Page 14 of Stuck with the Hero Next Door

Cassie arched a brow, amused. “Go where?”

“She’s matchmaking,” I whispered.

“Am not,” Mom said sweetly. Then louder: “Levi, why don’t you show her around today?”

Cassie blinked. “Oh, I⁠—”

I jumped in. “Town tour’s on me. Only slightly haunted.”

Mom patted my shoulder like I’d finally come around. “Take her to the Old Montana Prison. History. Scandal. Iron bars.”

Cassie laughed, eyes meeting mine. “Everwood’s charming and ominous. Love that. But I need to check on my car.”

My chest tightened a little, the way it does when you want something and suspect you might not deserve it.

“We can swing by Jordan’s on the way out of town.” I nudged her plate. “Finish those pancakes first. You’ll need your strength.”

She shook her head, but her smile lingered as she picked up her fork.

Mom sashayed back to her booth, satisfied.

Cassie leaned over, voice just above a whisper. “Do I need a lawyer to survive this tour?”

I grinned, sipping my coffee. “Only if you make a run for the state line.”

By the time we left the diner, half the town had Cassie’s name memorized, and three of them had probably already started crocheting her a welcome mat.

I opened the truck door and gave a small bow. “Your chariot awaits.”

Cassie rolled her eyes, but was already used to this brand of small-town nonsense. “So, is this part of the official Everwood orientation?”

“Absolutely. Step one: survive the diner ladies. Step two: willingly enter a former prison with a near-stranger.”

She raised a brow. “Bold move. What’s step three?”

“More cornbread. You’ll gain so much weight from Will’s cooking that you’ll be ashamed to show your face outside the town borders.”

She laughed, the sound tugging something loose in my chest. It was becoming a problem, that laugh.

We drove in companionable quiet. The conversation didn’t have to be loud to mean something. There was no chance of the part Jordan needed to fix her Ford coming in before Monday, so I had time to work my charm on her. She watched the town pass, waiting for it to reveal a secret if she stared long enough—past the antique store, the town mural with a bear on a bicycle, and the faded banner from last summer’s Founders Festival still flapping on the hardware store awning.

“You really like it here,” she said, almost to herself.

I glanced over. “I do. Everwood grows on you. Like Janet’s cookies. Or moss.”

She smiled again, a little softer. “Not sure I’m the growing-roots type.”

“Most people aren’t,” I said, turning onto the gravel road that led to the prison. “Until they are.”

The Old Montana Prison stood at the end of the drive, waiting for someone to appreciate its creepy charm. Cassie leaned forward, squinting at the stone walls and rusted gate. “Well. That’s…cheerful.”

“Don’t let the bars fool you,” I said, hopping out. “Inside, it’s full of thrilling facts and vaguely haunted vibes.”

She followed me toward the entrance; her scarf tugged tighter against the breeze. “Ever take a date to a prison before?”

“This isn’t a date,” I said, though it came out weaker than I meant.

She smiled sidelong. “Didn’t answer the question.”