Page 39 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
“Because you’re jumpy. Distracted. And you shut down the second I mentioned The Wandering Pint. Which, correct me if I’m wrong, is where a certain tall, blonde, broody landlord spends most of his time.”
I grip the napkin tighter, willing my expression to stay neutral. “It’s not—” I stop, shake my head. “Mom, seriously. It’s nothing.”
“Mmhmm.” She takes a sip of her water, eyes still on me over the rim. “You don’t have to tell me, Paige. But did you ever consider that I might know a little something about something?”
I open my mouth, ready to deny it again, but the server returns with our food, plates clinking softly as they’re set down. The smell of warm bread and melted cheese hits me, and I’m suddenly grateful for the excuse to shove something in my mouth instead of answering.
But Mom isn’t ready to let up.
She waits until the server’s gone, then picks up one of her fries and points it at me like it’s a weapon.
“Thing is,” she says, “you’re not good at hiding when something’s eating at you. Never have been. You get quiet, you get fidgety, and you avoid talking about it until you’re about ready to explode. Which is fine if it’s about, say, a broken mixer. But if it’s about a man, especially a certain best friend of your brother’s? That’s a different story.”
I take a bite of flatbread, chew, swallow, and focus very hard on my plate. “It’s not about a man.”
“That’s funny,” she says, “because I know what you look like when it is.”
I give her a flat look. “You’ve got a very active imagination.”
“And you’ve got a very obvious tell,” she counters, unfazed. “You can say nothing’s going on all you want, but the second I bring up The Wandering Pint and Ben Hoffman, you tense up like someone just told you to walk across a tightrope over the Grand Canyon.”
The mention of his name makes my stomach flutter and clench all at once.
“See?” she says. “Just like that.”
I stab at my salad with my fork, trying to act casual. “It’s nothing.” I sigh. “It’s complicated.”
Mom’s eyes soften, but her voice stays steady. “Most things worth figuring out are.” She takes a bite of her sandwich, chews, swallows. “Just… be honest with yourself, at least. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to. But if you’re avoiding him to make yourself feel better, and it’s not working, maybe it’s time to rethink the plan.”
I busy myself with folding a piece of flatbread over more cheese, pretending I’m deeply invested in the perfect bite. “We slept together,” I murmur so quietly she barely hears me.
She leans in. “What’s that?”
Heat rushes to my face, and I keep my eyes glued to my plate. “I said, we slept together.”
For a moment, there’s nothing but the clink of her plate as she sets her sandwich down. Then—calmly, like she’s confirming the weather—she says, “Ah.”
I risk a glance up. She’s not gawking or gasping, not even frowning. Just studying me with that sharp, unreadable mom look that somehow sees more than I want it to.
“It was a mistake,” I add quickly, words tumbling over each other. “We… it just happened, and then we both agreed it shouldn’t happen again. And now it’s… awkward.”
Her brows lift the tiniest bit. “A mistake, huh?”
“Yes,” I say firmly, though my voice feels too tight.
She tilts her head, resting her chin on her hand. “Was it a bad mistake?”
I blink at her. “What kind of question is that?”
“The kind where I’m trying to figure out if you regret the fact that it happened… or the fact that you can’t stop thinking about it.”
I drop my gaze again, tearing off a piece of crust. “It’s complicated,” I repeat, quieter this time.
“That’s not an answer,” she says gently. “Look, I know you’ve got the bakery and a million things on your plate. I also know you. When you really don’t care about something, it doesn’t linger. And this? It’s lingering.”
I lift a piece of the flatbread, then set it down again. “He said it was a mistake.”
And once again, she says, “Ah.”
