Page 82 of Stick Break
“House shopping,” I echo with a stiff nod, trying not to let my inner panic show.
“Oh, I can send you all the listing information,” Marta says cheerfully, bustling off to the kitchen for a pen and paper. “Just give me your email!”
Of course. Because this fake engagement apparently comes with real estate paperwork now.
Betsy turns to me, beaming like she’s won a prize at the county fair. “I knew you’d love it,” she says, grabbing both of my hands and squeezing them tight. “I think you two will be a wonderful addition to our little community.”
Then, without missing a beat, she spins to glare daggers at Rip. “After the wedding.”
Rip’s brows rise, clearly caught off guard. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, standing straighter like he just got called out by a military commander. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I bite back a smile. I’ve never seen a man so large look so thoroughly put in his place.
“Grandma,” Emma pipes up from her perch near the front door, “Can I have ice cream now?”
“Of course, you can, sweetheart,” Betsy says, patting her on the head.
Just put your information here,” Marta says, handing Rip a pen and a flowery notepad. “Or, if you’re on your way to town again, the listing’s right in the real estate window. Front and center.”
Things really are different in this sleepy little community. No apps. No glossy brochures. Just a handwritten note and a spot in the town square window. And somehow… that simplicity makes my chest feel light.
Rip writes down his email, neatly, I notice, and we all step back out into the sunshine.
“Charley,” Emma chirps, tugging on my hand. “What’s The Spotlight?”
My stomach tightens, but I keep my tone even. “It’s a singing show,” I say. “People compete for prize money and exposure. It’s a big deal if you win. It can change your life.”
It did change mine. Just not the way I thought it would.
“You should go on it,” Emma says brightly. “I bet you’d win.”
Rip makes a low, strangled noise next to me, like he just swallowed a marble. I glance at him, and he immediately looks away, hand suddenly very interested in the back of his neck.
My stomach coils tight.
Okay. So… he might know who I am. But that doesn’t mean he’s seen the tape. Rip doesn’t strike me as the headline-scrolling, scandal-chasing type. He doesn’t even post on social media. Most of the time, he’s too busy rehabbing his groin ad well, take me to his bed. The only time I ever see him on his phone is when she messages.
I tug my sunhat lower over my eyes, shielding myself from more than just the sun. Rip does the same with the bill of his cap.
As we walk to town, the scent of fried dough, carried on the summer breeze, drifts toward us. Laughter echoes from the town square.
“Oh, look,” Emma squeals. “A Ferris wheel.” She tugs on my hand. “Charley, please go on it with me!”
“I… uh… not really a fan of heights,” I say quickly, my voice a little too high-pitched.
Rip leans in, his breath warm on my cheek as he murmurs, “Really? That surprises me. You know, being a rebel—with a tattoo and all.”
I laugh despite myself. “That was a very small act of rebellion.”
He grins. “It’s only kiddie-size,” he adds. “I’ll go on it with you guys, if that helps.”
He says it so simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. To volunteer for something just to make it easier for me. And somehow… that fills me with more courage than I expected.
“Pretty sure there’s a weight limit for each seat,” I tease.
“Yeah, Rip,” Emma pipes in helpfully. “You’re too big. We don’t want to break it.”
Rip clutches his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. “The only thing you two are breaking…” he says dramatically, “…is my damn heart.”
