Page 24 of The Hitman’s Final Job

“The Knot Today crochet club has volunteered.”

Vaughn stares at her. “Aren’t they all⁠—”

“Eighty,” Tess confirms. “Actually, the average age has gone down since they had a few young ones join recently.”

“And they’re judging a⁠—”

“They volunteered enthusiastically,” Tess says. “I think we can assume they’ve seen a variety of shapes and sizes over the course of their lifetimes and feel qualified to assess.”

I look at Vaughn.

Vaughn looks at me.

“I’m staying for the festival,” I say.

“The festival is in three weeks, and it lasts five days.”

“I know.”

“You’re staying for four weeks?”

“I have the time,” I say.

He stares at me for a moment with an expression I can’t fully interpret.

Tess, meanwhile, has been watching this exchange with the focused attention of someone who came for baked goods and is leaving with considerably more information than she arrived with. She studies me with a frank, assessing quality.

“So,” she says. “Who are you, exactly?”

“Old friend of Vaughn’s.”

I avoid his eyes when I say it.

He doesn’t correct me.

He doesn’t say Silas is Rowan’s best friend or he’s basically family or any of the things that would be accurate and natural and what I expected. He just lets it sit there.

Old friend of Vaughn’s.

Tess nods slowly. “Well,” she says, “welcome to Pine Ridge.” She collects her empty canvas bags. “I’ll tell you the same thing I tell everyone who comes here. The town has a way of grabbing the good ones and making them stay.”

“I’m not sure I’m one of the good ones.” It comes out more honest than I intend.

Tess stops folding her bags and looks at me directly, taking in my full measure, quick and thorough and without particular judgment, in about two seconds.

“Nah,” she says. “You’re definitely good people. I can tell these things.”

She picks up her bags, says something about Clayton and the harvest schedule to Vaughn, presses another kiss to his cheek, and lets herself out.

The front door closes, and it’s just Vaughn and me again.

The kitchen is quiet.

I feast my eyes on the loaves and cakes arranged on the counter, at the herbs, at the worn patch on the corner of the kitchen table.

“Hungry?” Vaughn asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m hungry.”