Page 100 of Hometown Touchdown
“Anyway,” she says, tapping her clipboard, “I won’t post anything just yet. But if things are heating up between you two—oh honey, you better make it official before someone else puts it in the group chat.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” I mumble, tighter than intended.
She gives me a bright, knowing smile. “Timing is everything. And this town runs on speculation.”
And just like that, she spins her cart and sashays off toward the baking aisle, leaving behind a cloud of lavender perfume and a wake of anxiety.
I’m still holding a yogurt like it’s a weapon.
This is still the same Cedar Falls—where privacy goes to die, and your boyfriend’s future is one Facebook status away from being hijacked by a rhinestone-clad country singer with opinions on fringe and fertility.
By the time I make it to the checkout, I’ve made two decisions. One: I am absolutely telling Knox about the linebacker-lightning comment. And two: I’m baking somethingverypublic for him. Just to reestablish my muffin territory.
Let the gossip mill churn. I’ve got strawberries, a plan, and zero tolerance for rhinestones.
By the time I make it to Knox’s house, the chocolate cake box from Penny’s Café balanced carefully in my arms, I’m still riding a caffeine-fueled wave of indignation and disbelief. The cake is a distress flare. Knox knows me well enough to understand: if I show up with Penny’s triple-layer chocolate cake, something went down.
He opens the door in sweatpants and a clingy gray T-shirt that really should come with a warning label. Damp hair, clean skin, bare feet—the casual hotness is rude, honestly. He takes one look at the bakery box and lifts an eyebrow.
“Oh no,” he says, stepping aside to let me in. “Who do I need to fight?”
“No fighting,” I mutter, brushing past him. “Just strategic emotional cake consumption.”
“That bad?”
“I got ambushed at Lowery’s.”
“By?”
I set the cake down on the counter, spin dramatically, and point at him. “Haddie Carmichael. Dairy aisle. Full eye contact.”
He winces. “You poor thing.”
“I was trying to buy yogurt, Knox. Yogurt. And instead, I got cornered and hit with a full-scale matchmaking campaign involving your name and her granddaughter, Debbie.”
“Debbie?” he repeats, dragging out the syllables like he's searching the depths of his memory and coming up with glitter and chaos. “Rhinestones? Loud laugh? Once rollerbladed into the Fourth of July parade float?”
“That’s the one. She’s apparently back in town and quote-unquoteready to make you howl like a linebacker in a lightning storm.”
Knox chokes, mid-sip of water. “She said that?”
“She did. Haddie said it with pride. Like it was a credential.”
He sets his glass down and tries to school his face into something resembling sympathy, but he’s fighting laughter. “And you brought cake because…?”
“Because I needed to feel powerful,” I say, cutting us two generous slices. “And because chocolate cake doesn’t ask invasive questions or try to offer you up as tribute to a woman with sequined cowboy boots and an unsettling amount of fringe.”
“She wears fringe year-round,” Knox confirms, taking a bite. “Even to funerals.”
We settle into our usual spots on his couch, plates balanced on our laps, the glow from the kitchen light soft and warm against the early evening shadows. Outside, the air smells like leaves and chimney smoke, and there’s a hint of winter coming—just enough bite to remind me that Thanksgiving is in less than two weeks. How that snuck up on me, I don’t know. Time in Cedar Falls is weird like that. Slow and fast all at once.
“You know,” Knox says after a few quiet bites, “you don’t have to hide out like this forever.”
I glance at him, fork mid-air. “Like what?”
“Showing up here with cake like it’s some secret mission. Sneaking out of my place like a raccoon with a hoodie.”
My stomach flips. It’s the kind of flip that comes with someone seeing you clearly, even when you think you’re being subtle.
