Page 8 of Melting the Grump
The tension breaks, and he chuckles—a warm, rich sound that I immediately want to hear again. "Fair enough."
The bartender slides two fresh drinks in front of us. "From Mabel and June," he explains, nodding toward a corner tablewhere the two older women from The Enchanted Bean sit, watching us with unabashed interest.
Scott groans softly. "Town matchmakers. They've been trying to pair me off for years."
"They told me we argue like an old married couple," I admit, feeling heat rise to my cheeks.
His eyebrows lift. "Already? We've had exactly two conversations."
"Apparently that's enough." I lift my glass in a small toast toward the women, who beam back.
Scott shakes his head, but I notice he doesn't contradict the assessment. Instead, he asks, "Why Whitetail Falls?"
The question catches me off guard, not because it's unexpected but because I'm still formulating the answer for myself.
"I needed a change," I begin, tracing a drop of condensation down my glass. "In Portland, I was just another event planner in a sea of them, always competing for the same clients, the same venues. One wedding blurred into the next. I started to feel... interchangeable."
Scott listens intently, his full attention on me in a way that's both flattering and unnerving.
"I visited Whitetail Falls last year during a road trip. Just passing through, but something about it stayed with me." I smile, remembering. "When I saw the cottage for sale on Willowbrook, it felt like serendipity."
"But you're not sure if you're staying." His observation is gentle but direct.
"I..." The question pierces something vulnerable in me. "People here keep asking if I'm just passing through. Like they're waiting to see if I'm worth investing in."
"Small towns have seen plenty of city folk come and go, using places like this as temporary escapes before returning to real life."
"Is that what you think I'm doing?" I ask, surprised by how much his answer matters to me.
Scott studies me, his gaze thoughtful. "I think you're trying to figure that out yourself."
The accuracy of his assessment leaves me momentarily speechless. I am trying to figure out whether Whitetail Falls can become home, whether I belong here, whether the warmth I feel in this community is something I can claim as mine.
"The festival matters to you," he continues, his voice lower. "It's not just a project. It's your way of showing you want to be part of things here."
I swallow against the sudden tightness in my throat. "Is it that obvious?"
"To someone who's watching carefully? Yes."
The tavern seems to recede around us, the space between our barstools charged with something I can't quite name.
"Scott..." I begin, not entirely sure what I want to say.
But the moment breaks as a group of newcomers bursts through the door, laughing loudly. Scott straightens, the openness in his expression fading as he retreats behind his usual reserve.
"I should get going," he says, finishing his drink. "Early start tomorrow."
Disappointment washes through me, but I nod. "The council vote."
"That too." He stands, leaving money on the bar. "Goodnight, Abigail."
"Goodnight, Scott."
He pauses, seeming to struggle with something. Then, with a nod to the bartender, he turns and walks away, pausing briefly to exchange words with his crew before disappearing into the night.
I remain at the bar, nursing my drink, aware of the curious glances from other patrons. Mabel and June look positively crestfallen at Scott's departure, and I can't help but share their sentiment.
Just when the conversation had begun to reveal something real, he'd withdrawn.
