Page 17 of Red, White, and You

“Says the woman wearing a headband with sparklers on it.”

“It’s festive.” She adjusts the jiggling plastic sparklers with pride. “Joe bought it for me.”

“And where is your husband this morning?”

“Helping set up the—” she squints toward the staging area “—high school football team’s float with Phoenix. They’ve been here since seven. Joe says Phoenix is excited to be involved in the community.”

My cheeks heat—and it has nothing to do with the July sun. “That’s... nice.”

“Mmm.” Ella gives me a look that’s way too knowing. “So, want to tell me why you texted last night asking for Phoenix’s address?”

Busted.

“I made a cake. I needed his opinion on the flavor profile.”

“You showed up at his house with cake?”

I suddenly find the cookie basket very interesting. “Maybe.”

Ella squeals—actually squeals—and grabs my arm. “Oh my gosh, you like him! You really like him!”

“Keep your voice down,” I hiss, glancing around. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You absolutely do. You have that same look you had in high school when you were crushing on Tommy Henderson.”

“I did not have a crush on Tommy Henderson.”

“You drew hearts around his name in your planner for three months.”

Fine. Maybe I did. But that was different. Tommy Henderson played guitar and wrote poetry. He was a high school dreamboat. Phoenix is... complicated.

“It doesn’t matter,” I mutter. “He’s only here temporarily. Once he figures out what he wants to do next, he’ll be gone.”

“Will he?” Ella asks, raising a brow. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like he might have already figured it out.”

Before I can ask what she means, the high school marching band kicks off with a spirited but deeply off-key rendition of “Stars and Stripes Forever,” and the parade begins.

Veterans lead the way, proud in their pressed uniforms despite the sweltering heat. Then comes the float with Joe and Phoenix riding on the back, waving like hometown royalty. Phoenix catches my eye, and his grin widens. My stomach flips.

Get a grip, Gigi.

“He’s waving at you,” Ella sings.

“He’s waving at everyone,” I mutter. “It’s a parade.”

“Nope. That was a targeted wave. Oh—now he’s pointing.”

Sure enough, he’s pointing right at me, wearing a grin that should come with a warning label. I give him a little wave back, trying to play it cool. I’m ninety-nine percent sure I fail.

Joe cups his hands around his mouth and calls, “Save us some cookies, Gigi!”

Phoenix says something I can’t catch, but Joe throws back his head and cackles like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

“Those two are trouble,” I say.

“The best kind,” Ella agrees. “Ooh—here comes the Honeysuckle Ridge Garden Club float. I supplied the flowers.”

The next hour is a blur of floats, music, and red-white-and-blue overload. I hand out cookies to sticky-fingered kids and sunburned adults, collecting compliments like a Girl Scout selling Thin Mints. The librarian says my sugar cookies remind her of her grandmother’s. The mayor’s wife asks if I cater. Even Mr. Hendricks from the hardware store mutters that my chocolate chip cookies are “not terrible.”

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