Page 16 of Forget Me Knot

Not those words, you turd.

I try to backtrack, scrambling when I see the fury reignite in her eyes. “Rent?YOU’REmy landlord?”

“Yes, but that’s not why I came— Ugh,” I groan. “I’m sorry, Dinah.”

Her breath catches, and I’m so afraid she’ll cry again—and this time I’ll be at fault—so pushing the pastry box I’ve been holding into her hands, I mumble another apology and make for the hills. This has gone badly. Again.

Before pushing out onto the street, I peep over my shoulder and see her slam the box of donuts closed, cheeks tinted a glorious shade of pink and eyes staring back at me.

“And, my name’s Jack.”

6

CRAZY

PATSY CLINE

DINAH

I wish these dang donuts weren’t so good. I wish they were trashy, dry, second-rate donuts of the gas station variety. The kind you think you want but then after you’ve eaten the entire bag and are covered in stale powdered sugar, you regret all your life choices.

But no. Of course they aren’t.

These donuts are now—assuming Jack bought them fresh—three days old. And for three days, I have savored every single morsel of the dozen he delivered into my hands. They’re, in a word, heavenly. I’d like to write sonnets about them or, at the very least, propose marriage to their originator. I’m not picky. If whoever baked these rings of power enters the Badger Bites Competition, my pretzels are toast, and I’m not sure I’d even mind.

I have barely shared with Emory and Molly, offering only one to each of them during our weekly girls night and saving the rest for myself. There may have been a half-hearted, repeat argument in the mix around the merits of donut undergarmentsand how they should be worn daily in tribute to quite possibly the best confection of science and sugar I have ever tasted.

More than anything, I wish these donuts didn't conjure the image of Jack’s intense gaze studying me when I was at a vulnerable point. Because Ihadbeen crying.

Every year, on the anniversary of my parents’ accident, I have what I call a “down day.” I listen to my mom’s favorite ‘80s jams. I make classic pretzels with cheese sauce and homemade country mustard just like my daddy taught me. And, yeah, I cry a little. Or a lot. I just give myself space to miss them. Deeply. With sad music and baked carbs.

And I do so alone. Even Emory doesn’t know about my odd, annual grief ritual.

But having Jack bear witness to my “down day” wasn't even the worst part. Nope. The real glaze on the donut—if you will—was the fact that when Jack showed up, a piece of me was glad to see him. That for a minute, I wasn’t alone.

Which is especially frustrating as I had every intention of thinking about the wordphlegmin conjunction with Jack, but that just isn’t happening. Instead, I replay the look on his face when he mentioned the change in my music. The concern and worry etched in his voice. How his hazel eyes had softened, looking me over. The way he seemed like, if I’d allowed him, he might have hugged me. I hate to admit it, but I would’ve welcomed the contact. Even fromPhlegm Ken.

And then, as I slowly plowed my way through donuts sent straight from heaven, Jack played musical ping pong with me for two days. I’d play a song, he’d play one louder. I played a modern ballad, he played ‘90s country. Mariah Carey's "Always Be MyBaby” echoed on my side of the wall with Justin Bieber’s preteen voice singing “Baby”,then the lyrics, “Is it too late now to say sorry?” floating over on his.I hate to admit it, but the gesture has been frustratingly charming.

I can't make heads or tails of it, but I know the songs repeating a sentiment of apologies that Jack played the morning after he found me crying had to have been running on a playlist. Something he must have thought through.

And that is confusing.

And now, I have a date with his brother in—I check my phone for the time and throw it back on my unmade bed—thirty-five minutes.

Swiping the most insane tasting raspberry jam and lemon curd from the corner of my mouth, I push the thought of the scruffy-faced Jones brother from my mind and focus on Jackson. Jackson who's been nothing but charming and sugary sweet to me. Who sent me a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers two days ago, signed with a simple note:Roses weren’t right. —J.

Even now, the sight of that arrangement, overflowing with peonies, cornflowers, sweet peas, and zinnias, all in shades of creams, pinks, and purples, makes me feel so incredibly seen and pursued. I don’t know why, but the flowers feel uniquely likeme.They’re fun and simple and happy.

Jackson came by the shop first thing this morning to make plans for our date, insisting that we see one another this afternoon. Without hesitation, I threw aside my plans to work on some new flavor combos. Who am I to say, “Ya know what? Nah. I think I better hold off on a possible, and God-willing, swoon-worthy romance for now,” to a man actively pursuing me?

I'm a romance reader. This girl knows how it goes. I’m not gonna miss my main character moment.

So, I’ve felt the fluttering of pre-first date jitters in my belly ever since. Not that those butterflies have hindered me from finishing off the box of donuts. Nope.

I polished off those suckers, saving the raspberry lemon curd for last, and I have zero regrets—aside from the fact that Jackson won’t have to feed me on this mystery date we’re about to go on, and that I was thinking about Jack and his torturously curious eyes and playful taste in music, more than I’d like, with every delicious bite.

I grab a high-waisted pair of jeans and a tan gingham crop top. One that highlights the freckles on my shoulders and shows the barest hint of skin where it meets my jeans. I run my fingers lightly across the cutest detail of cream-colored flowers embroidered across the fabric. It feels perfect for today, especially after the latest flower delivery.

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