Page 125 of The Dixon Rule

But if Shane weren’t around, I can’t imagine how excruciating it would be running into Percy on the path or at the pool. I’d be locked in my apartment, probably suffering from even more anxiety attacks than I am right now.

“When we’re there, let’s try to tone down all the fighting, okay?”

Shane’s voice draws me back to the present. “The fighting?” I echo.

“You know.” He grins. “The way you’re constantly bitching at me about something.”

“I don’t bitch at you.”

“Sure you do.”

“I simply point out truths that you don’t enjoy hearing. It’s not my fault your ego can’t handle it.”

“My ego is doing fine, thank you very—this,” he interrupts himself, waving a hand between us. “This is what I mean. The bickering. My parents aren’t like that. They’re super chill and madly in love. They don’t fight or make fun of each other.”

“I don’t know if that’s boring or sweet.”

“Nah, trust me, they’re fun to be around. They’re not boring. All I’m saying is, let’s tone it down.”

“You mean me.” I fight a bristle of annoyance. “You want me to tone me down.”

“Come on, you know that’s not what I mean.”

No, I don’t know that. But whatever. It’s a good thing we’re not actually together because that’s not something I’d ever want to hear from a boyfriend. That I ought to tone any part of my personality down. It means he doesn’t love me for who I am. It means—

And why am I dissecting how Shane feels about me? All I care about is how good he makes me feel—in bed. And oh my God, does he know what he’s doing in that department.

In fact, the only thing that “bothers” me about spending the weekend in Heartsong, Vermont, with Shane’s family is that it likely means we won’t be having sex.

A winding country road unfurls ahead of us as Shane drives past a blue sign that welcomes us to Heartsong. Not long after, I find myself in a literal storybook. A quaint, little town nestled between rolling hills and framed by a canopy of oak trees. The air carries the scent of grass and wildflowers into my open window.

Up ahead, I spot another sign: a vintage wooden one proudly declaring the town’s name again.

“Oh my God, this is the most Vermont thing I’ve ever seen.”

He sighs. “I know.”

We cruise down Main Street, which is lined by storefronts frozen in time—a general store, a pharmacy, a cidery, a tavern. Each building is adorned with colorful awnings and ornate metalwork. When the town square comes into view, I honest to God gasp. The square features a clock tower and a fountain.

We pass a small park where children are shrieking with laughter and an ice cream shop that has a line down the block of hopeful patrons.

“God, it’s like a quaint town ate a quaint small town and then threw up over a third quaint town to create a—”

“I get the point,” he cuts in, snorting.

“Like, I’m talking nauseatingly cute. This is where you grew up?”

“Yep. I was born in Burlington, which is where my parents met. But they moved out here after they had me. How about you?”

“Not far from here, actually,” I reveal. “I grew up in a small town too. Oak Ridges. It’s in northern Massachusetts, right by the Vermont border.”

“Oh wow, that is close. I drive past it all the time.”

“My dad and stepmom live there. My mom’s from Savannah, but she went to MIT and then got a job as a professor in Boston. Met my dad there.”

“He’s a cop, right?”

“SWAT.”

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