Chapter 4

Four

D ahlia

Seven pumpkin pound cakes sit before me on the gingham-covered table. I have so many feelings I don’t want to identify or name or cope with, I think I could eat every single one of these deep amber, fragrant desserts all by myself.

I find that thought especially interesting, since, in the two weeks right after Blake and I broke up, I barely ate a thing. As I was a third year transfer at college in my late twenties, living alone in an off campus apartment, I didn’t have a core group of friends looking out for me, so I was left alone to wallow. Life as an older student can be very solitary. When I got myself together, I dumped all my feelings and energy into my studies.

And now, after earning my hospitality and history degree, I’m back in my hometown, flirting with disaster all over again. I both dread and anticipate Blake coming back to help me judge the baking competition. Some of me wants to kick myself for putting myself through this, but most of me is elated that he’s promised to come back to help me.

Does he actually want to spend time with me or did I just wear him down? Or worse—did he taking pity on me? It has to be obvious how few volunteers I have for this shindig. It’s odd. City Hall is in the midst of a mass exodus of employees, which I don’t understand. I was beyond thankful for this generous job offer right out of college, but I came in with the understanding that the previous tourism director had up and quit for no apparent reason. Something weird is going on; I just know it.

I’m reminded of my lack of volunteers when Amanda Hall walks up to where I’m sitting. I smile and greet the mayor’s wife, but she doesn’t seem all that interested in pleasantries.

“I noticed you decided to do a ghost tour tonight,” she says, friendly enough at first. But just enough.

“Uhm, yes. Yes, I did. I just decided to do it this morning, to give us a little something edgy to end the festival. It’s going to be at Milton House, with a few stops along the way. You remember Esther.”

Amanda’s face changes from the painted-on smile of a middle-aged politician’s wife to something else entirely. “Yes, I do remember Esther. Poor dear. That’s so thoughtful of you to want to include that drafty old house in the festival. You’re so brave. It’s probably a good thing you don’t know the real story of that house, or you might cancel the whole thing.”

I smile at her. “Oh, I do. I went through all the archives and news articles dating back to the time the house was built. I know all about it.”

She eyes me for what feels like the world’s longest minute. “I see. Well, then I guess I was mistaken. You’ve clearly got it all figured out. Good luck to you, sweetie.”

Amanda smiles sweetly at me, but that smile doesn’t reach her eyes and it’s got a whole story behind it. She walks away and I have to fight off a full-body shiver.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I jump at the man’s voice, but for an entirely different reason. It’s relief, even though Blake means it as a corny joke.

“Very funny,” I say with a smirk.

He chuckles but plops down next to me with a serious expression. “No, I’m serious. You look spooked. What happened?”

The look on his face is all seriousness and concern. I feel a familiar warmth flood through me. Don’t get attached to that look, Dahlia Jane. Don’t you dare get attached.

“I’m fine,” I say with my usual bright smile. “I’m all good.”

I can tell right away he doesn’t believe that for a second. “Out with it. What happened?”

I fidget with the serving knife while replaying for him the whole scene with the mayor’s wife. When I’m done, Blake looks wary.

“I do not like the sound of that,” he says. “Wonder what she meant?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I’m not going to worry about it right now. Come on, let’s eat some pound cake! I’m starving.”

Blake studies my face, making me blush. “Yeah,” he says, his voice sounding oddly rough as he stares at me. “I could definitely eat something.”

Oh god. He didn’t mean anything else by that. Right?

Feeling his eyes on me as I slice off a piece of cake for him, my hands shake slightly. Not even the most objective, logical part of my brain can deny it now. He totally meant that as innuendo. He wanted to make me remember things—things even more delicious than cake. And there’s really only one thing more delicious than cake, and it’s not pumpkin pie.

Oh god.

I hand him his plate, but he doesn’t take it from me. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs up the piece of cake with his hands and shoves it into his mouth. He chews it up with the most inappropriate yum-yum noises I’ve ever heard, and then, as if that weren’t enough, licks his fingers clean. Slowly. All the while daring me to look away from him.

If his goal is to make my nipples tight and make me feel lightheaded? Mission accomplished.