job.”
“Lucy’s the biggest reader in the group. It takes her a while to get through a book, but she has this uncanny ability to pick up something surprising in a story, to sum up a theme or insight in such a clear way you wonder why you didn’t see it yourself.”
“You like her.”
“A lot. So you wanted to talk about the festival?”
He’d come to tell her he wasn’t sure he was up for it anymore, that it was too hard knowing William Baylor wasn’t the only one in this town just waiting for him to fail.
But Autumn’s commitment to others, and her expectant expression as she watched him, suddenly made him very much want to succeed.
“I thought maybe we should start by going over Georgie’s notes, then making a to-do list.”
She grinned. “A to-do list. You might just be a man after my own heart, Blake Hunziker.”
Okay, so he wouldn’t quit.
Why would Dylan Porter come back?
Autumn covered the distance to the inn, cold poking through the thin fabric of her gray sweater boots and frosting her toes. Black leggings and a jean skirt hadn’t been the most practical outfit for cleaning out the spare bedroom, but she’d planned to head in to work at lunch.
Hadn’t planned on the call from Harry, though, letting her know Dylan and his fiancée were waiting for her at the front desk.
The belled wreath on the inn’s back door—the only Christmas decoration they’d put up so far—jingled when she entered. At the sound, Betsy turned from the stove, the smell of her signature mushroom soup wafting. “Why’s he here?”
Autumn’s appetite niggled. “No idea. Harry didn’t say. Maybe he changed his mind about the reception.” Or rather, changed Mariah’s mind.
“I mean Blake. I saw him walk past the back window to your place.”
Autumn stopped short. “Came to talk festival business.” Except that they hadn’t. They’d packed books to the tune of their own banter after Lucy and Philip left. He’d called her a book nerd. She’d called him a show-off for seeing how many books he could carry at once.
And all the while, she hadn’t been able to clear her mind of the way he’d looked at her when Lucy stopped in—warm and admiring. It’d been enough to turn her common sense to mush for a minute. Or sixty. Wow, had an hour really gone by while they worked?
“You left him at your house?” Betsy swirled a spoon through the oversized pot on the stove.
“He’s boxing up my books to make room for Lucy.”
At that, Betsy’s fingers uncurled from around the ladle and she turned. “What you’re doing for Lucy . . . we’re beyond grateful.”
Autumn moved to Betsy’s side. “You know I’d do anything to help you guys—and I adore Lucy.” She looked down, nudged a crumb on the laminate floor under the stove. “Well, duty calls.” Lord, help me.
She left the kitchen but halfway through the dining room slowed her steps. She reached down to pull up the fabric of her boots, then gulped in as much resolve as she could muster and passed into the lobby.
“Dylan, hello. What brings you by?” Yikes, too much perk. Tone it down.
“Morning, Autumn.” He stepped aside to reveal the woman who was clearly his fiancée. Pixie-cut hair, striped scarf, rosy cheeks. At 5'8" Autumn had at least four inches on her and probably five times that in pounds.
Suddenly she felt like a Raggedy Ann doll next to . . . Barbie. Which was way too ironic considering Dylan . . .
“Autumn, this is my fiancée, Mariah Bates.”
They shook hands, Mariah’s once-over swift, her “nice to meet you” stilted and uncertain. Clearly, the woman wasn’t excited to be there. And yet, as her gaze moved around the lobby and over the ornate open staircase winding toward the second floor, veiled appreciation played over her face.
Even in its weathered state, the inn still breathed with stately charm. A surprising shoot of pride flickered through Autumn. “What can I do for you?”
Dylan cleared his
“Lucy’s the biggest reader in the group. It takes her a while to get through a book, but she has this uncanny ability to pick up something surprising in a story, to sum up a theme or insight in such a clear way you wonder why you didn’t see it yourself.”
“You like her.”
“A lot. So you wanted to talk about the festival?”
He’d come to tell her he wasn’t sure he was up for it anymore, that it was too hard knowing William Baylor wasn’t the only one in this town just waiting for him to fail.
But Autumn’s commitment to others, and her expectant expression as she watched him, suddenly made him very much want to succeed.
“I thought maybe we should start by going over Georgie’s notes, then making a to-do list.”
She grinned. “A to-do list. You might just be a man after my own heart, Blake Hunziker.”
Okay, so he wouldn’t quit.
Why would Dylan Porter come back?
Autumn covered the distance to the inn, cold poking through the thin fabric of her gray sweater boots and frosting her toes. Black leggings and a jean skirt hadn’t been the most practical outfit for cleaning out the spare bedroom, but she’d planned to head in to work at lunch.
Hadn’t planned on the call from Harry, though, letting her know Dylan and his fiancée were waiting for her at the front desk.
The belled wreath on the inn’s back door—the only Christmas decoration they’d put up so far—jingled when she entered. At the sound, Betsy turned from the stove, the smell of her signature mushroom soup wafting. “Why’s he here?”
Autumn’s appetite niggled. “No idea. Harry didn’t say. Maybe he changed his mind about the reception.” Or rather, changed Mariah’s mind.
“I mean Blake. I saw him walk past the back window to your place.”
Autumn stopped short. “Came to talk festival business.” Except that they hadn’t. They’d packed books to the tune of their own banter after Lucy and Philip left. He’d called her a book nerd. She’d called him a show-off for seeing how many books he could carry at once.
And all the while, she hadn’t been able to clear her mind of the way he’d looked at her when Lucy stopped in—warm and admiring. It’d been enough to turn her common sense to mush for a minute. Or sixty. Wow, had an hour really gone by while they worked?
“You left him at your house?” Betsy swirled a spoon through the oversized pot on the stove.
“He’s boxing up my books to make room for Lucy.”
At that, Betsy’s fingers uncurled from around the ladle and she turned. “What you’re doing for Lucy . . . we’re beyond grateful.”
Autumn moved to Betsy’s side. “You know I’d do anything to help you guys—and I adore Lucy.” She looked down, nudged a crumb on the laminate floor under the stove. “Well, duty calls.” Lord, help me.
She left the kitchen but halfway through the dining room slowed her steps. She reached down to pull up the fabric of her boots, then gulped in as much resolve as she could muster and passed into the lobby.
“Dylan, hello. What brings you by?” Yikes, too much perk. Tone it down.
“Morning, Autumn.” He stepped aside to reveal the woman who was clearly his fiancée. Pixie-cut hair, striped scarf, rosy cheeks. At 5'8" Autumn had at least four inches on her and probably five times that in pounds.
Suddenly she felt like a Raggedy Ann doll next to . . . Barbie. Which was way too ironic considering Dylan . . .
“Autumn, this is my fiancée, Mariah Bates.”
They shook hands, Mariah’s once-over swift, her “nice to meet you” stilted and uncertain. Clearly, the woman wasn’t excited to be there. And yet, as her gaze moved around the lobby and over the ornate open staircase winding toward the second floor, veiled appreciation played over her face.
Even in its weathered state, the inn still breathed with stately charm. A surprising shoot of pride flickered through Autumn. “What can I do for you?”
Dylan cleared his
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