Page 36 of Under Pink Skies

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“Anyway, I have a few ideas for the festival. We’ve received a basic structure from the council, mainly because the event needs to hit a few criteria so we can use the grant money. Namely, there needs to be a lot of local businesses involved. Every business owner in Watford needs to be made aware of the festival, and anything we can source locally, we need to take that route.”

Connor shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest after setting his fork down against an empty plate. I couldn’t help but gape. Hadn’t we just sat down? How was this man already finished with his meal?

“Locally sourced sounds good to me. What else did you have in mind?”

“Phillipa from Blackbeard Coffee is also a sponsor, so there will be a coffee cart the day of. I’m already planning on asking the sheriff’s department if they’d be willing to call in some favors and get a firetruck or ambulance to come hang out for a few hours in the name of promoting public safety.” I took another bite of my food, suddenly eager to keep talking about the festival. It was nice to have someone to share my ideas with. It was good to know that we’d be on the same page about everything that needed to be done, especially given that Connor would be heavily involved with the festival over the next few weeks.

“I’ve been planning for lots of food vendors—between Watley’s, the Roadhouse, Blackbeard Coffee, and other local restaurants from within the county. I think we’ll have it covered there. There also needs to be a fireworks show at the end. I’ve already had multiple seven-year-olds demand this, so it’s nonnegotiable.”

“Of course,” Connor said, smirking. “Can’t disappoint the kids.”

“One last thing,” I said, my heart thumping erratically. “I know this would take a lot of legwork, but given that it’s a festival designed to help put Watford back on the map, I want there to be a vendor fair. I plan to encourage Watford businesses to take part, but I also want to bring in local businesses from the county proper. Who knows what connections we could make? Owning a small business in a remote area is difficult, and making more connections might save people money in the long run.”

Connor’s smile reflected my excitement back to me, and my chest squeezed painfully. I couldn’t hold back my answering smile.

“It’s a great idea, Abs. I’m happy to help with whatever you need. Just say the word and I’m there.”

“Thank you,” I said, returning my gaze to my plate. Connor asked to see the rest of my documents, including some of the initial brainstorming pages, my cheeks pinkening as I handed them over. He flipped through the folder while I finished my waffle and downed the rest of my coffee.

“I’m in,” I whispered.

“Hm?” Connor said, the noise a low rumble in his throat. I bit my lip.

“Your proposal of a truth for a truth. I think it would help me.”

Connor gave me a small smile. “Yeah. I think it would help me too. There’s a lot I want to tell you, Abbie, but I won’t dump my crap on you. We’re partners.”

My jaw twitched, and Connor grimaced.

“The words just aren’t flowing for me today. Not romantically speaking. For the festival.”

“Right,” I said, my throat suddenly dry. I sipped my water. “Of course. For the festival.”

“So, first things first. I’ll let Kameron know we’ve got the Winding Road literature ordered. That’s a big item on my to-do list checked off. What’s next for yours?”

I sat back, tapping a finger on my cheek as I considered. This whole endeavor felt overwhelming to me. I needed the money too badly to say no to Trent’s offer to become the festival coordinator, but I’d never done something like this, outside of being the yearbook editor my senior year of high school. Watford needed this festival. I needed this festival.

“I think I’d like to reach out to potential vendors,” I said. “Given that we’re on such a tight deadline, I want to make sure the businesses and nonprofits that might organize a booth have ample time to do so. Trent gave me a list of some up-and-coming small businesses in Watford county that might be interested.”

“Sounds good to me,” Connor said, removing his credit card from his wallet and sliding it toward the edge of the table.

“We talked about festival business. I’m sure the grant would cover it.”

Connor flashed me a grin. “It’s no problem.”

He meant for it to be cocky and self-assured, but a familiar pang of inadequacy shot through me. Connor had been in Watford General enough over the last few days to observe our stunning lack of customers. I was barely keeping my business afloat, and every time I checked my personal bank account, I wanted to cry. There was almost always less than a hundred dollars in there at any point.

Connor is—was—a good man. I wanted to believe he meant nothing by covering the bill so nonchalantly, but I couldn’t ignore that sharp, slicing pain of feeling that struck me.

“Truth?” I asked quietly, and Connor met my eyes, something unfamiliar and unrecognized simmering in his gaze.

“Truth,” he replied.

“Watford General isn’t doing well,” I admitted. Though my voice was barely above a whisper, it felt as though my admission boomed through the small diner, as if my words echoed off the walls back to me, driving me deeper into my shame.

“The pandemic really took a toll on our customer base. Fewer people could tend to their farms past the basics of keeping their families and livelihoods afloat. I didn’t realize we’d become so dependent on our customers needing the latest and greatest. And before you ask, Malcolm isn’t entirely to blame. Tilly did most of the administrative work to keep the store running, and my dad focused more on the financial and business side of things. That’s just how they divided tasks. Unfortunately, when my mom died, and my dad went off the deep end, so did the organization of important documents. Tax documents, to be exact.”

Connor raised a brow, but thankfully, said nothing.