Chapter 28

twenty-eight

ELLA

I’m nervous.

After a whole afternoon with Luke at the farm, I’m overloaded. We played like we were all kids again. His siblings joined in rounds, eager to hold on to a little nostalgia as well.

We tried to see who could get the highest on the swings. Sam won, but I still attest that it’s his long legs. In the massive silo, we took turns making “snow” angels in the corn. Lucy’s was the most creative with a fairy flower crown she made at one of the craft stations.

At one point, all ten of us occupied a picnic table and held our own pie-eating contest with slices of fresh apple pie. Surprisingly, Holly won that one. I only managed half my slice, but that’s because we’d already eaten our way around the farm. I stuffed myself on elote in a cup from one of the food trucks.

We walked around and spitballed ideas for Holly’s wedding between. It’s shaping up to be a quaint little wedding, with a fairy woodland vibe thanks to the mature trees at the edge of the pond. I can see it in my mind, soft and romantic.

Nothing felt fake about today. It was like I slipped right back into my place in the Jackson family, like that’s where I’ve always belonged. Luke’s concerns about Lucy were unfounded—at least for today—because we acted like old friends. Old friends that stare at each other a little too long and sneak small touches.

I swipe wine-colored lipstick on, having to stop several times thanks to the shake in my hands. It’s just another event, in a place I’ve lived two-thirds of my life, around some of the same people, doing the things they do year after year.

But it feels like more.

The last Midnight in the Hollow was sort of like I was living in a fairytale of my making. The ending wasn’t stellar, but it feels a little like I’m getting a re-do. Maybe that’s why the pressure feels high. Like tonight is a turning point of some sort.

It’s irrelevant that Luke and I have rules. The lines blur within minutes of being around each other. I don’t understand how it feels instinctual to turn to Luke, or how his presence feels like a warm blanket. It always has.

I just need to try harder to go against those instincts before we find ourselves in quicksand. If one of us can keep one foot on solid ground, we might make it through the next couple of weeks in one piece.

“You are not Buttercup. He is not Westley. Stop it,” I tell my reflection.

The problem is, I know better. I have a feeling that Luke would throw himself down a hill or into quicksand for me. I’ve already done it for him.

Maybe that’s why the last day and a half has felt like a runaway train. The moment I went with Charlotte, my engine shifted into a new gear and our tracks converged. We’ve been in two different places this whole time and now we’re heading full steam toward one another.

I slip out my door and head down the hallway. Luke didn’t mention where to meet, only that he wanted to take me to the community center himself.

When I reach the stop of the stairs, my heart is unprepared for him waiting at the bottom.

This version isn’t decked out in flannel and backward baseball caps. He’s wearing a sport coat over a pearl snap button-down; something I didn’t even know he owned. For whatever reason, I somehow imagined his closet full of flannels and jeans, and I’m pleasantly surprised to discover I’m wrong.

His eyes lock on mine as I make my way down the stairs, erasing the world and plopping me directly into a much dreamed after movie moment.

Grumpy farmers are so underrated.

I stop on the bottom step. With my heels on, we’re almost eye level with each other. It feels like a cheat code to the details of his face, the lines around his eyes. I didn’t pay enough attention yesterday, and now that I’m more settled, I want to take it all in.

His beard is more neat than it was on the farm. A mental of image of this big, burly man taking the time to groom his facial hair before showing up here makes my heart trip. His mouth curls into a smile.

“Hey,” he mumbles, pulling his hat off with one hand.

My heart trips around a little more, even though the gesture is pretty standard for men around here. But because it’s Luke, I can’t help the way it makes me feel.

Chivalry is not dead, folks. And it’s amazing.

“Hey yourself.”

“You look—” His face breaks into a sheepish grin and he rubs idly above his eyebrow. A nervous tell. I’m making him nervous. Me.

The gesture is a little comical since both hands are full.

“I look like a princess,” I say, dipping into a mock curtsy. The gown was in the wardrobe in my room and I couldn’t pass it up. I’ve got no self-control when it comes to shiny things and swishy skirts.

“Mission accomplished.” He nods and somehow the look on his face and lack of words conveys everything I wish he would say.

He tips a bouquet toward me, flowers full of deep jewel tones with russet colored roses tucked in.

“You got me flowers?”

“You love flowers.” His blue eyes flit to mine, emotions swimming in them.

“It’s a bit of a cheat when your sister grows fields of them.” I bite my lip, trying desperately to hide how much this actually means to me.

“Is it still a cheat if I arranged them myself?”

It is most definitely not a cheat. And I can’t hardly handle how sweet it is. An image of Luke agonizing over flowers and arranging them replaces the one of him getting ready.

I curl my fingers around the tissue paper, my breath catching in my throat when our skin touches. There’s always a zing. His hand on my back, pinky to pinky, full-on hand holding—it doesn’t matter. My body reacts to him like a Mento mixed with Pepsi; my nerve endings erupt like they’ve never been active before that moment.

I study his face for any sign he feels it, too. His thumb grazes my skin where our hands overlap, and a shiver races up my spine.

Is this for show? Part of the act? I can’t tell if he’s doing this because he wants to or because it adds authenticity to our fake relationship. My gut says it’s just Luke being Luke, but I don’t know if I can trust it.

I’ve longed for someone to look at me the way he’s looking at me now for so long it almost feels like I created this scenario. Logically, I know I’ve got no control over what Luke does or doesn’t do. There’s no one pulling his strings.

“They’re absolutely perfect.” He’s so close I could tip forward and taste his lips if I wanted to. But do I want to?

“You’re welcome.” His words are barely a rough whisper.

This moment solidifies that no matter how much I protest, nothing I feel about Luke Jackson is fake. Everything I felt for him when I was a kid was a fire, easily contained in a metal ring. Now it’s like a grass fire, spreading and jumping as quick as the embers can fly.

It’s dangerous. Which is why I need to be careful.

Charlotte would use him to absolutely destroy me.