Mama finishes up with Birdie, and they chat as they head to the counter at the front. I think I’m safe until Birdie stops at my chair. In her late fifties, she’s as gossipy now as she was when I was in school and she was the secretary. “Elena, you’re looking well.”

She’s lying. Between rehearsals with Jack and being ramped up about my meeting with Marcus and the lingerie company, I have dark circles under my eyes, and my face is decidedly pale. I murmur a thank-you and return the favor. I can dish out the southern sweetness like everyone else.

“How’s that play going? Ms. Clark can’t stop talking about how fun it is, although I do think she wishes she’d auditioned for the role of Juliet. She is younger than you and would have been perfect.” She grins. “I think she has quite the crush on that handsome quarterback. They’d make an adorable couple.”

I meet her gaze in the mirror, and I don’t know where the words come from except that Ms. Clark is a sore spot with me, even though Jack hasn’t shown any interest. She’d probably sign that NDA in a heartbeat. And dammit, she is younger than me, but I’m Juliet!

“He has a girlfriend, I’m afraid. He talks about her constantly.”

Birdie leans in. “Really? Who?”

I feel Aunt Clara’s muffled laughter behind me.

“A girl he met on Valentine’s Day. Maybe you saw the picture of them—pretty sure it was on one of those gossipy TV shows Topher watches. He’s really smitten. Maybe you should tell her so she doesn’t fawn all over him at practice.”

“Huh. Fawn, you say? I’ll have to tell her you said that.” She sniffs, arms crossed.

Well.

Shit.

How could I forget that Ms. Clark is her freaking niece?

In for a penny . . .

“Do that. Pass it along. Hate for her to be let down or embarrass herself.”

She huffs and marches off.

“You done and did it now. You let your temper out. She’ll tell her exactly what you said, probably embellish it.”

I blow at my hair. “Dammit.”

“Stop your cursing, Elena Michelle.” Mama appears next to me, giving me the once-over. “Nana’s clothes look good on you. Now, where are you going?”

“Nashville.”

“And?”

“Just a meeting for public librarians.” I hate lying—I do so much—and I shouldn’t even have come in, but I wanted my hair to be smart and savvy. Should have just done it myself.

She nods, seeming to accept that. “Saw Patrick having lunch with Laura at the diner yesterday. Looks like you’ve got some competition, dear. Maybe you should call him.”

“He’s not interested, Mama. I think it was the pink shoes at church.” I smile.

She harrumphs. “I knew it. You scared him off on purpose. But he is in that play with you. Just flirt a little—but not too much. You know, compliment his shirt or quote some verses—”

“Mama! I don’t even know any verses off the top of my head, and Laura is perfect for him. You should see them at rehearsals. They laugh and play with Timmy. They make a cute couple. Let it go.”

“Is she all over him? I knew it. That girl has always been pretty, and I know her husband dying was just awful—bless his heart—but I really thought Patrick liked you.”

“Mama, Laura is not a flirt. She’s one of the sweetest people I know.”

She sighs. “But Giselle is getting married, and now the engagement party is at your house—”

“Thanks to you.”

“And I just want you to be happy.”

“I am ecstatic.”

“And I know when you’re depressed. You get those bags under your eyes—”

“My eyes are fine—”

“And you get all secretive. Are you dating that football player? He’s practically a Yankee.”

“Ohio is the Midwest, Mama. He grew up in a small town. Definitely not a Yankee.”

“That’s worse. He’s a hayseed.”

“Mama! We live in Daisy. You can’t get much more rural than this.”

“And I read about all those women he dates.”

I sigh. “Don’t read stuff on the internet.”

“You didn’t answer me. Are you the girl he met on Valentine’s Day, the one you told Birdie about? Wasn’t that the date with the weatherman—or was it him?”

Dammit. She’s so close to the truth. Has Giselle or Preston told her?

I smile. “Mama, all this talking has made me parched. Can you grab me a Sun Drop?”

She huffs and turns to grab one of the sodas out of the old fridge behind her. She hands it over, and I twist the top off and suck it down. “Those things aren’t good for you. Too much sugar.”

“Hmm.” I figure as long as I’m drinking, I can’t answer her.

