Page 72 of The Worst Possible Plan

Heat exploded across my face. I was going to kill her later. Good thing I knew where she lived.

I risked one tiny glance toward the sheriff.

Big mistake.

His gaze was on Lola. Oh, yeah. He’d seen all of it. All of it. Every ridiculous gesture. Every imaginary kiss. Every heart. Every second of her enthusiastically narrating my romantic life through interpretive dance.

“She is never going to let this go,” I growled under my breath. Not tomorrow. Not next week. I could already picture myself at eighty-three, peacefully knitting in a rocking chair, only for Lola to wander by and ask, “Remember when you attacked the sheriff at the festival?”

The sheriff’s head turned toward me, and I spun around.

Was I acting like a fool? Maybe. But I knew if I looked at him again, I’d start spiraling and overthink what had just happened between us. My heart still hadn’t settled down. My stomach was still doing whatever weird thing it had decided to do tonight, and my brain had already started asking about seventeen questions I definitely didn’t have answers to.

Tomorrow. I could have my complete nervous breakdown tomorrow. Just not right now.

I could dissect every look, every word, every microscopic facial expression, and probably build an entirely inaccurate psychological profile based on one kiss and half a smile. My anxiety would undoubtedly appreciate the project.

Because tonight.

I had a festival to finish.

17

ERIC

Istood exactly where I was, watching Hartwell move through the crowd. Her hips swayed as she hurried away, like she couldn’t get away from me fast enough.

But she kissed me.

And I kissed her back.

That wasn’t supposed to happen. The strange part wasn’t the kiss. It was how right it had felt. And how much I wanted more of that.

I hadn’t planned on kissing Hartwell. I’d thought about it more than once. Yet the second she’d reached up and touched my face, I’d stopped thinking.

That wasn’t like me. Not even a little.

I let out a slow breath. This wasn’t the time to get involved with anyone. I had a job to do, and I needed to stay focused on it. That had always been easier when my personal life stayed exactly that—personal.

Kissing Hartwell had blurred that line in about three seconds.

And I definitely shouldn’t be kissing women while I was still on the clock. The sheriff making out with the festival organizer in the middle of Main Road probably wasn’t covered in the employee handbook, but somehow I doubted it would’ve been encouraged.

The problem was... I wasn’t sorry it had happened.

When I finally looked around, I saw them. The faces.

An older couple walking past had slowed to glance my way before exchanging the kind of knowing smile that came from fifty years of marriage. Two teenage girls standing near the lemonade stand were pretending to study the festival map while very obviously whispering behind it. One volunteer paused halfway through stacking folding chairs, blinked twice, and then decided with remarkable professionalism to mind his own business. Another wasn’t nearly as disciplined, his grin stretching a little wider as he carried a box of supplies toward the storage trailer.

Hell. Small towns didn’t need newspapers. They had eyeballs. And excellent memories.

By tomorrow morning, this story would probably have evolved from Sophie kissed the sheriff into The sheriff proposed on the dance floor.

That’s how Maplewood Falls worked.

People noticed everything. A new truck parked outside someone’s house. A stranger walking down Main Road. A conversation that lasted thirty seconds longer than usual. Give them a kiss in the middle of the Summer Festival, and there wouldn’t be much left to the imagination.

Tomorrow morning, the coffee crowd at Murphy’s would be discussing it before I’d even had my first cup.