Page 70 of Flirty Fall Fling

“At the festival, setting up your wagon for the on-site tarot readings this weekend. Did you forget?” Her brows furrow.

“Of course not,” I say, lying through my teeth. I did forget, which tells me my mind has been somewhere else. I pour myself a cup of coffee and take it with me. “I need to shower. If it slows down, I’ll send Josie back to the shop to help you.”

“I will be fine,” Winter says. “Don’t stress. It’s not allowed.”

The elephant in the room has grown to the size of a diesel truck.

She watches me. “So, how’d last night go?”

“Successful,” I say with a waggle of my brows.

Her face lights up. “Does he have a name?”

“Nope.”

“Oh.” Winter takes another sip of coffee. “Maybe I need to take a page from your book. It’s been a very long time.”

I grin, replaying last night again and how Jamie carried me from the pool to his bed. “Maybe you should. Anyway, shower time.”

By ten, the square in the middle of town has thousands of people strolling around. Booths line the perimeter of the entire area, and in the center are different food trucks and carnival rides. At the opposite end of the festival grounds is a hayride and a gigantic pumpkin patch.

The Charmed Cauldron wagon is in the same spot it’s had since before I was born. It’s a town treasure, and it has its own local legends surrounding it. The reading wagon comes out of the carriage house once a year for this event only. I can’t believe it slipped my damn mind.

It’s dark purple, and on the front, Charmed Cauldron is displayed in shiny gold paint that reflects sunshine. The inside smells like vanilla and wood, and there’s enough room for an intimate reading.

I step behind the velvet curtain and move behind the fold-down table. I light the old brass lantern and click on the string of amber lights overhead.

A wooden, hand-lettered sign is propped against the steps.

THREE-CARD TAROT READING: $25

PAST, PRESENT, FUTURE

Customers line up one at a time because my readings are never this cheap.

The morning passes by faster than I expected, and I’m happy for the busyness. It helps keep my mind off everything else.

Tourists climb the steps, expecting a bit, and I give them the real deal. Many gasp. Some cry. Others whoop with happiness. I never know what cards will be pulled; I just read them.

Between readings, I hook the curtain back and stand at the top of the steps with the whole festival laid out below me.

Josie sells out of the pumpkin bread loaves she made for this by noon and takes orders for the next batch on the back of a carnival map. Doris Jean is chatting with some of her friends two booths down and waves at me every time I make an appearance.

Trouble finds me around two.

Maren Billings plants herself at the bottom of my wagon steps like she’s been rehearsing this confrontation all morning. “You are a circus act,” she says. “You Wardwell women have been bewitching this town’s men since the turn of the century. You ruin every man’s life you touch. And now, here you are, selling this crap to tourists and townsfolk.” Her nose goes up in the air.

My heart pounds hard in my chest. I don’t like confrontation.

“Hey!” Josie steps forward. “Shut your mouth, you rude old woman.”

Maren gasps. “Who are you?”

“That’s my cousin you’re being mean to. Get out of here right now,” Josie warns, pointing her finger. “Now.”

Every booth around us goes quiet. Josie isn’t taking Maren’s shit. Two tables down, Doris Jean rises halfway off her chair, then stands. She glares at Maren, and so do the jam lady and the couple at the cider stand.

Maren pulls her coat tight and looks up the steps at me.