Chapter 23
Lily
I buckled in, still brushing bits of hay from my hair. “Okay,” I announced as Ethan pulled out of the Durbin’s driveway, “that was officially the most ridiculous, wonderful, exhausting thing I’ve ever done.”
He gave me a sideways glance. “You lasted like half an afternoon.”
“Half an afternoon that included surviving homicidal chickens, almost breaking a sandal in a barn, and watching a calf drag a twelve-year-old across the grass. I deserve a medal.” I tossed him a grin, unable to help myself. “Or at least a parade.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, which I was starting to recognize as Ethan Calloway for laughter.
I leaned back in my seat, kicking my heels against the floor mat like I was twelve again.
“Seriously, though. I’ve never done anything like that.
Where I grew up, weekends were… laundry and maybe TV reruns if you were lucky.
Nobody dragged me to a farm to sweep out stalls or taste-test strawberry jam made by third graders. ”
His hands tightened on the wheel, like he didn’t quite know what to do with that. “Well,” he said after a pause, “you handled it better than most.”
I snorted. “Please. I was a walking feather duster. But…” I trailed off, glancing out the window at the green blur of fields rushing past. “I kind of loved it. Not the chickens,” I added quickly, “but the kids, the market, Walt and his wife. It felt like everyone was connected somehow. Like all the little pieces fit together.”
He hummed low, thoughtful.
I turned back toward him, tilting my head. “So, what’s next on Professor Calloway’s crash course? Because if it’s another barn, I need a wardrobe change and possibly a tetanus shot.”
This time, his smirk was unmistakable. “Relax. No barns. Just a stop at the Root Beer Stand.”
I perked up immediately. “Root beer floats?”
“And hot dogs,” he said.
I pressed a hand to my chest, dramatic. “Ethan Calloway, are you trying to win me over with food? Because it’s working.”
He shook his head, chuckling softly, but as he turned us down a shaded lane, I couldn’t help but wonder—was that really his plan?
The sunlight flickered through the leaves overhead, casting playful shadows, and for a moment, I felt a rush of warmth.
Did I want him to win me over? A thrill shot through me at the thought, but I quickly pushed it away, fighting the urge to let hope take root.
The truck rumbled off the county road and into a lot shaded by oaks.
A squat white building sat at the center, A&B ROOT BEER STAND sign painted faintly above the walk-up order window.
Picnic tables sprawled under strings of lights, already half-filled with families and kids swinging their legs, floats sweating in the heat.
“Oh my gosh,” I breathed, pressing a hand to the glass. “It’s like stepping into Grease. Do people start dancing on the tables after dark?”
“Not unless you count eighth graders,” Ethan said dryly, cutting the engine.
I hopped down from the truck and fanned myself dramatically. “Please tell me they actually serve floats in frosty glass mugs. If this is a Styrofoam situation, my heart will break.”
He smirked, walking toward the open window. “Mugs. You’ll survive.”
A teenage boy leaned out of the service window, paper hat askew. “Two hot dogs, two floats?” he asked before Ethan even opened his mouth.
I blinked. “Wait—you didn’t order.”
The kid shrugged. “Mr. Calloway always gets the same thing.”
I turned, grinning wickedly. “Predictable, huh?”
Ethan shot me a look, one eyebrow raised, as if he was trying to decide whether to laugh or challenge me. That smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, a playful glint in his eyes that sent a shiver of excitement down my spine. “You want a float or not?”
“Yes, Professor Predictable, but I want mine with extra ice cream.” I leaned over the counter conspiratorially. “Pile it high. He’ll tip better if I get sprinkles.”
The boy laughed, scribbled something, and disappeared. I plopped onto a picnic bench, tapping my sandals against the gravel while Ethan slid in across from me.
When the floats arrived—mugs frosty, vanilla ice cream bobbing like islands in the dark root beer—I nearly swooned. “Okay, this might be the peak of Willowbrook. Cancel the rest of the tour, I’ve found my calling.”
“Your calling?” he echoed, unwrapping his hot dog.
“Professional float taster.” I scooped a bite of ice cream, deliberately dramatic. “I’ll need benefits. And an office with air-conditioning.”
Ethan shook his head, but his eyes crinkled. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” I said around a mouthful of root beer fizz, “you’re still sitting here with me.”
His gaze caught mine for a beat too long before he cleared his throat and kept his eyes on his float.
“The stand’s been here since the fifties.
Families have been coming for floats longer than I’ve been alive.
They sponsor half the fair concessions every summer, and the owners put part of the profits toward scholarships for kids in the arts.
