Page 52 of The Mayor and the Mystery Man

“It wasn’t working.” It was a little.

Vernita shrugged and scrolled through the emails on her phone.

“You and Dusty are working out well. My hairdresser gushed to me about how cute you two seemed. All the PDA, as my kids call it, is getting noticed.”

“Right. Yeah, good.” It felt weird hearing her talk neutrally about my relationship, even if it was fake. There was something real there, and I didn’t like that it was for public scrutiny.

“He’s a good guy,” she said, and there was a weight to her words I didn’t expect.

“He’s my best friend.”

The tips of her lips curved into a smile.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing. But…” She strummed her fingers on her dossier. “What’s the plan if you win?”

“WhenI win.”

“When you win.” She waited for an answer. “We should start planning an exit strategy for Dusty in November. I assume Dusty is going back to Los Angeles when this is all done.”

A new terror clenched me in its fist. I dipped my head, stared at the single scuff mark on my right shoe, which I’d buff out tonight.

“Yeah, uh, that’s the plan for now.”

“Do you think he’d be open to staying through the holidays so we can break you two up with a smooth landing?”

“Can we talk about this later?” I snapped at her. She lurched back slightly from the contact of my words. “Sorry. I’m just tired. We’ll talk about it later.”

“You got it, Mr. Mayor.” She stood up and patted me on the shoulder in a way that felt maternal. Her warmth beamed through her. “In my opinion, I hope he stays.”

Me too, Vernita. Me fucking too.

15

DUSTY

Applefest was officially cute, and I said this as someone who was overall ambivalent on apples. I was more of an oranges guy, especially when they were muddled in a glass of vodka.

A huge Applefest sign with apples for the Ps stretched across the street. The main drag was shut down to traffic. We entered through one of the entrances where a stage was set up for tonight’s concert. Throngs of people shuffled around from booth to booth. The buzz in the air crackled in my veins. There was the distinct feeling Sourwood was going all out today. No autumnal stone would be left unturned.

Along the street, booths were set up with vendors and local businesses. A few stray clouds sifted through the brilliant blue sky. Food stations and food trucks were set up at corners advertising apple cider (kiddie and adult kinds), apple cider doughnuts, and caramel apples. One place had the audacity to advertise deep-fried Oreos as if they were staging a protest against the fruit of the hour.

Well, the real fruit of the hour was Leo. He was downright presi-fucking-dential. Leo was so damn good at commanding a room—or a festival in this case. He remembered everyone’s name, shook hands with all the local business owners, and sampled their wares. People waved and greeted us as we walked through the crowd to the mayor’s booth. He wore a button-down shirt with rolled-up sleeves, jeans, and a maroon quilted vest. Leo held my hand and kept smiling at me. Was it for show? Was it for real? I didn’t know anymore. All this kissing had made me crush-drunk.

I was a minor celebrity, too. Residents asked me questions about how I was enjoying Sourwood, what my favorite stores were, what I was excited for with Applefest. Anytime I felt nervous about the crowds, I squeezed Leo’s hand, and he squeezed back, and I knew I could take on anything. Sometimes, he’d look over and give me this stealth smile and wink that made the festival disappear.

We strolled down the row of vendors, caramel apples in our hands that we’d watched the owner of Lazy Sundae make in front of us. I was never a fan of them—it was sugar on sugar—but this one was delicious. I breathed a huge sigh of relief when we came to Mitch’s booth, where he served burgers and hard apple cider. The line stretched into the street, and I dutifully waited for my drink.

“Enjoying your first Applefest?” He came to our table, where we knocked back a beer.

“I didn’t know people cared about apples this much. It’s like a town of schoolteachers.”

“Yeah, it’s a lot to take in. You get used to it.” Mitch wiped down the empty table next to ours.

“I love this, though. There are so many things I want to buy. Candles made out of craft beer bottles? Yes, please. Your booth is busy.”

“It always is.”

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