Page 9 of Love on Thin Ice

“Is that what you think this is?” His voice is low, almost a grunt. “You think I’m just—what? Playing around with you?”

I shrug, my throat tight. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Jack takes a step back, running a hand through his hair, his face a mixture of frustration and hurt. “Poppy, that’s not what this is. I thought you knew that.”

“How am I supposed to know that?” I snap, my emotions bubbling over. “You’ve got a reputation, Jack. Everyone knows it. Even I know it, and I’ve barely been in town for two months.”

He stares at me, his jaw clenched, his arms folded across his chest as if he’s trying to keep himself from saying something he’ll regret. “So, what? You’re just going to believe gossip instead of believing me?”

“You’ve had a lot of girlfriends,” I say, my voice quieter now, but still firm. “And I don’t want to be the woman who gets hurt because she didn’t listen to the warnings.”

Jack’s eyes soften, and for a moment, I see the hurt there, the vulnerability he hides so well. “Poppy,” he says, his voice low and rough. “I’m not perfect. I’ve made mistakes. But this? What’s happening between us? It’s real for me.”

I want to believe him. I really do, but I don’t know if I can risk my heart again. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, my heart breaking as I say the words.

Jack’s face falls, and for a moment, he looks like he’s been punched in the gut. He takes a deep breath, nodding slowly as if he’s trying to process what I just said. When he lifts his head again, he wears absolute fury on his face.

He searches my face like he’s trying to find something, anything, that he can say to change my mind.

Finally, he nods and turns toward the door, stalking out. I can’t relax until I hear that bell above the door. Before it comes, Jack bellows, and the sound is so painful, I jump and squeeze my eyes shut.

I’ve just made a huge mistake, and now Jack might be the one who won’t forgive me.

6

I’m already runningon pure adrenaline. The Harvest Festival is in full swing, and my boutique’s grand opening is just hours away. There’s no time for nerves, no time for second-guessing, no time for last-minute changes. It’s happening. My dream is happening.

I haven’t heard from Jack since last night, and the silence is deafening. I keep replaying our fight in my head, wishing I could take back everything I said. Wishing I could just explain in a way that made sense to me and him.

“Focus, Poppy,” I mutter to myself, adjusting the hem of a model’s dress with splashy maple leaves all over it. “You’ve got a show to run.”

The town square vibrates with activity. Vendors finishing up their booths, moms pushing strollers, kids with their faces painted like pumpkins and scarecrows, and dads making sure everyone stays within sight.

The air smells like cinnamon and apples, and somewhere in the distance, a band is warming up to play bluegrass music. It’s everything I imagined the Harvest Festival would be in small-town Virginia, and a glow moves through me that I now live in Blue Ridge.

“Okay, ladies.” I clap my hands to get the models’ attention. “We’re up in fifteen minutes. Let’s do one last run-through.”

The models nod, some of them whispering excitedly to each other, but I barely hear them. Someone’s missing. “Where’s Sarah?” I ask, glancing over to the dress she should already be strapped and secured in.

“She just texted,” Chloe, one of my absolute favorite plus-sized models, says. She looks up with worry in her wide brown eyes. “She’s sick and can’t make it.”

I blink, trying to process the information. Sarah. Sick. Not coming. “What?” I say, my brain still catching up. “She’s not coming?”

Chloe shakes her head, holding up her phone as proof. “Yeah, she’s got the flu and can’t leave the house. She feels awful about it.”

I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Okay, um…” I glance around at the other models, quickly assessing my options. Sarah was supposed to wear one of my standout pieces, a fall-inspired high-low maxi dress that I’ve been dying to show off.

Maybe I could wear it, but I quickly dismiss that idea. Sarah’s on the small end of my product line, and that dress is at least two sizes too small for me.

“Who can fit into Sarah’s dress?” I ask, my voice rising with the panic that’s starting to creep in. Maybe I can wear one of their dresses, and we can all swap around until all the pieces can be shown.

“Five minutes,” the coordinator calls, and pure panic blitzes through me.

The models exchange glances, but they all look to me to know what to do. And I don’t know what to do.

I’m about to suggest we just scrap the whole look when someone says, “I’ll wear it.”

Jack.

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