Page 86 of Give Me a Shot

“I love her, too.”

Chapter Twenty

Mo

The cheap linen shirt still stunk. Mo held his breath as he got it over his head and pushed his arms through the sleeves. His Fezzik costume had been hanging in his laundry room for the two days since it had arrived and that still had not been enough time for the chemical smell from the packaging to fully dissipate. He’d planned to wash it the previous day but had forgotten when Jess had called him over. Now he was going to have to try to push the smell aside in addition to his discomfort about being photographed that morning and what it meant. The Faire was looming, along with his shoulder-tightening anxiety about being one of its public faces and, allegedly, “main draws.” The upshot was that he would see Jess any moment. He’d be able to check in and see if visually she seemed to be doing as well as she had that morning by text.

He hung the tag-less Henley he’d been wearing on the now freed hanger hooked behind the Folk School smithy door and stepped back into his work boots, stuffing his Fezzik pants in so they billowed sufficiently. The work boots were completely wrong for the Big Day, but he was sure the photographer would want to focus on him smithing, not…stomping or something.

As he straightened, the door was pushed the rest of the way open, Mo stepping back just in time to avoid getting the knob to his head.

“Doth mine eyes deceive me?” Rick laughed, looking Mo up and down. “Art thou ingarb?”

Mo scowled.

“Very funny,” he said. “Where’s yours?”

Rick walked over to the high table, plopping a gym bag onto it.

“Gonna get changed right now,” he said.

“I’ll give you privacy,” Mo said, stepping around the door.

“Wait,” Rick called to him. “You know, you’re allowed to smile about this. Even enjoy it a little.” Rick winked at him as he pulled his polo out of the waist of his jeans.

Mo would have liked to explain what was going on inside him. It would have been nice to tell someone who was more than an acquaintance that it wasn’t even tena.m.and that he was already tired from fighting to control the anxiety of being seen, feeling the weight of his responsibility to the Folk School and mentally preparing himself for the multiple times that day he’d have to live moments like this one—where he could feel the static of someone else’s excitement, their confusion about his lack of excitement, and the social requirement to mitigate that dissonance in a way that didn’t make the other person feel criticized or minimized.

He could either fake a level of excitement that matched Rick’s own—which would require Mo to deplete some of his limited energy and be a lie; or he could simply grunt, saving a little energy for future use. But most people read that second option as a personal rejection. He sighed.

“Yeah,” he said, giving a brief nod. “Maybe.” He stepped through the doorway, pulling the knob behind him.

“Don’t try too hard,” Rick called out, laughing as he closed the door.

Mo headed for the break room. He’d planned to stay in the smithy, getting things ready for the photographer, but he could do that once Rick was changed. He could hear people shouting to one another outside, the sound of hammers and nail guns. The physical structure of the Faire was almost halfway finished. He walked into the break room and headed straight for the thermos of hot water for tea among the refreshments that had been laid out, reminding himself that everything was going to go well, and the discomfort and fatigue he was managing—and would have tomanage—were going to be well worth it because the School was important to him.

You’re good, you’re fine. Just breathe. Can’t get all jittery like you’ve got extra fingers.

“Do you always start conversations this way?” Jess asked from behind him, making him jump out of his skin. He turned, finding her perched on the arm of the pleather loveseat in the corner beyond the door. “Extra fingers, though…” she said. “Isn’t Inigo the one looking for the six-fingered man? Not Fezzik?”

The charge from being surprised was washed away by warmth at seeing her, not to mention how deadly gorgeous she looked. She wasn’t wearing a mask, and her clothes were brown. But other than that, she was 100 percent the Dread Pirate Roberts. Even down to the low ponytail.

“M’lady Roberts,” he said, placing a hand on his heart and bowing. “I didn’t know you were there.” He laughed, and she joined in. “And I didn’t realize that I was thinking out loud.”

Smiling, she strode across the room to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. He smiled back and wrapped his arms around her. She looked up at him, her chin on his chest.

“You doin’ okay?” she asked, smile lingering, but one corner of her mouth turned down. His heart warmed. She was asking precisely because she knew he wasn’t. He sighed.

“Gonna be fine eventually,” he said, tucking some hair that had escaped the ponytail behind her ear. “I’ll just have to do a lot this evening to clear everyone else’s excitement and my own stress. More important, how are you?”

Jess narrowed her eyes and shook her head a little.

“I will accept ‘equallyimportant’…,” she said. “I am much better than yesterday. No doubt fortified by the chorba I had for breakfast.” Her wink sparked heat in his cheeks. Her lower back tightened, followed by her arms around him. She took a breath. “And if it starts to be too much today, I’m going to imagine all the Little Cassies out there who might enjoy our Faire. Help them become as excited about it as she would have been.” He squeezed her back.

“That’s a great plan,” he said.

“Glad you think so,” she said, resting her head on his chest. “We’re doing this for the best reason.”

“The best,” he echoed.

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