Page 49 of Feels Like Home

Stop being mean and let some things go? Great.

Take a rag and wipe his slate completely clean? Never gonna happen.

As we walk into the farmers’ market, I wish I could erase all the feelings that make this so hard. And the fear that not holding onto this grudge against Noble is going to open me up to other feelings I’ve been beating back with a pitchfork.

I blow out a breath and shake it off. Stop overthinking, Hattie.

Heads turn as we stroll into the main aisle of the market. Booths surround us on both sides, and people mill about, and while not everyone knows the guy to my right, there are enough who do that it’s causing a bit of a stir.

Protectiveness rises up inside me again, and I remember what Noble said. He can handle himself.

I smile at folks I recognize, while Noble, hands in pockets, falls into step beside me. I get the impression people are either curious or shocked or both. I also get the impression he hates the attention. I’m sure it’s not what he’s used to. In other cities, he’s probably got men throwing praise and women throwing hotel keys. Here, it’s a mix of admiration and contempt.

For the first time, I consider how hard that must be to have a past you’re not proud of follow you wherever you go. And for the first time, I don’t follow that thought with an unsympathetic, “You made your bed.”

We’re passing a booth selling homegrown vegetables when Noble leans in and says, “You do realize that in about twenty minutes, everyone in this town is going to think we’re, you know . . .”

“We’re what?” I say absent-mindedly, looking over at a booth with wood-carved birds.

“Together.”

That stops me.

I face him. “I never said we were together.”

“Doesn’t matter what you said,” he says. “Only what Dale saw.”

“Yeah, well, Dale’s about as sharp as a sack of wet mice.”

He laughs. “Fair.”

I start walking then stop again. “You really think he thinks we’re . . .”

Noble raises an eyebrow and gives a little shrug.

I replay my exchange with Dale. It’s ridiculous. “Pfft. Nobody will believe that,” I say, trying to sound confident.

“You did hold my hand,” he says.

“Everyone around here knows that you—” I glance at him, then quickly look away. I don’t like this subject.

“That I . . .?”

I shrug him off and go back to walking. “Nobody is going to believe someone like you would ever date someone like me.” I say it fast, like I’m ripping off a Band-Aid, and the feeling that follows is about as pleasant as if I had.

“Eh. You’re probably right.” He falls into step beside me. “You’re pretty far out of my league.”

I freeze, then look at him, eyes wide, incredulous. “Oh my gosh. Is that a line? Are you working me?”

He laughs. “No!”

I’m sure my face says I don’t believe him.

His hands go up in front of him. “I swear. That’s just the truth. Everyone around here, heck, even every member of your family, knows you’re too good for me, Hattie.”

“Oh, whatever,” I roll my eyes. “You make it sound like I’m some great catch.”

“I mean . . .” he shrugs as if that’s true. “You’re like the Silverwood Sweetheart, and I’m—the screwed-up cowboy.”