"See?" I glare at Lyla.
“This was not a regular dance partner, Laurel. Lark was basically drooling over him.”
“What? I was not?—”
"The blacksmith," Lyla says, and pops a piece of pastry in her mouth.
Laurel raises her eyebrows, pauses mid-sip.
"Real big guy," Lyla says helpfully. "Black hat. Beard. Arms like tree trunks."
"Oh." Laurel sets her mug down. "I saw that guy. The thick grumpy-looking one?"
“He’s notthatgrumpy."
"Lark, he’s extremely grumpy,” Laurel replies. “I walked past him and said hello yesterday and he didn’t even look up."
"He's reserved.”
"He was probably just distracted,” Lyla offers, suspiciously.
"He'senormous," Laurel adds.
“I’m used to big,” I say, waving them off. “You know all my brothers are big dudes. I mean, Lance is six-six.”
But now they’re both staring at me as if I’m babbling on about nothing.
Lyla leans over to Laurel. "She's doing the hair thing."
“What hair thing?" Laurel asks.
"You know, where she does this." And Lyla tips her head and pushes her hair back over her shoulder slowly…and to my horror, it’s an exact imitation of me.
"I don't do that," I pout.
"Yeah, you do," they both say in unison, then crack up.
I turn away and eat my cinnamon roll and consider, seriously, finding new friends.
Somewhere far off a hawk screams, but the icing on my roll is still warm and it melts the anger away.
The sun is coming up over the oaks and I’m going to eat a big breakfast, then go on a wildflower hike. I’ll sit by the pool and read a romance novel and watch Laurel do her crossword puzzle, and sip a strong drink.
I’m not going to spend the whole day wondering whether a certain blacksmith will show up to a hayride.
I stand in front of the little mirror above the dresser and turn sideways.
Jeans…boots…and a soft cream tank.
My hair is down. My hat is in my hand. I have a bit of shimmery gloss on my lips and a coat of mascara. I think I look pretty damn good for thirty-four.
"You look hot," Laurel calls from the porch.
"Thank you," I yell back.
"He's going to lose his mind," Lyla says from the bed, where she’s lying spread-eagled with a can of La Croix in her hand.
"Oh, stop it. I don’t even know if he’s going to be there."