Page 74 of The Worst Possible Plan

I couldn’t get it out of my head. The way she’d looked at me. The hesitation. The courage. The complete panic afterward.

I laughed quietly. “I definitely didn’t see that coming.”

No. That wasn’t true. The kiss itself surprised me. The fact that I’d kissed her back didn’t.

Somewhere within the last few days, without noticing, I’d started looking for her, watching for her, and wondering what she’d do next.

The truth was, I’d wanted to kiss Hartwell longer than I’d been willing to admit.

I sat there for another minute with both hands resting on the steering wheel. The dashboard glowed softly in the darkness. Around me, engines started one by one as vendors and volunteers headed home, headlights sweeping across the square before disappearing down Main Road.

That was my cue to leave as well.

My SUV’s engine rumbled to life, and I eased out of the parking space, rolling past the last few food trucks loading supplies. A volunteer carrying an armful of folding chairs raised a hand in farewell. Someone laughed somewhere behind me. The festival was over.

My job was done. So why did it feel like I’d left something behind?

I turned onto Main Road. The truck settled into its familiar rhythm, tires humming over the pavement as the last of the festival lights disappeared in the rearview mirror.

Don’t think about Hartwell. Think about tomorrow’s paperwork. Traffic reports. Cleanup. Volunteer schedules. The budget meeting with the mayor next week. Anything.

My brain listened carefully but then proceeded to replay the kiss. Her surprised little gasp. The way she’d looked at me afterward like she’d accidentally jumped out of an airplane before remembering she was afraid of heights.

I let out a breath. “I’m losing my damn mind.”

I drove another block and shook my head of thoughts of Hartwell. The stop sign on Harbor Road needed replacing. Mrs. Turner’s neighbor still hadn’t trimmed the hedge blocking the intersection. The marina permits needed renewing next month.

I needed to think about work. Instead, my brain reminded me how naturally she’d fit against me when we danced.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.

“Damnit.”

I took the familiar route through town, passing dark storefronts and quiet houses where porch lights glowed warmly against the night. A teenager pedaled home on his bicycle with a fishing rod balanced across one shoulder. The diner was closing, chairs already upside down on half the tables while one exhausted waitress wiped down the counter with a practiced rhythm that said she’d done it a thousand times. Two kids raced each other down the sidewalk with melting ice cream cones despite the late hour, their parents calling after them without much conviction.

Ordinary. Predictable. Exactly the kind of evening Maplewood Falls usually offered. The kind I’d always appreciated. No emergencies or surprises. Just familiar streets, familiar faces, and the quiet comfort of knowing where everyone was probably headed before they got there.

But none of it managed to get Hartwell out of my head. Every stop sign seemed to remind me of the way she’d looked up at me after the kiss. Every quiet stretch of road gave my brain another opportunity to replay it from a slightly different angle, as though careful review might somehow produce new evidence. It didn’t. It just confirmed the same inconvenient conclusion every time.

A few minutes later I pulled up into my driveway, turned off the engine, and climbed out of the SUV. The cool night air carried the scent of cut grass and pine, and somewhere across the neighboring property a dog barked once before deciding whatever he’d heard wasn’t worth the effort after all.

I unlocked my front door and walked inside. The house was quiet—the sort of silence I’d spent years convincing myself I preferred. Tonight it somehow felt a little louder than usual.

I hung my keys by the door, kicked off my boots, and put together a sandwich without really tasting it. I stood at the kitchen counter because I couldn’t be bothered to sit down. Then I got a beer from the fridge and stepped out onto the back porch. The bottle was cold against my hand, condensation already gathering along the glass, but I was barely paying attention to it.

Moonlight stretched across the grounds. Tall firs and oaks cast long shadows over the grass. The sound of tree frogs and other night creatures’ voices filled the air while a light breeze stirred the tops of the trees enough to make them whisper. Peaceful. The way I’d always liked it. Nothing moved except the branches and the occasional flicker of fireflies drifting above the pasture. This kind of night usually cleared my head.

And then my thoughts drifted back to Hartwell.

I was a hopeless idiot, a grown man standing on his own porch, holding a beer he’d forgotten to drink, and replaying one kiss like it was evidence in a criminal investigation.

I caught myself wondering what she’d be doing tomorrow. Whether she’d sleep. Whether she’d spend the night overthinking the kiss, or maybe she’d regretted it and focused on her work. I didn’t know.

Women were complicated creatures. And I told myself I didn’t want to get involved again. Well, at least nothing serious. Serious came with expectations, compromise, and conversations as well as letting someone rearrange the carefully organized life I’d spent years putting back together. I’d already proven I wasn’t particularly interested in repeating that experiment.

I took a sip of my beer and smiled. Then the smile slowly faded. The festival was over, and tomorrow everyone would go back to their normal lives. Most of the food trucks would be gone by morning. Some had already left. The stage would come down. The banners would disappear. Main Road would look exactly like it always had, as though none of it had happened. By next week, tourists would be gone, traffic would settle, and the town would slip back into its familiar routine without missing a beat.

And Hartwell… she’d still be here. Still living at the Hartwell Inn, from what I was told. Not that I had spied on her or anything. Dottie had mentioned it.