Page 77 of Cinnamon Roll Set Up

She squeezes my hand tighter. “I never thought that about you. You’re not that kind of guy. And I like that you’re not always rational.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Really?”

She leans closer. “You’re fun when you’re irrational.”

I laugh, feeling exactly the same way about her.

She takes a big bite but hides her mouth behind her hand while she finishes chewing. “Did I tell you Keith is thinking about taking a transfer to Alaska?”

“That’s a huge change.” Her mom and stepdad live in the Houston suburbs, and he does something for the oil industry. As far as I know, she’s never been back to Magnolia Ridge for a visit. Georgia always goes to see them.

“Mom wants him to take it. She’s barely been out of Texas, and living up there would be a great way to explore. Can you imagine all the mountains and forests and wild animals? The snow?”

She gets a dreamy look on her face as if she’s envisioning snow-capped mountains and frolicking moose.

“Do you think you’d want to join them sometime?” The idea of Georgia being thousands of miles away makes a spot behind my ribs ache. But Sam spent a decade exploring the world. Maybe she wants to do the same.

“I’ll visit for sure, but I don’t think I want to live in Alaska. Magnolia Ridge is my home. Everybody I love is right here.” She cringes, and a hint of pink touches her cheeks.

“Good. Everybody I love is right here, too.”

She smiles but shakes her head again. “Rule number three: don’t imply you love eachother on the first date.”

I notice her teasing warning goes both ways. I also notice myself grinning like a fool.

“You’re right. That would be so cringe.”

“Right? Like having an Instagram for your dog.”

I lay my hand over my thrumming heart. “I would never say that. That’s in direct violation of rule number one.”

She starts giggling. “Okay, but I looked it up, and Mr. Pickles is so cute. He’s a chihuahua mix of some kind, and I just want to kiss him on his little snoot.”

“Rule number four: don’t make your date jealous of tiny dogs with huge social media followings.”

“Aww. Do you want a snoot smooch?”

“Yes.” Dead serious.

“Okay.” She stands just enough to lean over the table. “Bring it in.”

I do, and she carefully zeroes in to place a kiss on my nose. Mr. Pickles should be so lucky.

“Ideal slope,” she says softly.

What a ridiculous phrase to make my heart beat this fast.

“Now,” she says, settling back down, “if you’re jealous of Mr. Pickles’s huge social media following, I have some ideas about that.”

“You don’t have to run ideas for Dogeared’s socials by me. I trust you.” She hasn’t checked in since she made a video using a trending sound and wanted me to be in the background standing perfectly still. Not to brag, but I nailed it.

“Aww, that’s sweet, but my ideas aren’t for Dogeared. They’re for Miles Forrester, science fiction writer, esquire, first of his name, etcetera etcetera.”

“I don’t have social media.”

She shoots me a “duh” look. “They’re ideas to help you get started.”

“Engaging with strangers on social media is not mywheelhouse.” I have a small Discord of sci-fi writers that I participate in, but that’s not remotely the same thing. Putting myself out there, shilling my books, trying to turn browsers into readers and readers into fans—I wouldn’t know where to start.

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