Page 24 of The Pumpkin Spice Proposal
She got me with a handful of cinnamon sugar. I retaliated with a dollop of frosting that somehow ended up in her hair. She tried to dust me with powdered sugar and got herself instead, sneezing through her own attack.
By the time we collapsed against opposite counters, breathless and covered head to toe in various baking ingredients, the kitchen looked like a tornado had hit a bakery. And I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed that hard.
Lily wiped tears from her eyes, leaving clean streaks through the flour on her cheeks. “We’re going to be in so much trouble when my Mom sees this.”
I looked around at the devastation—flour everywhere, batter dripping from the ceiling, both of us looking like we’d wrestled in a sugar factory. “Totally worth it.”
The kitchen door swung open. Margaret Sage stood there, taking in the scene with the calm of someone who’d raised three children. Her gaze moved from the flour-dusted ceiling to the batter footprints on the floor to the two of us, both trying to look innocent while covered in evidence.
A slow smile spread across her face.
“Having fun?” she asked mildly.
Lily and I looked at each other—two adults caught making a mess like kindergarteners—and started laughing all over again.
Margaret just nodded, looking entirely too pleased with herself, and quietly closed the door behind her.
That’s when it hit me. The warmth in my chest, the ease of laughter, the way Lily looked at me like I was more than just the grumpy guy who fixed her register—this wasn’t part of the plan. This wasn’t fake.
This was real.Mamma mia, I was in serious trouble.
CHAPTER10
Mario
The first fatraindrop hit the window of Sage & Bloom with a splat that made me look up from the terra cotta monster I was wrestling through the door. Outside, the October sky had turned the color of an old bruise—purple-green and angry—and the wind was picking up fallen leaves, swirling them in mini cyclones that looked personal and vindictive.
“Thank you,” Lily said from somewhere behind a massive fern that had apparently decided to shed half its fronds during the move. She had potting soil smudged across her left cheek and a leaf tangled in her hair that she hadn’t noticed yet. “My back was already staging a formal protest after yesterday’s festival setup.”
“No problem.” I hefted the last planter inside just as the sky opened up like someone had turned on a faucet. The rain didn’t build gradually—it went from scattered drops to biblical flood in about three seconds, turning the shop windows into underwater paintings.
The sudden drumming on the roof was loud enough that Lily had to raise her voice.
“The weather app said twenty percent chance of light showers!”
“Weather apps lie.” I watched the street turn into a river. “Almost as much as June’s Facebook posts.”
That got a laugh out of her—the real kind, not the polite one she used for customers. “Speaking of June, she cornered me at the grocery store this morning. Wanted to know if we’d picked out china patterns yet.”
“China patterns?”
“Mm-hmm. Apparently, someone saw you looking in the jewelry store window yesterday, and now there’s a whole spreadsheet of engagement predictions circulating through her book club.”
I groaned, running a hand through my hair. It came away wet even though I’d been inside for five minutes. The humidity from the storm was already curling Lily’s hair at the ends.
“I was checking the time. They have that huge clock?—”
“Oh, I know. But try explaining that to June’s imagination.” She moved past me to check the lock on the door, and I caught her scent—vanilla and something floral that was probably just from being surrounded by flowers all day, but on her, it seemed intentional. Personal.
Thunder rumbled overhead, rattling the glass jars she used for storing ribbon. The overhead lights flickered once, twice, then held.
“Great,” Lily muttered. “If we lose power, I’ve got three wedding arrangements to finish by tomorrow, and Margaret Hoffman will absolutely blame the rain on my inability to plan ahead.”
“They’ll wait.”
“You’ve never met Margaret Hoffman. She once called me at midnight because she dreamed the roses were the wrong shade of pink.”
The lights flickered again, and this time they went out completely. The shop plunged into a grey twilight, lit only by the watery light filtering through the storm-darkened windows.
