Page 8 of Off the Beaten Path

After I order my usual chai latte, Stevie and I make our way back to the table. I pause to ask Mrs. Garcia what she’s reading so I can pick it up at the bookstore later today. If she’s blushing that hard, I want it.

“We’re back,” I singsong, sitting in the chair next to the one Stevie collapsed in. I have to hold back a smile at the way she’s got her arms crossed over her chest, as if physically warding off any of the meddling women around the table.

Looking around the table at my volunteers, I say, “Let’s get started. We’ve got four weeks until the auction. Mom, where are our donations going this year?”

My mom hasn’t worked since Rae was born, but she’s on every board in town, and she’s more connected than anyone I’ve ever met. She pushes a lock of red hair that’s going white at the temples behind her ear as she consults the tiny notebook she always keeps in those colored sweatpants. Rae and I both inherited her hair color, but we got our curls from Dad.

“The main bridge in town needs repairs, so the Bicycle, Pedestrian, and Traffic Safety Committee would love for donations to be put toward that.”

“The bridge it is,” I say, making a note in my own journal. Turning to Stevie’s mom, my boss, I ask, “Is the budget for this year the same?”

Jamie nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Stevie,” I say, and I can practically feel her wince when all eyes land on her. “Did you come up with a list of bachelors to approach?”

“If not, Melissa and I can help,” Myra says, winking one of her brown eyes.

I have to press my lips together to hold back my smile.

“I have a list,” Stevie says, pulling a paper from her bag and sliding it over to me.

After scanning the bleak options, I glance up at her. “Stevie, there are only four guys on here.”

She shrugs. “Jess Peters signed up three years in a row, but now he’s dating the woman who bid on him last year.”

“I didn’t realize they were still together,” I say.

Melissa pipes up. “Oh, yes. He just bought a ring.” She’s loud enough to draw the attention of everyone in the shop, meaning the whole town should know about poor Jess’s proposal by noon.

“And Dean Barker is dating someone from that anonymous dating app everyone in town started using last summer,” Ava, Stevie’s aunt, says from across the table. She runs a store on the farm’s property, selling handmade candles, soaps, and perfumes. She’s also the mother of one of my childhood best friends, Hazel, which makes her one of my favorite people in the world.

The mention of that particular dating app has me itching to change the subject. If any of the women found out that I’ve been talking to a man on that dating app for months, they would never stop hounding me.

“Well,” I say. “How about we each make a list of potential bachelors, and Stevie can be in charge of tracking them down?”

“I’ll try to get Holden to sign up,” Jodi, Holden’s mom, says, grinning mischievously. I have no doubt Holden would bring in a good chunk of change, because despite his surly demeanor, he’s kind of…hot. Tattoos cover his tan skin, and his hair is probably as long as mine, although it’s always tied back in a bun, so I’ve never been able to confirm it. His hazel eyes change colors with his outfits, and his jawline, hidden under a thick, neatly trimmed beard, is sharp enough to cut glass.

But there’s no way in hell he would ever agree to sign up for something like this. When he pisses me off, I like to tell Jodi I saw a woman at his house late at night, but the truth is, in the four years I’ve lived next door to him, I’ve never seen any woman but his mom, sister, or the occasional housekeeper step inside his home.

“Good luck with that,” I say under my breath, and flip to the next page in my notebook. “Moving on. I met with the caterer last week.”

There’s a place in town that no one else knows about where I like to go when I need to think. Or at least I assume everyone has forgotten about it since I haven’t encountered another soul here since I found it in my junior year of high school.

It’s easy to assume that the best views around could be found just beyond the entrance to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, but I personally like the view from an outlook on the very edge of town. Just off the beaten path, nestled in a copse of trees, is a dirt overlook barely large enough to park my car in. When the weather is nice, I’ll climb out on the hood and watch the sunset or stare up into the sky as the stars blink to life. In the winter, I usually order a hot drink from Smokey the Beans, drive up to my little hideaway, and look out my windshield at the vast expanse beyond.

That’s my plan today, but when I arrive, for the first time in over ten years, there’s another car parked in my spot. And I know who it belongs to.

Holden is standing against the hood of his truck, hands wrapped around a thermos. When he notices me, his shoulders go rigid.

“What are you doing here?” he asks the moment I shut off my car and climb out into the bitter cold, chai latte in hand. He’s dressed in a thick olive jacket with a sherpa collar. Although it looks warm enough, I don’t know how he’s standing outside, snow landing softly in his hair and melting on his red-tinted nose and cheeks.

“What amIdoing here?” I ask, my voice pitching with incredulity. “This is my spot.”

He scoffs. “I’ve been coming here since I was in high school.”

“So have I.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks as he stares down at me, and I realize I’ve moved into his personal space. It’s a little intoxicating, being this close to him. I’m not sure what to make of that.

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