Page 68 of Faking All the Way
The walkdoeshelp. The cold air hits my face, snow crunching under my boots as I head down the driveway and then make my way through the quiet residential streets. By the time I reach downtown, my cheeks are pink from the cold and my thoughts have settled a bit.
The market is bustling when I arrive. There are people everywhere, their cheerful laughter and conversation giving the place a lively atmosphere as the smell of pine fills the air. I let it all wash over me as I wander between booths, trying to enjoy it.
After stopping at a food vendor and getting a slice of spiced cake, I eat it as I walk. It’s sweet and moist, with just the right amount of cinnamon and nutmeg, perfect for a cold December afternoon.
When the cake is gone, I stop to look at ornaments at another booth. They’re all made of hand-painted glass, and each one looks unique. They’re dangling from an ornate metal tree, and I lean down to get a better look at one on a lower branch, admiring the delicate brushwork.
As I straighten up, I nearly collide with another shopper who’s reaching for something on the table beside the display. I move quickly to avoid her, stepping back and to the side without looking.
“Watch out?—”
That’s all the warning I get before a vendor carrying a large container of cider crashes into me. Cold cider splashes across my chest, soaking my coat. I gasp at the shock of it, a bit of freezing liquid seeping past my coat and into my sweater through the fabric.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry!” The man holding the now empty cider tub winces, looking mortified. “I didn’t see you there. Are you okay?”
“It’s okay,” I assure him quickly, even though I’m already shivering a little from the wet coat. “Honestly, it was my fault. I got right in your way. It’s fine.”
“I’m so sorry,” he says again, looking around frantically like he’s trying to figure out how to fix this. “Let me get some towels?—”
“It’s okay, really. Don’t worry about it.”
I peel off my coat, which got the worst of it. The sweater underneath is damp but not soaked through.
“Here, let me help,” someone says, and I turn to see Robbie Morrison holding out a handful of napkins.
I’ve known Robbie since high school. We graduated the same year, though we didn’t hang out much. He’s been with the fire department for years now, one of those people who found his calling early and stuck with it.
“Oh, thanks,” I say, accepting the napkins and holding them up as if to reassure the guy who ran into me that I really will be okay. He nods and continues on his way, face still flushed with embarrassment. “I really didn’t see that cider coming.”
Robbie chuckles. “Yeah, rogue cider is the worst. Here,” he adds, shrugging out of his jacket. “You’ll freeze without a coat. It’s like thirty degrees out.”
Before I can protest, he drapes it over my shoulders. It’s warm from his body heat, smelling faintly of fabric softener.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”
“Sure I do,” he says with a chuckle, helping me dab at the worst of the mess on my sweater. I think my coat is a lost cause at this point. “Can’t have people getting hypothermia at the holiday market. What would that say about our emergency preparedness? The fire chief would have my head.”
I laugh despite being cold and sticky and probably smelling like a cider press. “Fair enough.”
He grins. “Besides, I haven’t gotten a chance to catch up with you since you’ve been back in town.”
“I know,” I say, making a face. “I saw you at my grandma’s party but didn’t get to say hi. How have you been?”
“Oh, the usual. You know, going on daring rescue missions, things like that.”
“Rescue missions?” I ask, intrigued in spite of myself.
“Well, I use the term loosely.” He shakes his head, shooting me a lopsided grin. “We had to respond to a call yesterday about Mrs. Mitchell’s pig getting wedged under her back porch. Couldn’t get out, couldn’t back up. Just stuck there squealing like the world was ending. You could hear him from three houses away.”
I can’t help laughing at the mental image. “Poor pig.”
“Poor us, you mean. That thing weighs like two hundred pounds.” He grins wider. “Took three of us and a whole bottle of dish soap to get him free. Slippery pig rescue operation. Not exactly what I pictured when I joined the fire department.”
He launches into another story, this one about rescuing a teenager last fall who got his head stuck in a fence trying to retrieve a football. I’m laughing at his description of the kid’s mortified parents when I hear my name.
“Kat.”
The voice is low and familiar. I turn to see Asher striding through the crowd toward us, and my heart does a little jump in my chest.
