakes it is. But with bacon. Lots of bacon.”
“You got it,” Joni said, scribbling on her pad.
While she was there, I leaned my elbows on the table and flashed her a bright smile. “So tell me, Joni. Everyone keeps saying you’re practically summer fair royalty. True or false?”
She let out a hearty laugh. “Depends on who you ask, honey. But I’ve had my hand in it a time or two.”
Ethan leaned back, arms folded loosely, watching the exchange. “You should sit a minute, Joni. She’s looking for the stories behind the fair. No one’s better for that than you.”
“Mm-hm,” Joni said, considering, then passed our order to another server, untied her apron and slid into the booth beside Ethan.
“Anything for a Calloway,” she said, patting his arm. “His daddy used to sit right over there,”—she pointed to a stool by the counter—“and argue with me about my pie recipes. Said nobody could beat Carol’s. I told him that was blasphemy.”
Ethan’s mouth twitched. “And you’re still holding that grudge.”
“Darn right.” She winked at me. “But he still ordered a slice every time. Apple, with the warm vanilla sauce. That’s the one that started the pie-eating contest at the fair.
First year, I baked every pie myself—apple, peach, blueberry.
By the end of the day, half the town had whipped cream up their noses. ”
I laughed, picturing it. “Wait, you made all the pies? For the whole contest?”
“Sure did. Back then, it was just a couple of folding tables under a tent. Didn’t think anyone would show up.
But word spread fast, and the line doubled every year.
Now the 4-H kids bake some, church ladies bake some, and yes,”—she lifted her chin proudly—“I still judge. Can’t have a pie contest without Joni’s say-so. ”
My pen was back in my hand before I realized it, scribbling her words on a napkin. That’s a story. Exactly the kind of thing David Erwin had wanted from me yesterday.
“Summerfest won’t be Summerfest without Joni’s pies,” Ethan said.
I leaned across the table, grinning. “Okay, but an important question, have you ever done the pie-eating contest, Calloway?”
Ethan shot me a look over the rim of his water glass. “Once.”
“Once?” I gasped, slapping the table. “That’s it? Don’t tell me Willowbrook’s golden boy backed out because he didn’t want to get a little messy.”
That earned me a rumble of laughter from the booth behind us. Joni clapped her hands together. “Oh, he did it. And he was a sight! Blueberry filling all over his face.”
My eyes widened. “There are witnesses?”
“Half the town,” Joni said, winking.
I tapped my pen against my notebook, already scheming. “Well then, maybe I need to throw my hat in the ring this year. I happen to have a very competitive streak.”
Ethan groaned under his breath. “God help us.”
“Hey, don’t knock it until you’ve seen me in action.” I pointed my pen at him, and a few heads turned our way. “I could absolutely dominate a pie-eating contest.”
That earned me more laughter from the next booth and a “we’ll hold you to that” from a man in a ball cap.
Our food arrived a few minutes later, plates steaming. Joni slid out of the booth with a quick smile and a wave, leaving Ethan’s meatloaf and my towering pancake stack between us like a warm, unexpected spotlight.
I grabbed a piece of bacon first, crunching into it with a sigh. “Okay, this might actually change my life.”
Ethan smirked. “Told you. Joni doesn't miss.”
I pointed my fork at him. “Don’t get cocky. I still reserve the right to critique the pancakes.”
He leaned back in the booth, arms folded across his chest. “Be my guest. Just know that generations of kids grew up on those teddy bear pancakes. If you give them anything less than five stars, you’ll be run out of town.”
“Fine,” I said, cutting into the stack. Butter and syrup dripped down the sides as I took my first bite. Warm, fluffy, perfect. My eyes fluttered shut for a second. “Okay, maybe ten stars. Happy?”
The corner of his mouth tugged up. “Ecstatic.”
We ate for a while in a silence that felt warm and just a little electric, the clink of forks and the low murmur of the diner wrapping around us.
Every so often, I caught myself sneaking glances at him over the rim of my coffee, heat curling low in my stomach when I noticed his gaze lingering on me, too.
Finally, unable to stand the charged quiet any longer, I leaned in, let my voice go soft and teasing.
“So…what do you actually do when you’re not working or rescuing hopeless city girls from public humiliation? ”
He gave me a look. “Hopeless?”
“What?” I said. “I’m owning it.”
He shook his head, but his voice softened. “Not much. Read. Fix things around the house. Watch ball games when I can.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I rested my chin in my hand, studying him. “You know, you’re a tough nut to crack, Calloway.”
“Maybe I like it that way,” he said, but there wasn’t any bite in it.
I twirled my fork between my fingers, narrowing my eyes playfully. “Or maybe you just forgot how to have fun. Don’t tell me all you do is read, fix leaky faucets, and watch ESPN.”
His brows rose a fraction. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing.” I grinned. “If you’re eighty. You need some spice in your life. Something spontaneous.”
He leaned back in the booth, regarding me like I was a puzzle piece that didn’t fit anywhere. “And what do you suggest? Salsa dancing in the middle of Main Street?”
My grin widened. “Now that you mention it…”
He groaned under his breath, but I caught the twitch of a smile he tried to hide.
Ethan pushed his empty plate away and tossed a couple of bills on the table before I could argue. Then he stood, keys jingling in his hand.
“Come on,” he said. “Time for your next lesson.”
I slid out of the booth, grabbing my bag. “Next lesson? You make it sound like summer school.”
“Something like that.” He held the door for me, that familiar half-smirk on his face. “You’ll see.”
We slipped out the back door of Joni’s, the one that opened into the gravel lot behind the diner.
The warm Friday night air wrapped around us as the clatter of dishes and chatter faded behind the swinging screen.
Ethan’s hand brushed mine for just a second—accidental, probably, but it sent a spark racing up my arm.
He led the way toward his truck parked beneath the single buzzing light, close enough that I could still catch the clean scent of his soap. I followed, nerves fluttering as I tried to guess what kind of small-town crash course he thought he was giving me.