Page 43 of Rekindled Love

“I’m certified in knowing you.”

I hated how my heart did a stupid little skip at that. I turned to look out the window instead of at his face. He pulled out of the parking lot, heading down Main. For a minute, it felt normal. Just streets I knew, buildings I’d grown up passing, Christmas decorations on every pole like the town was auditioning to be a snow globe.

Then we passed the turn that led out toward my hill. I frowned and twisted toward him.

“You missed my turn.”

“Nah. I ignored it on purpose,” he said, eyes still on the road.

My stomach dipped. “Jabali. I told you I have work.”

“And I told you your productivity window is closed. You on break.”

“Take me home,” I said, trying to make my voice firm instead of curious.

“In a minute. Could you just trust me?” he asked.

I stared at him. “That’s a stupid question.”

He winced like I’d actually slapped him. “Fair. Let me rephrase. Will you give me forty-five minutes before you go back to the hill to overthink your whole life?”

I folded my arms. “Why?”

“Because every time I see you, you either mad at me, dodging me, or hiding behind a big-ass gate.” His voice was quiet. “You came off the hill. Let me show you that this town ain’t all torches and pitchforks. Some of it is funnel cake.”

I blinked. “Funnel cake?”Intriguing.

“Funnel cake,” he said, like that answered everything.

I tried not to smile. “If this is some elaborate plan to feed me then drag me to a prayer circle about the Christmas lights?—”

“I ain’t bringing you to no prayer circle. The last time somebody invited you to a prayer circle, you almost fought a deacon.”

“He started it,” I pointed out.

“I didn’t say you was wrong,” he agreed, his lips curving up just the slightest bit.

Silence stretched, comfortable and annoying at the same time. We rolled past storefronts dressed up in wreaths and fake snow. Bits of Christmas songs drifted into the truck’s cab at redlights. People were out walking the sidewalks, little kids darting all around them. Only in the country.

“So where are we going?” I asked.

He tapped his thumb against the steering wheel. “You’ll see.”

“I don’t like surprises,” I reminded him.

“You liked me.”

I snorted. “That was a lapse in judgment.”

“A long lapse. Ten years and counting.”

“I’on like you now!”

But I turned back to the window again, so he wouldn’t see my smile.

We crossed the main intersection instead of turning. Up ahead, the glow of lights got brighter and brighter, warm and golden against the gray afternoon. We were at Freedom’s Field on the edge of town. It was wrapped in garland and bows. Strings of lights crisscrossed inside, outlining little wooden booths, a big tent, a stage, and a giant inflatable Santa, his brown cheeks colored rosy as he smiled.

A banner fluttered over the entrance:Emancipation Christmas Village Opening Week.