Page 94 of Forbidden to Fall

Pulse humming, I jogged toward him.

He turned, a little v between his brows as he waited.

I forced myself to breathe and to meet his eye. “This may be pathetic to you, but”—I shrugged—“you’ve become one of my closest friends. I’m really glad you’re staying.”

The v on his brow had disappeared, and his gaze was sharp as it searched mine.

Torn between needing to counterbalance my vulnerability and wanting to reinforce my point, I smiled. “Welcome back to Autumn Ridge, James. For real this time.” I stepped toward him and pulled him into a hug.

It was a one-sided hug. My arms wrapped around him, my hands on his back, while he stood almost rigid. If this was my attempt to counterbalance my vulnerability, it was a catastrophic failure.

Then, like an exhale, his body relaxed, his arms enfolded me, and he pulled me to him.

I shut my eyes and let myself ease into his hold on me, breathing in the familiar scent of hay and tack, mixed with the same hint of cologne from the campout.

“You are my closest friend,” he said softly.

My eyes started to sting, but I blinked it away furiously. “After Mia.” I pulled back, and our arms dropped to our sides.

He smiled. “Well, that goes without saying.”

All the little things I hadn’t considered started popping up like dandelions over the weekend. When Monday morning rolled around and it was time to get set up, I was running on sheer adrenaline.

Rosie Harper, who was darting around like a capable chicken with its head cut off, had been kind enough to give the bakery a spot just a couple dozen feet away from the bakehouse to make things easier. Carver Farm’s place was on the opposite side of the street about a dozen stalls away. I’d hoped they’d be a bit closer so I could dash over at need, but once customers started showing up, it just wasn’t possible.

Mrs. Keller came out to make sure the bakery booth rose to the level she expected of a Keller affiliate, while James and May handled the farm’s booth.

Whenever I thought about it, a bundle of nerves tightened in my chest—for how our products would do, but also for the Carvers themselves. This would be the most public-facing event they’d done since before Jim Carver had died.

A couple hours into the morning when there was a lull, I couldn’t stand it any longer and put up a quickly scrawled Be back soon! sign on the bakery booth counter.

I hurried down the street, waving at familiar faces, until I reached the farm’s booth.

There was no one there. Just James, seated on a stool behind the booth.

The booth itself looked good—a wood table with a nice linen runner and a canopy overhead.

Whether it had been dead like this all morning or was the same lull the bakery was experiencing, I wasn’t sure.

“How’s it going here?” I asked.

James grimaced. “I’m sure it’d be different if it was you here. We’ve only had a couple of people stop by—Bennett, who was just trying to be nice, and Mrs. Tolman.”

I joined him behind the booth, trying to ignore the disappointment in my stomach. Given the success of the products we’d been selling on consignment in the town, I’d hoped we’d have gained a little traction.

“Let’s try something,” I said. “Will you cut up a couple of blondies? Into small squares.” I grabbed one of the extra containers Bennett had sold us and set a white hand towel in it while James did as instructed.

Once he was done, he put the bite-size squares in the container.

“Come with me,” I said, tugging his wrist.

He followed me out from behind the booth to the front, where we stood next to each other.

“Hi, Mrs. Albany,” I said with a smile as one of my parents’ neighbors passed.

Her gaze shifted from me to James, a hint of surprise there.

I shoved down my jittery internal response and held out the container. “Would you like to try one of our brand-new blondies?”