Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Meadow

I pull up to Genie's house. The second I step out of the car, the door swings open, and there she is—Genie, all smiles and open arms, like she's been waiting for me all day. Yes, I'm aware it's only eight in the morning but she has the energy of a kid that's been waiting since forever for something magical to happen.

"Meadow, sweetheart!" Genie pulls me into a tight hug before I've even made it halfway up the path. "I'm so glad you're here. I've found your co-chair."

Oh great. She found me a co-chair. The joy. She should be the one to break this news to Jane, not me. Poor Jane doesn't know what's coming. She'll be stuck running the Spring or one of our town's festivals solo, but that's Genie's news to share now. Let her deal with it.

But the real question is: who's my co-chair? Before I can even ask, Genie is already dragging me inside, talking a mile a minute about the festival. The house smells like fresh bread and vanilla—so cozy, so very Genie. Her energy is like an infectious bubble of sunshine, and I find myself smiling despite the growing anxiety over whoever I'm about to be stuck working with.

"This is going to be perfect," she chirps, clapping her hands together. "And you'll just love your co-chair."

Goodie. I'm going to love my co-chair. Yeah, sure. My curiosity spikes, but before I can ask who it is, the front door opens behind me, followed by the unmistakable sound of footsteps.

I turn just in time to see McKay stroll in, and right behind her . . . oh, for fuck's sake. Raffa. My stomach drops like I just missed the last step on a staircase. Why him?

"Well, this just got interesting," I mutter under my breath, trying to tamp down the irritation bubbling up. He catches my eye for a brief second, and there it is—that permanent scowl of his. Fantastic. This day is about to go downhill fast.

"Isn't McKay co-chairing the Fall Festival with her husband?" I ask, clinging to a last shred of hope. Maybe this is all a mistake.

Genie, naturally, ignores my very valid question, clapping her hands like she's announcing the winner of a grand prize. "Perfect timing! Everyone's here." She looks so pleased with herself that my bad feeling about this doubles.

"As I was saying," she beams, "I've found the perfect co-chair for you, Meadow. My grandson, Raffa, will be helping you with all the festival prep."

Wait—what? My stomach sinks further. I'm going to be spending the next four weeks working with him? Mr. Grumpy Fucking Pants?

"Isn't he sick?" I blurt out, because seriously, there's no way I'm doing this. I'd rather pretend Jane is my co-chair and suffer through having to do it solo.

"He's not sick, just recovering," Genie says, like that's supposed to make this situation any better. "Taking things slow, which is why this is perfect for him. He needs to learn to relax. And who better to help him with that than you, Meadow? You're such a calm, creative spirit."

I glance at Raffa, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere but here. His jaw is clenched so tight I'm surprised it hasn't cracked, and his hands are shoved deep into his pockets, probably so he doesn't throw something. I can practically hear the curses grumbling under his breath. Yeah, he's thrilled about this too . . . not.

This is a disaster. Sure, he's hot—like, annoyingly hot. Fine, I'll admit it. If I saw him at a coffee shop, I wouldn't mind giving him a once-over. Maybe even twice. But co-chairing a festival with him? For four weeks? Absolutely not. No fucking way. "Does he have any experience?" I ask, desperately searching for an out.

"Nope," McKay says, flashing a smirk that's way too smug for my liking. "You're the one with all the experience. It's like when Bishop and I co-chaired. He knew what to do, and I just went along for the ride. You'll be fine."

Fine? Fine?! Sure, maybe that worked for them, but Bishop wasn't a grumpy, brooding storm cloud like this guy. Raffa looks like just being here is physically painful for him—and I doubt it's because of his heart attack. No, this guy looks like he's allergic to happiness. I highly doubt co-chairing a festival is going to be the magic cure for whatever the hell is up with him.

McKay nudges him, her grin way too playful. "You know, Raffa, you can be goal-oriented without biting people's heads off when you talk to them. Let the grumpy old man just focus on strategy."

"I am not grumpy or old, little sister," Raffa growls, glaring at her like he's about two seconds away from snapping.

Before he can say more, Genie claps her hands like she's refereeing a kids' soccer game. "Children, children! Let's not start again. McKay, stop teasing your brother. And you"—she points a finger at Raffa—"stop brooding."

I can't help it—I burst out laughing. The sight of this hulking, grumpy man being chastised like a child by his grandma is too much. And McKay's grin just grows wider, like she knows exactly how much this is getting under his skin.

Yep. Four weeks of this. I'm so screwed.