Page 14 of Mud & Moxie
Because strategy is my language, and I hate that he’s right.
The market has already written our label. Fighting it will only tear the paper.
***
Mrs. Donnelly’s timing is demonic. “So when’s the wedding?” she calls, loud enough to still the street. Heads swivel. Even the espresso machine hushes.
Every instinct says deny, explain, control the narrative. But the narrative is controlling me. Dylan’s hand finds mine—warm, firm, an anchor. His eyes ask a question I don’t want to answer and somehow already am.
I squeeze once. Agreement, truce, warning—all in that press of fingers. He faces the crowd with a calm I envy. “We’ll share news when it’s time,” he says, easy as Sunday.
The market exhales—laughter, clinks, chatter rising again. Matthew steps close on my other side, the third point of a triangle no one else sees. Under the noise he says, low and lethal, “Strategy or not, I’m watching. Don’t make me choose, Carter.”
Dylan doesn’t release my hand. I don’t pull away. And the air between us charges like a storm front.
Fake dating. Two words that could save the farm—or burn it down.
As the noise swells back to life, I catch sight of Mrs. Chang tucking extra daisies into my tote, a smile like she’s already planning centerpieces. My pulse skitters. If we go through with this charade, it won’t just be whispers. It’ll be expectations, baked into every pie, tucked into every bouquet, stitched into every quilt sold at this market. Expectations are harder to undo than rumors.
Matthew sees it too. His eyes soften when they land on me, but when they flick to Dylan, they harden again. Silent promise: one wrong move and he’ll end this for both of us.
I swallow, forcing another smile for the crowd.
Inside, my chest feels wrapped in barbed wire.
This isn’t just strategy. It’s a gamble—with the farm, with Dylan, with my heart.
***
The market thins, but not before Mrs. Hardy corners me by the pie stall. She presses a box into my arms, her tone syrupy. “On the house. You’ll need strength for wedding planning.” My mouth opens to protest, but Dylan’s hand is already steering me forward.
I bite down on the urge to snap. Dylan leans close. “See? Gasoline.”
I want to hate him for being right.
Instead, I focus on the pie trembling in my hands.
If this keeps up, I’ll be eating expectations for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
***
We pause near the produce tent where bushels of apples gleam. Kids dart between stalls, voices carrying. One of the girls points at Dylan and me, whispering. Her father follows her gaze, then tips his hat with a knowing smile. The unspoken chorus hums:They belong together.
I set the pie on the table with a thunk. “I can’t breathe in here,” I mutter.
Dylan studies me, eyes narrowing, but doesn’t answer.
The weight of everyone else’s certainty presses down until I can’t tell what’s real anymore—what I feel, or what the town is telling me to feel.
***
Matthew rejoins us, bag of nails swinging at his side. He doesn’t speak at first, just surveys the market—the way neighbors keep glancing at us, the lingering smiles. Finally, he exhales. “You know they’re not going to let this go, right?”
His voice is quieter, almost resigned. Protective as always, but threaded with something else—acceptance, maybe, or exhaustion. I blink at him. Dylan stays silent, watching.
Matthew shifts the bag in his grip. “If you’re going to keep this charade alive, make sure it’s worth something. For the farm. For Ray. Don’t let it be just gossip.”
It’s the closest thing to approval I’ve ever heard from him.
