I whirl toward the fence, swiping the back of my hand across my mouth.
The blond demigod is leaning against the far side of the fence, no more than four feet away.
Of course he is.
“Fine,” I force out. I clear my throat and grimace at the taste. “Just drank a bathtub’s worth of alcohol last night.”
He laughs. It’s a great laugh. Probably his scream of terror is even fairly pleasant. “I’ve been there.”
Wow, he’s tall.
“I’m Shepherd,” he says.
“Like the . . . job?” I ask.
“And my family owns the stable,” he says. “Go ahead and laugh.”
“I would never,” I say. “I have a terrible sense of humor.” I start to stretch out my hand, then remember where it’s recently been (vomit) and drop it. “I’m Nora.”
He laughs again, a clear silver-bell sound. “You staying at Goode’s Lily?”
I nod. “My sister and I are visiting from New York.”
“Ah, big-city folk,” he jokes, eyes sparkling.
“I know, we’re the worst,” I play along. “But maybe Sunshine Falls will convert us.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle. “It’ll certainly do that.”
“Are you from here originally?”
“All my life,” he says, “minus a short stint in Chicago.”
“City life wasn’t for you?” I guess.
His huge shoulders lift. “Northern winters certainly weren’t.”
“Sure,” I say. I’m personally pro-season—but it’s a familiar complaint.
People basically leave New York because they’re cold, claustrophobic, tired, or financially overwhelmed. Over the years, most of my college friends frittered off to Midwestern cities that are less expensive or suburbs with huge lawns and white picket fences, or else left in one of the mass exoduses to L.A. that comes every few winters.
There are easier places to live, but New York’s a city filled with hungry people, their shared want a thrumming energy.
Shepherd pats the fence. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your . . .” I swear he glances toward my vomit pile. “. . . run,” he finishes diplomatically, turning to go. “But if you need a tour guide while you’re here, Nora from New York, I’m happy to help.”
I call after him. “How should I . . . get ahold of you?”
He looks back, grinning. “It’s a small town. We’ll run into each other.”
I take it as the world’s most gentle brush-off right up until the second he shoots me a wink, the first hot wink I’ve ever seen in real life.
* * *
Ever since I finished recounting what happened, Libby’s just been staring at me.
“What’s happening inside your brain right now?” I ask.
“I’m trying to decide whether to be impressed you went skinny-dipping, annoyed you went with Charlie, or just grovelingly sorry for setting you up on such a terrible date.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I say. “I’m sure if I’d cut off the bottom six inches of my legs at the table, he would’ve been perfectly pleasant.”
“I’m so sorry, Sissy,” she cries. “I swear he seemed normal in his messages.”
“Don’t blame Blake. I’m the one with this giant flesh sack.”
“Seriously, what an asshole!” Libby shakes her head. “God, I’m sorry. Let’s just forget about number five. It was a bad idea.”
“No!” I say quickly.
“No?” She seems confused.
After last night, I would love to throw the towel in, but there’s also Charlie’s apartment to think about. If I back out of our deal now, then everything that happened was for nothing. At least this way, something good can come out of it.
“I’m gonna stick with it,” I say. “I mean, we have a checklist.”
“Really?” Libby claps her hands together, beaming. “That’s great! I’m so proud of you, Sissy, getting out of your shell—which reminds me! I spoke to Sally about number twelve, and she’d love help sprucing up Goode Books.”
“When did you even talk to her?” I say.
“We’ve exchanged a few emails,” she says with a shrug. “Did you know that she painted the mural in the children’s section of the shop?”
Considering Libby bakes her gluten-intolerant mail carrier a special pie every December, I shouldn’t be surprised she’s also having in-depth email correspondence with our Airbnb host.
My pulse spikes at the buzz of my phone. Mercifully, the message isn’t from Charlie.
It’s from Brendan. Which is rare. When you scroll through our thread, it’s a riveting back-and-forth of Happy birthday! interspersed with cute pictures of Bea and Tala.
Hi, Nora. Hope the trip is going well. Is Libby all right?
“What’s this about?” I hold my phone out, and she leans forward to read, her lips tightening to a purse.
“Tell him I’ll call him later.”
“Yes, ma’am, and which calls do you want forwarded to your office?”
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t want to go upstairs and get my phone right now. The world won’t end if Brendan doesn’t hear from me every twenty-five minutes.”
The impatience in her voice catches me off guard. I’ve seen her and Brendan argue before, and it’s basically like watching two people swing feathers in each other’s general direction. This is real irritation.
Are they fighting? About the apartment, or the trip, maybe?
Or is this trip happening because they’re fighting?
The thought instantly nauseates me. I try to put it out of my head—Libby and Brendan are obsessed with each other. I might’ve missed some things over the last few months, but I would’ve noticed something like that.
Besides, she’s been calling him every day.
Except you’ve never seen her call him. I’ve just assumed that somewhere, in those nine hours we’re apart each afternoon, she’s been talking to him.
A cold sweat breaks along the back of my neck. My throat twists and tightens, but Libby doesn’t seem to notice. She’s smiling coolly as she hauls herself out of her Adirondack chair.
You’re overthinking this. She just left her phone upstairs.