Page 111 of Fall Fake-Out

Ari

At exactly six-fifty, Wade pulls into my parents’ driveway, which is annoying because punctuality takes thought and effort—an attractive trait.

I slip into my boots and pull the door open right as Wade walks up the porch steps.

He stops mid-step, and his brows lift. “I was coming to get you, but you came out too fast.”

“You’re complaining that I’m on time?”

He looks slightly offended. “No, I’m complaining that you robbed me of a moment.”

“What moment?”

“The knock. The wait. The grand reveal.” His eyes move over me, enough that my pulse notices. “You look really good in a sweater and jeans.”

I immediately tug at the hem of my sweater. “Oh, this is old.”

Old as in I bought it last week. I tried on eleven other old things because, apparently, meeting with Rosie Harper about the fall festival requires several different outfit changes. Which is ridiculous because Rosie is a woman who owns a princess-themed bed-and-breakfast.

There is no reason to care this much.

Wade walks me to his truck and opens the passenger door.

I pause. “Thanks, but you know this isn’t a date, right?”

His smile barely changes, but something shifts in his eyes. “I didn’t say it was.”

Great. We’re on the same page.

This isn’t a date, but there are still fake-dating requirements. Knowing my mom, she’s spying on us through the front window.

So, good. Wade understands the stakes.

He gets in and backs out of the driveway, turning toward town.

Autumn Ridge spreads out around us in full early evening fall glory. The road curves between old maples and sugarwoods, their leaves shifting from green into gold and orange at the edges. The ditches are scattered with fallen leaves, and every porch we pass seems to have mums, pumpkins, or some kind of scarecrow situation happening.

Wade rests one hand on the wheel, looking out at the road with an easy smile that’s easy to love.

“You seem cheerful,” I note.

“Maybe I like fall festival planning.”

“Nobody likes fall festival planning.”

“Well, I do.” He turns onto a narrow road that winds along a creek. A covered bridge rises ahead, tucked between blazing maple trees. “Man, I love covered bridges. They’re so romantic.”

I puff out a laugh. “Romantic?”

“Very.” A huge grin covers his mouth.

“Let me guess. You’ve kissed a girl or two under this exact covered bridge.”

The truck rolls onto the wooden planks, tires thudding softly beneath us.

“Not yet.” There’s a glimmer in his eye when he says it, one I absolutely understand and absolutely refuse to acknowledge.

I look out the window. “Well, I’m sure Autumn Ridge appreciates you leaving one local landmark unscandalized.”