Page 24 of The County Fair Queen

"You… you thought I was cute?"

"Of course,that'swhat you took away from that statement. Of-fucking-course." I leaned back, banging the back of my head against the food truck.

"I voted for you," he said, squeezing my shoulder. "But I voted for you for Muscadine King, not Queen."

"No, I saw—"

"You saw a ballot with your name on it. I voted for you because I thought you deserved it. I just figured you deserved a win after putting up with everything you had to in school. Watching you living your life openly, not giving a damn what anyone thought, it took guts. More guts than me."

"It’s not like I had much of a choice," I said, looking away when our eyes met. "I couldn't hide my sexuality like some guys can."

"You shouldn't ever have to hide who you are," he said, his voice sounding something similar to… regret? "I really am sorry, Firecracker. For running off and leaving you up there by yourself. I should have danced with you. I'm sorry."

"Stop saying it," I grumbled. "Just stop." I closed my eyes, needing a moment to collect myself. Thankfully, he didn't press. He just stood there, soaking in the silence. "You really didn't stuff the box?"

"I wouldn't. I promise." His fingers gripped tighter around my wrist, and he let out a soft chuckle. "You really thought I was cute?"

"I also thought you were a prick," I said, finally opening my eyes.

"Thought about my prick, too," he teased, risking a smile. "Any other little admissions you'd like to make?"

"Just that I hope you meet an early end."

He laughed, and it was a deep, guttural belly laugh that made my stomach feel like it was floating. "And I hope you're able to win the war you're waging with male-pattern baldness." He reached for my face, tapping my widow's peak. "Don't worry. It suits you." He threw an arm around me, and because I knew fighting him off would be pointless, I allowed it. "So, are you going to tell me what that producer was talking about? About the favor she said you needed, I mean."

"I'd rather chew glass. Trust me, you would too." As we turned to make our way back toward the stage, I caught sight of the cameraman hiding behind an oak tree, capturing the moment.

Fuck.

Brenda-freaking-Carole was standing just around the corner, beaming ear to ear. "Boys," she said with a knowing grin. She pulled a small piece of paper out of her pocket and snapped her fingers, tapping her foot impatiently, waiting for her traumatized personal assistant to arrive. It took the poor girl less than five seconds to rush over, and when she did, Brenda/Carole already had her hand held out. The assistant pulled out the large bottle of pills and shook four into her palm, but Brenda/Carole rolled her eyes.

"I was asking for a pen, pet," she said, swallowing the pills anyway. The girl handed her a pen, and Brenda/Carole scribbled something down, then handed it to Rivers. He stared at it, the left corner of his mouth curling up into a smirk.

"Yeah," he said. "That's fine. Midnight it is." A strange sensation passed through me when he let go of my wrist. It was similar to sadness, though I couldn't think of a single reason why I ought to be sad at the thought of him letting go. "Guess I'll be seeing you tonight, Firecracker." As he walked away, Brenda-Carol patted me on the shoulder.

"What?" I said. "What's happening tonight?"

She pulled the vape out of her pocket and took a hit. "We're going to have a nice, long chat."

Chapter Six

MY LITTLE TURNIP, A MAYOR'S WIFE

Sneaking around Rivers' house at midnight was not my idea of a good time. Hell, I wasn't even sure why we needed to take such drastic measures to remain incognito, but Brenda-the drama queen-Carole had been insistent.

"What if the paparazzi get a shot of you and Rivers?"she'd asked earlier that afternoon."Those pictures could go viral, and the whole damn storyline would be ruined."

As we tiptoed through his perfectly manicured lawn like a gaggle of home intruders, I worried one of his neighbors might spot us and call the police. On top of that, we were in a red state. Lord knew their motto was shoot first, ask questions later.

We truly looked like the motliest of crews. Jordan was wearing all black, in a sweatshirt withBALENCIAGAslashed across the front in bright, neon-green lettering. For pants, he'd selected a pair of black jeans that clung so tightly to his thighs, it was a wonder he could even walk. He was wearing black sneakers,which would have been fine, except he'd purchased ones that lit up when he walked, sending rainbow-colored beams of light across the yard.

Behind him, Preston was in a pair of ill-fitted overalls and a baby-blue, button-down shirt. Suddenly they stalled behind Aunt Lurlene, and when I turned around, Jordan was bent over, picking a flower out of Rivers' garden. He poked it into the pocket of my father's overalls, and the full moon lit up Preston's reddening cheeks like a spotlight. My father coughed nervously and turned his gaze to a patch of grass in the distance, pointing.

"I think Mayor Rivera's got himself a mole problem," Preston said before clearing his throat.

"The entire lawn looks like something out ofBetter Homes & Garden,sugar," Aunt Lurlene said. "I don't know what on Earth you're talking about." Aunt Lurlene was wearing a red-sequined ball gown, and the moon's reflection sent shimmers of reds and pinks twinkling across the yard. For that night's wig, she chose a scarlet pixie cut with gemstones weaved throughout. Her bedazzled black walking cane clacked across the stone footpath. If I didn't think she would have cracked it against my skull, I would have turned around and shushed her. Earlier in the evening, when I'd asked her why she kept turning up in ridiculous ensembles, she'd told me this was her chance at putting Fletcher Family Vineyards on the map. I wasn't sure how her wearing ballgowns and over-the-top wigs would help her in doing so, but I smiled and nodded, happy to see her finally letting loose.

As we passed another of Rivers' flower beds, it was Aunt Lurlene’s turn to stall, staring down at the Martha Stewart-like display. With a heavy sigh, she tsk-tsked her disapproval. "Goodness gracious. Are those marigolds?"

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