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"For the—" She clapped her hand over her mouth. "Oh no. You really don't know, do you?"

I felt like I was going to be sick. "The town thinks Lincoln is proposing to me?"

"Well, not just the town. Also the neighboring magical communities. And possibly some of the forest creatures. Joanna may have taught a chorus of bluejays the Wedding March."

I stared at Marigold, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. The room spun slightly.

"Bluejays? Singing the Wedding March?"

"They're actually quite good. Joanna has perfect pitch."

I sank into the nearest chair, the vintage floral cushion exhaling beneath my weight. "This is a disaster."

"Is it?" Marigold perched on the arm of the chair. "Lincoln is wonderful. You're wonderful. Wonderful people should get married and make wonderful babies with sarcastic expressions and publishing empires."

"We've been dating for three months! Nobody gets engaged after three months!"

"My cousin Gertrude got engaged after two weeks. Of course, he turned out to be a toad. Literally. But that's beside the point."

I pushed myself up. "I need to fix this before Lincoln finds out the entire town is planning our wedding."

I spent the next two hours zigzagging through Assjacket like a woman possessed. My first stop was DeeDee's Diner, where I found half the coven's elders having their morning coffee.

"I am not getting engaged," I announced to the table.

Ethel Higginbottom patted my hand. "Of course not, dear. It's a surprise."

"No, I mean Lincoln and I are not at that stage."

"Keeping it private. Very tasteful." Walter nodded approvingly. "My third wife was the same way. Denied our engagement right up until the ceremony."

At the grocery store, I cornered the produce manager. "Just so you know, any rumors about engagement cakes are premature."

He winked. "The heart-shaped watermelons are already on order. Carved with your initials."

By noon, I'd spoken to seventeen people, each conversation more mortifying than the last. The librarian offered her collection of bridal magazines.

The hardware store owner mentioned he'd set aside his best doorknobs for our "new home.

" Even the mailman handed me a catalog for honeymoon destinations with "magical accommodations. "

Desperate for sanctuary, I fled to the library and hid in the Obscure Medieval Texts section where no one ever ventured. I slumped against the shelves, letting my head fall back against a tome about plague remedies.

"Found you." Zelda appeared at the end of the aisle, her auburn curls bouncing as she approached. "Word on the street is you're having a complete meltdown about your non-existent engagement."

"Everyone's lost their minds! I can't convince them it's not happening."

Zelda slid down beside me. "That's because you're going about it all wrong. The more you deny it, the more they think you're being coy."

"What am I supposed to do? Let them plan a wedding that's never going to happen?"

"First, you don't know it's never going to happen."

I shot her a look.

"Fine. But have you considered what your frantic denials sound like? Like you're horrified by the very idea of marrying Lincoln."

The realization hit me like a bucket of ice water.

Zelda's words hung in the air between us. I slumped further against the bookshelves, the reality of my actions hitting me like a freight train.

"Oh Goddess. I've been running around town like a lunatic, basically screaming 'I don't want to marry Lincoln' at everyone."

"Pretty much." Zelda patted my knee. "For what it's worth, nobody thinks you're actually opposed to the idea. They just think you're being modest or trying to preserve the surprise."

"There is no surprise!" I whispered fiercely, then caught myself. "See? I'm doing it again."

My phone buzzed. Lincoln's name flashed on the screen.

"Speaking of your non-fiancé..." Zelda stood up, brushing dust from her skirt. "I'll leave you to it. Remember—less panic, more perspective."

I answered the video call, Lincoln's face filling my screen. He sat in his corner office, Manhattan skyline gleaming behind him.

"There's my favorite editor." His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. "How's Assjacket treating you?"

"Oh, you know. Small town. Big imaginations." I shifted nervously, the library's wooden chair creaking beneath me. "Actually, there's something you should know."

"That sounds ominous."

"The town thinks you're going to propose to me."

I braced for shock, concern, maybe even panic. Instead, Lincoln burst into laughter.

"It's not funny!" I hissed, glancing around the empty library. "DeeDee's planning an engagement brunch. Marigold's training bluejays to sing the Wedding March. There's talk of heart-shaped watermelons!"

Lincoln wiped his eyes, still chuckling. "I'm sorry. It's just—your face. You look like someone told you they're replacing all your books with celebrity cookbooks."

"This is serious. What if your grandpops hears about it? Or worse—the publishing board?"

"Chloe." His voice softened. "It's just small-town gossip. It'll blow over."

He paused, his expression shifting to something more contemplative. "Hypothetically speaking, though... if I were to propose, what would you say?"

My heart stuttered. "I—that's not—we've only been dating three months!"

"I didn't ask about our timeline. I asked what you'd say."

I opened and closed my mouth, words failing me entirely. The question hung between us, pixelated but perfectly clear.

"I'm not planning to propose via courier, if that's what you're worried about," he said finally, his tone gentle. "When—if—that happens, I promise it won't involve trained bluejays or heart-shaped produce."

"Good to know," I managed, my voice barely audible.

"I should go. Board meeting in five." He hesitated. "We'll talk more when I visit next weekend?"

I nodded, and the call ended, leaving me alone with the dusty books and the question neither of us had truly answered.

I trudged home from the library with my mind spinning faster than Frosty during his morning tai chi routine. Lincoln's hypothetical question echoed in my brain like an annoying pop song. What would I say?

The cottage was dark when I arrived, which was unusual. Frosty typically left at least one lamp on, claiming it "deterred nefarious night-prowling predators with malicious intent toward poultry." His words, not mine.

"Frosty?" I called, flipping on lights as I moved through the living room.

A soft clatter from the kitchen answered me. I found him perched on his special stool at the counter, wearing tiny reading glasses and thumbing through a cookbook larger than his entire body.

"You're up late," he noted without looking up. "I'm experimenting with midnight snack options. How do you feel about caramelized pear and brie paninis?"

"I feel like normal people—and roosters—should be asleep at this hour."

"We established long ago that neither of us qualifies as normal." He finally looked up, his beady eyes narrowing. "Your aura's all wonky. More than usual."

I slumped onto a kitchen chair. "Lincoln asked what I'd say if he proposed."

Frosty's feathers puffed up in alarm. "Holy mother of egg layers! What did you say?"

"Nothing. I panicked and changed the subject." I buried my face in my hands. "And the worst part is, I think... I think I might have said yes."

"And that's bad because...?"

"Because it's ridiculous! We've been dating three months. We live in different states. His life is in New York with publishing empires and fancy apartments and board meetings. Mine is here with... well, you."

"I'm a delight," Frosty said defensively.

"You know what I mean." I grabbed a cookie from his midnight baking stash. "It's not logical."

Frosty snorted. "Since when has love ever been logical? If it were, we'd all save ourselves the trouble and marry our tax accountants."

"I don't even have a tax accountant."

"Not the point, Fluffybrain." He hopped down and waddled to my side. "You're not afraid it's too soon. You're afraid of being happy because you think it won't last."

The truth of his words hit me like a splash of cold water. "When did you get so insightful?"

"I've been reading Roger's psychology books when you're not looking. Also, I've known you for years." He patted my hand with his wing. "Being afraid but moving forward anyway—that's what courage is."

I stared at the cookie crumbs on the table. "I love him, Frosty. More than I've let myself admit."

"I know," he said softly. "I knew before you did."