Page 117 of Reach Around

But it’s perfect.

Now all I need… is her.

Bennett props his boot up on the cherry picker and squints up at the sign. “It’s a little crooked.”

“It’s heartfelt,” I counter, arms crossed like that’s going to protect me from second-guessing every damn letter placement.

He shrugs. “Girls like heartfelt. Especially when it comes in red plastic and fishing line.”

“Do you think she’ll say yes?”

Bennett gives me a look. “You practically live at her house, idiot. Pretty sure you’re past thewill you go out with mephase. She deserves the label and so do you.”

“Still feels important.”

He eyes me for a long second, then nods once. “Yeah. It is.”

I check my phone. Joely should be finishing up her lunch with Lynsie soon. That gives me maybe fifteen minutes to geteverything in place. I open the cooler I packed—blankets, hot chocolate, those shitty sugar cookies she pretends not to like but devours when no one’s watching. I toss in a little Bluetooth speaker, just in case I get brave enough to playYour Body is a Wonderlandand completely ruin the mood.

“Alright,” I say, brushing my hands on my jeans. “Time to call in the big guns.”

I dial Virgil.

“What do you want?” he barks without preamble. “I just left you two idiots.”

“You know that thing you said earlier? About helping true love?”

“God help me,” he mutters. “What now?”

“I need you to pick up Joely from the bar. Bring her here. She’s gonna be suspicious if I do it.”

There’s a pause. Then, “Can I take Sleetwood Mac?”

I grin. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He hangs up. No goodbye. Just the rumble of the Zamboni starting up in the distance a moment later.

Bennett raises an eyebrow. “You’re really sending the love of your life across town in a floor buffer with wheels?”

“She likes Virgil.”

“No one likes Virgil.”

“She… tolerates Virgil. And shelovesSleetwood Mac.”

“She lovesFleetwood Mac,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

We both pause, listening to the chug-chug of the Zamboni echoing through the alley.

Bennett crosses his arms. “You better marry that girl. Just so this story has a good ending.”

I watch the lights of Sleetwood Mac disappear down Main Street like a knight on a squeaky, slow-moving steed.

“Working on it,” I say.

Then I pace.

And pace some more.

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