Page 92 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

“You think it’ll be all right?”

“I do.”

“Okay.” She lets out a long, slow breath. “I guess I better get to work.”

I leave her sitting on a vintage chair, furiously tapping on her phone.

I wish I could let Desdemona come, force Kelsey back to LA midromance, and take my own shot.

But that’s not what I’m here for.

This is about Kelsey.

Chapter 31

KELSEYMEETS THEIN-LAWS

When I step onto the porch the next bright sunshiny morning, Randy is already waiting for me in work boots, jeans, and a T-shirt. I refuse to allow my brain to put a price tag on this outfit.

Too late. $125, dang it.

I’m practical in denim shorts, a white cotton shirt with cap sleeves, and tennis shoes. With a bow on my ponytail, of course.

Only when I hear the neighing sound do I realize we’re not alone. Two horses pull a wood box cart with a high seat in front.

“Oh!” I say. “Twohorsepower!”

He chuckles like that joke is even a tiny bit original. “Your chariot, our master decorator.” He bows low and gestures to the step to the seat.

Oh, boy. I look for places to hang on, but there aren’t many. I fit my shoe on the narrow step, which is really high for me already, but when I try to rise, I immediately fall back again.

Randy comes up behind me to help, moves his hands as if trying to figure out where to safely grab me, then decides he can best assist me from up top.

He jumps into the seat and leans over to extend a hand. I manage to pull up and plop into the seat with a lot less grace than I imagined.

I’ve gone Hollywood soft. Maybe this is why everyone in Beverly Hills does Pilates.

“We didn’t have a horse cart on the dairy farm,” I tell him.

He grins. “I bet not. Ours is mainly for show. It’s not the fastest way to get from A to B. But people love it.”

And I admit, I do, too. Theclop, clopof the horses’ hooves on the concrete drive is a merry soundtrack as we cross the front of the house. There’s a double-grooved path in the yard off to one side that has clearly always been there for this very purpose.

At first, we appear to be headed straight for the trees, but as we get closer, I realize a narrow channel has been cut through the forest.

“We’re taking a shortcut,” Randy says, and for the first time, I realize I’m going deep into the piney woods with a perfect stranger.

Am I going to end up on a missing persons billboard? Who would buy the billboard? Not my dad. Not the Demon. Could Zachery make the police do it?

What picture would they use? It better not be the one from theForty-Seven Dead Menpremiere, where my stupid dress made me look six months pregnant, prompting calls from all my siblings when the designer tagged me in the photo, which wouldn’t have happened except in the upper corner, comedian Mitchell Barinski was making a silly face.

He’s the reason the photographer bothered to upload it.

To make matters worse, I was experimenting with dramatic eyeliner wings when I should not have been. At least not by my own hand. My shaky, unpracticed hand.

They will totally use that photo on the billboard.

My fingers graze the lump of phone in my pocket. I’m tempted to tell Zachery to make sure they don’t use that bad photo, even though it’s one of the few up on Getty Images.

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