I’m saved by the mailman. Scotty waltzes in, wearing his smart blue-and-white uniform, a wad of packages and letters in his hands as he strides to the front, eyes all over Aunt Clara.

I bite back my grin as everyone in the place stills. He is a good-looking man, single, and owns a small farm on the outskirts of town. With sandy hair, hazel eyes, and an engaging grin, he’s muscular and fit too.

He’s one of Daisy’s most eligible bachelors, except he’s in love with my aunt.

“Mail,” he calls, and I’m glad Aunt Clara’s done with my hair because she practically sprints over to him. I take in the way she laughs up at him, the way his eyes heat as he stares down at her. Sadness tugs at me, and I chew on my lips. I want that. I want a man to gaze at me as if I hung the moon, as if one moment away from me is too much, as if he doesn’t ever want to walk away, as if he doesn’t need a piece of paper before trusting me . . .

“Scotty! What do you have for us today?” Aunt Clara smiles brightly up at him.

He blushes. “Oh, just some hair stuff. Want me to put the boxes in the back?”

Mama whispers, “That man is smitten.”

I start, wondering how much she really knows about the late-night visits and sexy times Aunt Clara tells me about. Not much, I bet. She wouldn’t approve.

Mama frowns at them as Aunt Clara leads the way to the storage room where they keep the hair products. I notice she shuts the door just enough that we can’t see them. Secret kissing, I bet.

I break the silence, hoping to divert Mama’s attention. “Mama, stop worrying about me, okay? I’m fine.”

She looks back at me, running her eyes over my hair, touching some of it. She smiles wistfully. “You can’t tell a mother that, dear. We always worry. You go have your meeting, and I’ll see you at Sunday lunch this week.”

I stand and take in my hair. Pretty. Soft. Not too uptight. I straighten my suit and look at Mama. I pull out a couple of twenties and leave them on Aunt Clara’s counter. She’ll try to give them back, but I always pay. I head to the door, and Mama follows me. She takes my arm before I can leave. “Elena, I’m sorry about suggesting your house for the engagement party. It just slipped out before I thought about it. That house stands for us and our family, you know, and I guess that’s just what I was thinking.”

I give her a hug. “It’s fine, Mama.”

She nods, her eyes searching mine. “Good. I thought as much, but sometimes you’re hard to read. You hide stuff from me.”

Because she expects me to be the perfect little southern girl.

To follow along with what her idea of me should be.

I open the door and look back at her. “Don’t you dare invite Patrick to lunch again. Or I swear I’ll wear my tart costume from Halloween.”

I grin and shut the door before she can reply.

I come out of the meeting with Marcus onto the busy sidewalk in downtown Nashville. It’s nearly dark, and a soft rain has started, and of course, I have no umbrella.

My phone rings. Topher.

“How was it?” he asks.

“Good news: they loved my designs and would love for me to be part of their team. Bad news: still not a real job offer. They want an intern. A twenty-six-year-old gofer—without benefits. It’s crazy.” I hold the phone to my ear and walk briskly in the cold air, heading toward my car I parked about a block away.

“Well, the library is a drama zone. You just missed two toddlers scuffling over a dinosaur book. Slaps were exchanged. I thought two mamas were gonna come to blows over who started what. I just now got those two settled down, and a hundred more are begging for books. I just wanted to call and check in on you. I should have come with you.”

“Somebody needs to run the library. I should hire a part-timer.”

“Elle, you sound down.” I hear little voices coming through the phone. I picture him at the library, toddlers pulling on his Red Hot Chili Peppers shirt. “Don’t be. You’re going to figure it out.”

I sigh. “I wish I could go back in time and tell myself to get a degree in fashion.”

“You were born with that talent, Elle. Somebody is going to sit up and notice. Plus, you have the blog and the Instagram account—”

I snort. “Romeo has more followers on IG than I have.”

“Well, maybe put some lingerie on him. Jammies for Hammies.”

I laugh. “I love you.”

I come to a stop outside a small quaint bakery. My stomach howls as the scent of sugar and melted butter wafts from the door as someone exits.

“You got quiet on me,” Topher says. “Did you go in one of those fancy boutiques, the ones with the custom cowboy boots and leather jackets? I love those.” He lets out a wistful sigh.

“No, better.”