Page 142 of That Rush

I brought enough to solve the problem.

“I asked if you had two,” she says.

“We had six.”

“And you decided I needed all of them?”

“I brought all of them. You can decide what you need.”

Her expression softens. “Four. We can use four.”

I unload four.

Paige directs the setup, and I carry, lift, and place every piece exactly where she points. She knows which table needs shade for the donated books, where the silent-auction baskets will catch people coming from the sidewalk, and ...how much space Josie’s craft station requires if anyone expects to keep the glitter contained.

I do exactly what she asks.

She has this under control. I’m just the muscle, the answer to a text about folding tables.

When I set the last cooler beneath the refreshment table, Paige hands me a bottle of water.

“You just saved me an hour.”

“I thought you were done admitting that.”

“I’m trying gratitude. The reviews are mixed.”

I twist the cap off. “You could practice tonight.”

“That sounds less like gratitude and more like a reward system.”

“You liked the reward system last Friday.”

Her eyes flash. “Drink your water, rancher.”

I obey. Paige slides her fingers into my hair and kisses me.

It is quick, warm, and entirely public. She does not glance toward the library doors or check who might be watching. She kisses me because she wants to, smiles against my mouth, and returns to her clipboard.

She has reached for me in front of my family. This is the first time she has done it in the middle of her own world, with patrons moving around us, then walked away as if it needed no explanation.

“Dad,” Josie says, tugging on my shirt. “Miss Paige needs little money.”

Paige looks up. “Change. The bank gave us twenties, and everyone is going to arrive with twenties.”

“How much?”

She tells me, then adds two bags of ice to the request. I take Josie with me so Paige can finish the price signs without answering questions about whether a hand-painted rock belongs in the silent auction.

“It has a ladybug,” Josie says as we cross the parking lot.

“A very valuable ladybug.”

“That’s what I said.”

By the time we return, families are spreading across the lawn. Paige moves between tables with calm authority, greeting patrons, answering questions, and kneeling to show a little girl where to put her reading-challenge entry. She never rushes anyone, though I’d seen the long list of tasks still unchecked on her clipboard.

I already know I love her. Watching her here, in her element, makes keeping that love private feel impossible.