It’s a little after seven in the evening, and Tilly heads my way while taking off her apron.
“Take it off, Bowie Binx.” She motions to my apron as well. “Tonight’s the kickoff of the fall festival.”
“What’s the fall festival?”
“Every year, on the first day of autumn, all of Starry Falls heads to the Abernathy Farm and knocks back spiked hot apple cider while taking a roll in the hay.”
“Why do I get the feeling the truth is a little more G-rated than that?”
Thea waddles by with an enormous tray of dirty dishes.
“Because it is!” Thea shouts on her way to the kitchen. “And if the two of you go, get me one of those honey apple fritters. They’re to die for. I won’t be able to go until Saturday.”
“Will do,” I say, taking off my apron and grabbing my purse. “Come on, Tilly.” I thread my arm through hers. “Take me to your fritter.”
The Abernathy Farm is located southeast of the famed waterfalls themselves. And as soon as we get out of Tilly’s car, we’re treated to miles of oaks and maples with their leaves in every fiery hue as they pay homage to the season. The air is crisp and scented with sugary fresh baked goods, and there are throngs of people roaming an expanse of the farm with its craft booths and food tents.
But the most majestic sight of all is the white rush of water that flows freely down the mountainside to the left. There is nothing grander, purer, and more heavenly than the twin falls this town holds near and dear in its very own moniker.
Tilly drove to her place first and did a quick change into a pair of jeans so tight it took both Jessie and me to help button them up. She also donned a pair of chocolate brown boots that hit just below her knee and a low-cut orange sweater. Normally, I wouldn’t be so attentive to Tilly’s wardrobe choices, but it just so happens that fall fashion has always been my favorite.
“I miss this,” I say as we make our way through the crowds. “I miss boots and holey jeans—that I paid a mint for—flannels, cable knit sweaters, my lambskin leather jacket that fits as if an Italian tailor made it just for me, and my collection of Hermes scarves.”
“What’s a Hermie?” She elbows me before I can answer and points to a tent on the left where a sign reads, welcome local authors. “Well, look who’s here!”
We thread our way through the thicket of people and spot S.J. Wexler himself seated at the most popular table by far. A line of about sixteen people deep snakes all the way to the churro stand next door.
“Let’s get a churro, Tilly. And by the time we finish our treats, we can say hi to Shep.”
“No can do,” she says while fiddling around with her phone. “Jackson just texted and he’s here somewhere with friends. I’ve got to find that boy. My lips have been missing him something fierce all day.”
“He’s here with friends? Which friends?” Considering the fact Jackson’s friends are all suspects at this point, I’m pretty interested in finding that boy myself. “Wait—hold the phone.” I’m being literal as I pluck the phone right out of her hand. “Did you just say your lips have been missing him all day? As in they’ve become intimately acquainted?”
“More intimately than you’ll ever know, Bowie Binx.” Tilly ticks her head to the side as a wicked grin takes over. “That vision of yours was a good luck charm. We hit his place that night and then we hit all the bases.”
“Hang onto the details,” I’m quick to tell her. “I’ve been in a bit of a dry spell ever since I rolled into town, and I’d hate to get hot to trot with no one to blow any of that steam off with.”
Tilly’s phone buzzes and she examines the text.
“Sophia’s the friend.” She wags the phone in my face and I can see the text from Jackson. “And I’m calling your bluff. You’ve got one hot author to blow some sexy steam off with.” She hitches her head toward the tent. “Go get yourself a churro and then get yourself a man. Sexy Wexy is ripe for the picking. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He hasn’t looked at a girl that way since—” She squints out at the tangerine sky as evening gives way to a star-filled night.
“Since Regina?” My stomach cinches at the thought of Shep’s stunning yet annoying ex. “Since Nora?” He was engaged to the woman. Surely he gave her a noteworthy glance or two.
“Nope to both. I guess there’s just you.” Her phone buzzes again, and she gives a little squeal. “Jackson’s near the tractor pull. I can smell a roll in the hay less than two minutes away.” She leans in. “Mud is running the cider press. Slip him a bill or two and he’ll deliver it more spiked than spiced. And don’t forget to take a bite out of that shepherd pie! It’s long overdue.” Her voice trails as she saunters into the crowd.
I make my way over to the churro stand, pick up two, and eat them both while waiting in line for Shep’s latest book. No sooner do I get to the front of the line than I spot a familiar, crafty yet sultry brunette.
“Regina?” For reasons unbeknownst to me, I choose to address the vampy vixen by his side rather than the author himself. Her hair is wild, her makeup accentuated with glittery eye shadow, and she’s wearing a skintight red dress that’s more lady of the night than it is night out at the pumpkin patch.
“Bowie.” Her glossy red lips expand with delight. “I’m Shepherd’s table helper for the night.”
“Hello, Bowie,” Shep says as my attention shifts his way.
He’s donned a tweed jacket, tan shirt, and navy tie. His thick hair
