Page 138 of Knot Baked Out For This
"What, me kidnapping you for lunch?"
"You holding my hand. Like we're... something."
"We are something." He squeezes back. "We're a pack, Firefly."
Pack. The word that used to mean prison now feels like home.
"Where are we going?"
"That's the surprise."
He leads me to his truck, opens my door like this is a real date and not just lunch on a Tuesday. The drive is short—everything in Oakridge is short—but he won't tell me where we're going even when I threaten to throw myself from the moving vehicle.
"That seems extreme," he says mildly.
"I'm an extreme person."
"You're a dramatic person."
"Dramatically extreme."
"Extremely dramatic."
We pull up to Riverside Park, which is optimistic naming since the river dried up in the 1800s, but the trees are beautiful in October, all gold and crimson and that particular shade of orange that only exists for about three days.
"Picnic?" I guess.
"Even better, but you just have to wait for the grand surprise.”
CHAPTER 25
Bookmobiles And Vinyl Dreams
~ROWAN~
Romance is apparently a competitive sport, and I'm losing to twins who think setting things on fire counts as courtship.
"Look at the truck," I tell Hazel, trying not to sound as nervous as I feel. The October afternoon light is perfect—golden hour they call it, though every hour with her feels golden and I'm becoming the kind of sap who thinks things like that.
She turns from where Luna's food truck just disappeared, and her face does this thing—confusion, recognition, then pure wonder—that makes every hour of planning worth it.
"That's not a food truck," she breathes.
"No."
"That's a bookmobile!"
The truck sits twenty feet away, painted deep purple with gold lettering: "Riverside Roaming Reads." Someone—definitely not me because I have dignity—has decorated it with pumpkin garlands and tiny battery-powered fairy lights that twinkle even in daylight. And beyond it, visible now that Luna's truck has moved, is the picnic setup that took me three hours and two YouTube tutorials to arrange.
Please let this be romantic and not creepy. There's such a fine line.
"Rowan, is this—did you—" She stops walking, actually stops dead, taking it all in. The quilts layered on the grass, the wooden crate serving as a table, the mason jars with wildflowers that I definitely didn't pick myself at 6 AM this morning while Jenkins laughed at me.
"It's a whole library on wheels," she whispers, like she's afraid speaking louder will make it disappear.
I chuckle, but it comes out nervous. "I've been trying to think of a way to be romantic. I'm not as forthcoming as Luca or Levi?—"
"You're romantic!"
