Page 92 of The Fine Art of Faking It
It was Davis who had suggested they head out for the evening instead of cozying up to the fire in the library.
“You mean instead of clogging up town square with a bunch of cars and people who don’t need to be there?” Davis joked. “You’re an organizational genius.”
“Ah, butyou’rethe one who suggested posting all of the drop off locations and hours in the Facebook group,” she reminded him.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Blue Moon’s most popular couple.” Shorty dropped two fresh beers in front of them. At six-foot, five-inches, Ed, as his mother called him, was the runt of the Avila litter and the proprietor of the only bar in town. “It’s nice to see you two getting along.”
“Teamwork makes the dream work,” Eden quipped, offering up a no-look high-five to Davis.
“Everyone’s talking about you two today,” Shorty told them, swiping a towel over a spill and pocketing a five-dollar tip.
“We haven’t done anything newsworthy today,” Davis told him.
“Not according to this.” Shorty slapped a copy ofThe Monthly Moondown on the bar in front of them. The front page was a grainy picture of Eden and Davis at the town meeting staring dumbly at the stage.
From Feudal Followers to Star-Crossed Lovers: Will Falling for Moody Burn Gates Again?
“My parents are going to have a conniption,” Eden groaned.
“I heard they dismembered you,” Shorty said.
“Disowned,” Davis corrected.
Eden turned the page and swore ripely. She jumped off her barstool.
“What? What’s wrong?” Davis demanded.
“That little weasel Anthony Berkowicz.”
“What about ol’ weasel-faced Berkowicz?”
“I’m going to kick his ass!”
Davis slapped cash on the bar, grabbed the newspaper, and jogged out in Eden’s angry wake.
* * *
“CanI ask you why we’re purchasing whiskey and a ladies’ razor?” Davis ventured.
Eden slapped the newspaper he was holding. “Page two.” She added a can of shaving cream to their basket.
Davis flipped open the paper and read. “Oh.”
“Yeah.Oh.” She rounded on him, wielding a second pack of razors. “Do you know how hard I’ve worked to move past all that? To get people to see me as Eden Moody the innkeeper, not Eden Moody the front lawn arsonist? I wasthis closeto the Blue Moon Business of the Year. And Iknowit’s just a stupid award,” she snapped before he could say anything. “But I wanted that stupid award. I wanted people to finally forget all about high school and see me for who I really am.”
“And Anthony Berkowicz writes a feature article on our high school relationship,” Davis said, understanding.
“Page three is just my mugshot,” she said, hysteria high in her voice. “And this! This right here!”
She shoved the paper into Davis’s face.
“I can’t read it that close.” His voice was muffled by the newspaper.
“He suggests that setting fires are part of my ‘woo-ing’ repertoire.” She ranted and raved, pacing the supermarket aisle.
“At the risk of being reminded that no one in the history of freaking out has ever calmed down by being told to calm down, let’s take a breath and think. I’m here. I’m on your side.”
Davis was right. She wasn’t doing herself any favors having a meltdown. She needed to think and plot.
