Page 76 of The Worst Possible Plan

If anyone walked into the lobby, they’d see two sneakers, one elbow, and most of my ponytail sticking out from behind two hundred pounds of antique furniture. I was essentially hiding the way toddlers hide by putting both hands over their own eyes and assuming invisibility naturally followed.

I darted across the lobby like a burglar with excellent intentions. The dining room sat empty. Thank heavens. Someone had already laid out breakfast.

“Thank you, Dottie,” I whispered. Sincerely. That woman deserved some sort of humanitarian award for keeping people alive via baked goods alone.

A basket of still-warm blueberry muffins rested in the center of one table beneath a clean linen napkin, and beside it sat a fresh pot of coffee, sending glorious curls of steam into the air. The smell alone nearly restored my faith in humanity. Nearly.

I could’ve cried. Instead, I poured myself a mug and drank as much as I could without burning my throat. I grabbed a muffin and then… after a brief internal debate lasting almost three full seconds, snatched up a second one.

Insurance muffin.

Every successful woman needed an emergency muffin. I stuffed it into my tote bag. Future Sophie would thank me around eleven thirty when panic inevitably burned through breakfast. Past Sophie was really trying to start looking out for Future Sophie. It was about time. Usually Past Sophie just left little surprises like overdue parking tickets and emotional crises.

With a last sip of coffee, I wandered over to the front desk. Sarah’s car keys sat exactly where they always did in the little ceramic bowl.

I glanced toward the kitchen. Still talking. Perfect.

“I’ll bring it back,” I whispered to absolutely nobody. Which, considering the previous twenty-four hours, was becoming a worrying habit. First livestock. Now decorative bowls.

I slipped the keys into my pocket, took one last glorious sip of coffee, and headed out the front door before Lola could emerge and start making kissing noises at me at sunrise.

The cool morning air hit my face. I breathed. Better. Marginally. Sarah’s old Jetta started on the second turn of the key. I backed out of the parking lot and headed toward downtown while the town slowly woke around me. The streets still had that quiet early-morning feeling, when everything seemed to stretch before beginning another day.

A bakery delivery truck rolled past. Mr. Patterson watered the flowers outside his hardware store. Someone walked a golden cocker spaniel who looked considerably more rested than I felt. The dog glanced at me with bright, happy eyes.

I broke off a piece of muffin and shoved it in my mouth at the stop sign. Blueberries exploded onto my shirt.

Fantastic.

Then, naturally, my brain replayed the kiss. Again.

“What were you thinking?” I muttered to myself.

I’d kissed the sheriff. Captain Competent. I’d just leaned in, grabbed his face, and planted a big one on his lips.

“Since when did I become this person? This isn’t me? I’m not brave. I’m not spontaneous. I don’t kiss sheriffs.”

But I had. I’d just done it. One minute we were dancing, and the next I’d become the sort of woman who launched herself at emotionally unavailable law enforcement officers.

Except, he’d kissed me back. Really kissed me. And then he’d admitted he’d wanted to.

That part refused to leave my head. Maybe I’d imagined the look on his face. Maybe I’d imagined the way he’d looked at me afterward. Maybe sleep deprivation had finally reached the hallucination stage. Except… no. He’d said it. I’d heard it. I wanted to kiss you. My stupid heart replayed those five words for what was probably the eight hundredth time while my equally stupid brain insisted on adding the next sentence. This was probably a bad idea. Honestly, the man had managed to hand me hope and confusion in the same conversation. That had to be some sort of sheriff training.

“No.” I shook my head. “He said it. Clear as day.”

I wanted to kiss you.

But then…

This was probably a bad idea.

I sighed. Men. Could they not issue one complete emotional statement before changing directions? What exactly was I supposed to do with that? Was there a secret manual somewhere? Chapter Four: Deliver Mixed Signals with Maximum Efficiency. They said one thing. Then qualified it. Then somehow expected women not to spend the next forty-eight hours conducting a full forensic investigation into every syllable.

Congratulations, Sophie. Here’s hope. Now here’s confusion. Enjoy. Complimentary emotional whiplash included at no extra charge. No refunds.

By the time I pulled into the festival parking lot, my muffin had mysteriously disappeared somewhere between the inn and the marina.

“It was a good muffin.” It really was. I’d practically inhaled it.