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“Please don’t,” Cade said, which only encouraged Beau.

Beau mimed framing us with his fingers, like he was already stealing the moment for B-roll.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Not the group thread—just a single, quiet vibration that sent shivers over every inch of me.

Cade:Seven. Dinner.

An innocuous sentence, but it felt like a rope tossed across a gap.

Beau watched my face like a weather report.

“Big cloud?” he asked, raising one eyebrow.

“Chance of forks,” I said.

He glanced over at Cade, then back at me, before peeling off with a grin.

Miss Pearl swept past, tucking an errant cable with the side of her shoe.

Her eyes found me for a fraction of a second, and in them I saw two things: good choice. And: don’t waste it.

I looked down at the text again, as if it might evaporate if I blinked too quickly.

Seven. Dinner.

Rules, I told myself. Redeem together.

Rivals, I reminded my brain. On camera.

I pocketed the phone and stepped into the noise of Riverfield. The Commons smelled of magnolia leaves, and I felt a sense of relief. The sun picked a beautiful angle and made the day gorgeous. Across the way, Cade said something to Wyatt that made him tip his head with laughter.

My heart did a small, rude roll that I ignored. On principal.

I told myself dinner was just about logistics with coffee on the side.

The town chanted, “Count the tokens,” a joke it would never grow tired of telling. I counted seconds, then steps, then the ways this could go wrong and the handful that might go right. The clock on the courthouse said I had just enough time to change my shirt.

When I turned, Miss Pearl was there. At the corner of the riser, straightening a sign.

“Seven,” she said without even looking up. “Don’t be late.”

CHAPTER SIX

CADE

Cast Iron Caféwas wide awake and bustling.

Coffee steaming, plates clattering, and the grinder making background noise like a white-noise machine. There were booths along the back wall, two-tops down the center, and the takeout line which curved toward the chalkboard like a river. Pins on lapels even at dinner, #TeamBrew and #TeamSignal, as if the town had decided to keep score over supper.

I got there three minutes early because on time is late in my book. And also, because I thought it might matter to Miss Pearl.

She clocked me as I came through the door. Navy shirt, denim apron, with a Sharpie and two tiny LED lights tucked in the pocket.

Her cat-eye readers were riding low until she nudged them with her knuckle.

“You’re first,” she said, as if I couldn’t tell. “Back booth. And keep your hands to yourself unless you’re passing salt.”

“I’m straight,” I said, which is not the standard response to table instructions.