Page 8 of The Naughty List

“Like hell,” I mutter.

My brother narrows his eyes, studying me and I know right then and there, I’m fucked.

“No,” Bennett shakes his head. “It’s more than that.”

I sigh. If he doesn’t find out from me, he’ll find out from Clara or someone else in town.

“So, last night,” I start. “I went to that speed dating thing at Ivy House.”

“Okay, and?”

“And, Miss Priss was there,” I tell him. “Clara actually thought she and I would be a good match. Can you fucking believe that? She put us together and, let me tell you, I learned everything I needed to know about this woman in the five minutes I had the displeasure of talking to her.”

Instead of sympathizing with me or, at the very least, pretending to, my brother has the complete audacity to laugh. And, I’m not talking a small chuckle. A full belly, tears rolling down his cheek, hunched over, holding his stomach laugh.

“And you all wonder why I don’t come home more,” I deadpan.

“Oh, don’t be a baby.” He grins, as he straightens himself till he’s standing back upright again. “I heard about last night, but I didn’t expect it to be Tillie. This is going to be such a fun season.”

“Fun?” I repeat. “What about being stuck with her sounds fun? She clearly isn’t going to listen to anything I have to say. The festival is going to become some ridiculous over the top event that no one is going to want to come to and it’s all thanks toher.”

My brother stands there as I rant, watching me like I’m a toddler throwing a temper tantrum.

“Are you about done?” he asks with a smirk.

Clearly, Bennett isn’t going to be any help here, so it looks like I need to take matters into my own hands.

“Not even close. Not even fucking close.”

EIGHT

TILLIE

This has beenthe most unproductive morning. Sure, I got a good amount done, but I could have done so much more if I didn’t feel like I was being babysat by Elliott Winters.

I get it. Kind of. He feels like I came in and took his precious little festival - his words, not mine - away from him, but I didn’t do this. His parents, the owners of the farm, did. From what I was told, he wasn’t even here full time. His brother, the one thatishere year round doesn’t seem fazed by my presence either.

In fact, Bennett is the one that brought me a bagged breakfast sandwich and told me that a “grab and go” breakfast can be found in the farmhands’ bunkhouse until ten every morning. His girlfriend, the cute petite blonde from the coffee shop last night, came to the farm around eleven with coffees for everyone - including an eggnog latte for me. It seems like the only person that has a problem with me being here is Elliott.

Elliott, who just so happened to be everywhere I was this morning.

I’d let it slide today, but if he does this shit again tomorrow, I’m going to have to say something. I was hired to do a job, and whether he likes it or not, I’m going to put together the best damn festival this town has ever seen. That’s why I decided to call it earlier than planned today and asked Clara if she would meet me for lunch. Meri and Brighton Winters gave me a small rundown of the things that “have to stay,” but before I get too deep into planning mode, I want to make sure I’m not going to have an army of Elliott types gunning for me on festival day.

The little Italian restaurant Clara asked me to meet her at is surprisingly busy for one o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon. Though, I suppose when it’s one of three places to eat in the entire town, it shouldn’t bethatsurprising.

In addition to being greeted by the hostess, the second I open the door I’m met with a swirl of smells that immediately has my stomach grumbling. Robust tomatoes, fresh garlic, and parmesan cheese pulls me right in.

“Hi,” I say, offering a polite smile to the hostess. I don’t normally care too much if people like me, but I do have a slight understanding of how small towns work. If everyone hates me, they’re not going to want to come to the festival. Kill ‘em with kindness and all that. “I’m here to meet Clara Ivy.”

The hostess - who can’t be much older than eighteen, nineteen - turns and calls Clara’s name. Sitting at the bar with her back to us, Clara spins. Her eyes grow wide with recognition when she sees me.

“Let me just pay for my drink and we can grab a table,” Clara calls out.

“I’m fine with sitting at the bar,” I tell her as I approach.

I’ve been on my own for so long, I actually kind of prefer it at this point. It’s few and far between that I treat myself to dinner out, but when I do, I always go right up to the bar.

“Are you sure?” Clara asks. “I don’t mind moving to a table.”

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