Page 95

She looks at the bouquet.

Then at my jacket.

Then back at my face.

Her smile widens.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

She knows.

Of course she knows.

I asked her yesterday whether Autumn preferred platinum or white gold.

Apparently, that was enough information for Clara to assemble an entire wedding in her head.

“Autumn,” Clara says brightly, “why don’t you take a break? I’ll watch the booth.”

Autumn frowns.

“We’re busy.”

“I’ve got it.”

“But the cinnamon rolls…”

“Will survive five minutes without you.”

Clara gives me a pointed look.

I owe this woman a drink.

Possibly several.

Autumn sets the flowers on the counter and wipes her hands on her apron.

“Okay. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

She narrows her eyes.

“Grayson Blackwood.”

“Autumn Hayes.”

“You’re acting weird.”

“I’m always weird.”

“Weirder.”

“That’s fair.”

I take her hand.

“Come here.”