Theater, band, choir—if you grew up here, odds are the Root Beer Stand helped pay for a trumpet or a costume. ”
I paused with my spoon halfway to my mouth. “Wait. So you’re telling me this isn’t just soda and sugar? It’s, like, cultural philanthropy?”
His mouth tugged sideways. “If you want to be dramatic about it, yeah.”
“Excuse you, I make my living on being dramatic.” I clinked my spoon against his mug. “To cultural philanthropy.”
He shook his head, but his eyes crinkled, and for a minute we just sat there in the glow of the hanging lights, surrounded by kids running barefoot in the gravel. After a full day at the farm, the sweetness and noise felt earned—exactly what I hadn’t known I needed.
I licked the last of the foam from my straw and slid off the picnic table bench.
As we crossed the lot, it felt like we shook hands with half of Willowbrook.
Mrs. Hayes, the owner herself, clasped my hand and promised to meet next week to brainstorm ideas for Summerfest. She even asked if I could get posters made so they could hang them in the windows.
By the time we finally broke free of the line of well-wishers, my cheeks ached from smiling.
Ethan pulled the truck keys from his pocket, opening my door first. “You collect interviews everywhere you go, Harper. You realize that?”
I smirked, climbing up into the seat. “Just doing my job.”
The truck rumbled to life, and I leaned back in the seat, still buzzing from the sugar rush and the sheer amount of “so nice to meet you” handshakes.
“So,” I said, crossing my legs and tapping his dash like it was a conference table, “where to next?”
Ethan’s mouth twitched. “You’ll need to change clothes first.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Change into what? Cocktail dress? Hazmat suit? Ball gown? Give me something to work with here, Calloway.”
He kept his eyes on the road, maddeningly calm. “It’s a surprise.”
I gasped, dramatic enough to make him finally glance over.
“Surprise? Do you know how much planning goes into my outfits? They don’t just appear.
This—” I gestured at my wedge sandals and crisp shorts, “—this took strategy. If I walk into a black-tie gala in denim, I’m holding you personally responsible. ”
“Not a gala.” His tone was patient, infuriatingly so.
“Then what? An underground poker game? A square dance? Am I about to be crowned Miss Willowbrook? I do love a crown.”
That earned me a quiet laugh, the kind that made his shoulders shake even though he was trying not to let it show.
There was something irresistible about the way his laughter lit up his eyes, and in that moment, I realized how much I craved to see him like this—to make him laugh more often, to share in that joy.
I pointed at him, triumphant. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Little bit,” he admitted, still smirking as he pulled up in front of my house.
I sighed like a martyr, gathering my tote. “Fine. But if I show up wildly overdressed, I’m holding you accountable for emotional damages.”
He put the truck in park, finally meeting my eyes. “Just be ready in an hour. I’ll zip home, change, and then wait over at Carol’s.”
I hopped down, pretending to grumble even as I fought a grin. “One hour.”
He just grinned, clearly enjoying himself far too much, as I clattered up the steps toward the door.
I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, exhaling. A streak of fur darted across the floor, and the kitten skidded to a stop at my feet, meowing like I’d abandoned him.
“Don’t start with me,” I said, scooping him up. “You weren’t the one mobbed by chickens.” He purred anyway, batting at the strap of my tote as I carried him into the kitchen. I set him down by his dish and filled it with kibble, watching him dive in nose-first.
“Well,” I told him, propping a hand on my hip, “your mom had quite the day. Fishing, farming, farmers markets—basically an entire FFA crash course. And now—” I spread my arms wide in mock despair, “—your brilliant mom has to get dressed for… who knows what. A tractor rally? A presidential dinner? Both?”
He meowed around a mouthful of food, entirely unhelpful.
I padded toward my bedroom, tugging the elastic from my hair and shaking it loose. The whole afternoon still clung to me—hay in my shirt, dust on my sandals—but under it all was this fizzy, stupid energy I couldn’t shake. I wanted to look good tonight. I wanted to…
I froze. Why? It wasn’t like Ethan cared what I wore.
Except… some traitorous part of me hoped he might. Hoped he’d look up from whatever broody thing he was doing and actually notice.
My reflection stared back at me, unimpressed. Really, Lily? We’re doing this?
I’d dated in every city I’d landed in—fun dinners in Columbus, rooftop bars in Chicago, a musician in Denver who wrote me a song and forgot half the lyrics by the next week. Dating was easy if you kept it light. No roots, no promises, no heartbreak when you packed your bags and moved again.