Page 59 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

I notice Zachery giving me space as the hot young man from Durango and I simultaneously try the dill-flavored popcorn.

“Oh!” I cover my mouth with my hand. “It’s really salty!”

He crunches his. “Mine’s not. Maybe they’re inconsistent with the flavoring.” He holds the packet. “Try again?”

My mouth is flooded with salt and dill. I sputter and cough. “No, I think I need something to drink!”

“There’s a soda fountain a little way down.”

And just like that, we’re walking side by side through the fair.

“I’m Simon,” he says. “I think the popcorn is a bust.” He chucks the bag into a bin as we pass.

“I’m Kelsey. And you couldn’t have known I was going to get a salt assault.” My mouth is starting to calm down.

He laughs. “Salt assault. Are all the women from Alabama as clever as you?”

I preen at the compliment, swishing my skirt as I walk. This is going way better than Pitchfork Lodge.

EXT. PICKLE FESTIVAL—DAY

KELSEY, 25, in a sunny yellow dress complete with bow, walks along a row of food booths with her new beau, SIMON, 25.

They are clearly hitting it off, laughing at the sights as they plan the rest of their evening together.

They arrive at a green-and-white malt shop tent where THREE WORKERS, all in fake mustaches, work a soda machine and several blenders.

It’s happening!

Simon points to the hand-lettered sign over the counter. “They have milkshakes, Italian ices, and root beer floats.”

“Ooooh. I want one of everything.”

He laughs. “Anything the lady desires.”

We order a chocolate milkshake, a raspberry Italian ice, and a root beer float, each with two straws. Small round tables with stools are scattered in the grass near the tent, so we choose one.

“Which first?” Simon asks. “Are you strategic and make sure you go from least sweet to more, or weakest flavor to strongest?”

I pull all three tall paper cups near me and arrange them so my straws are together. “I like to live dangerously.” I sip from all three at once.

If flavor could be a cacophony, this would be it. I pull back. “Whoa. That was a lot!”

“Now I have to try it.” He gathers his three straws. His face contorts as he takes in a drink. “No, no, no.”

“I guess we’re even then,” I tell him. “Your salt assault and my too-sweet treat.”

“So we are.”

Our eyes meet over the cups. A gentle breeze lifts the edges of his sandy hair. His eyes are hazel.

Dang. This works. The whole thing works! Meet-cute. Banter. Classic romantic date with an old-fashioned feel.

I feel a tug, like this is how adult dating is supposed to be. Not the awkward teen melodrama. Or the look-at-me-I’m-important Hollywood version.

It’s nice.

“Where are you staying?” Simon asks.

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