SHELF LIFE

CHAPTER FIVE

The rumor, as far as Ivy could trace it, started with Mrs. Alvarez, traveled through the post office, picked up momentum at the Thursday farmers market, and arrived back at Between the Lines by Saturday morning fully formed, wearing its Sunday best, and utterly unrecognizable from whatever thin thread of truth it had started as.

"People think we're dating," Ivy said, setting her phone down on the counter like it had personally wronged her. Del had just sent her a screenshot of the Willowbrook Community f*******: group, in which a post titled Maple Street Romance?? 👀📚 had eighty-one comments and, somehow, a poll.

"People think a lot of things," Del said serenely, from behind a bucket of ranunculus. "Last month people thought the water tower was leaking radiation because a drone flew near it. Willowbrook's news cycle runs on vibes, not facts."

"This has forty-two percent of the vote for 'definitely already together, just haven't announced it.'"

"To be fair, that math checks out. You were seen leaving his shop at nine-forty at night after the storm. Looking, and I quote someone named BevInAccounting47, 'flushed.'"

"I was flushed because I'd been carrying tote bag boxes for two hours."

"Sure," Del said, in the tone of someone who did not believe this even slightly and had no intention of pretending otherwise.

The timing, unfortunately, could not have been worse, because that evening was the Harvest Committee's kickoff mixer — an annual, mandatory-in-all-but-name gathering of every business owner on Maple Street, held this year in the community center with a cider bar and exactly the kind of small-town density that guaranteed maximum exposure to eighty-one f*******: comments made flesh.

Nash found her by the cider table within four minutes of arriving, which she chose to interpret as bad luck rather than the fact that the community center was approximately the size of a large gymnasium and there were only so many places to stand.

"So," he said, low, handing her a cup of cider she hadn't asked for but accepted anyway, "I take it you've seen the poll."

"I've seen the poll."

"I'm currently losing to 'friendly rivals, nothing more' by nine points, which honestly stings a little, professionally."

"You're taking this well."

"I've decided it's either that or leave town." He glanced around the room, where several clusters of people were very unsubtly not-looking at them while looking directly at them. "Mrs. Alvarez has made eye contact with me three times. I think she's building a case file."

"She's the head of the Neighborhood Watch. She has a case file on everyone. Mine's probably six pages by now, mostly about the store's parking situation."

"Should we tell people the truth?"

"Which is?"

He considered this for a second too long, cup halfway to his mouth, and Ivy felt the question settle somewhere it had no business settling. "That we're colleagues," he said finally, "co-hosting an event, who occasionally set each other's beverages on fire and once got trapped in a stockroom together. Very normal. Very platonic."

"Very compelling elevator pitch."

"I write marketing copy for a living. It's not my best work."

Across the room, Mayor Pruitt was climbing onto a small riser with the alarming energy of a man about to make an announcement nobody had asked for. He tapped the microphone twice, which fed back so violently that three people flinched and one dog, tied outside the propped-open door, began to bark.

"Folks!" the mayor said, beaming. "Before we get to the cider tasting, I wanted to say a quick word about our Fall Festival co-hosts, who I think we can all agree have really stepped up to bring this town together this year—"

"Oh no," Ivy said.

"—Ivy and Nash, if you could just wave, let everyone see the faces behind this wonderful collaboration—"

There was scattered, entirely too enthusiastic applause. Someone — Ivy was fairly sure it was Del, though she would deny it under oath — let out a wolf whistle sharp enough to carry across the room. Ivy raised a hand in the smallest, most restrained wave physically possible, the wave of a woman being held hostage by a microphone.

Nash, beside her, lifted his cider cup instead, which got a laugh, which was — infuriatingly — exactly the right move, the kind of easy, likable instinct that made her want to elbow him and also, somewhat concerningly, made her want to stand slightly closer to him.

"Everyone's staring," she said, through a fixed smile, once the mayor had mercifully moved on to a lengthy tangent about parking permits.

"Everyone's always staring in this town. I've been here three weeks and I already know that Mrs. Alvarez's grandson failed his driving test twice and the harvest parade committee hasn't spoken to the Rotary Club since 2019 over a dispute about hay bales."

"Welcome to Willowbrook."

"It's growing on me," he said, and there was something underneath it, some second layer she didn't have time to examine before Del materialized at her elbow with the subtlety of a woman who had clearly been waiting for an opening.

"You two," Del said, delighted, "are doing an incredible job of looking like people who are absolutely, one hundred percent not dating."

"We're not," Ivy said.

"I know. I said looking like. There's a difference, and everyone in this room can see it, including BevInAccounting47, who I believe is standing directly behind you by the pretzels."

Ivy did not turn around to check. Nash, unhelpfully, did, and had to visibly compose himself.

"I should go," Ivy said. "Before the poll updates in real time."

"Probably wise," Nash agreed. "For what it's worth — nine points isn't that bad. I've lost bigger pitches."

"Goodnight, Nash."

"Goodnight, Ivy."

She left him by the cider table, aware of exactly how many people were pretending not to watch her go, and did not look back to see whether he was still watching too — mostly because she was fairly sure, if she looked, she'd find out he was, and she wasn't ready for what she'd do with that information.