Dream On(91)

Perry’s tent is set up directly next to Zelma’s, and it sports a six-foot-tall, vertical Blooms & Baubles sign in brilliant purple and green. I can’t see Perry from where I’m standing, but several potted perennials and bins of bouquets peek out from the tent’s white flaps.

Stepping over one of the picnic table’s benches, I yank my phone out of my back pocket and sit with a huff. I glance at Frank, Andréa, and Mercedes who are already moving up in line, then back to the Blooms & Baubles tent.

Maybe I could duck in for a second to see how Perry’s doing…

No. Too risky. I’ve already had more than one close call being outed as a festival volunteer; I don’t need another. And I certainly wouldn’t earn any points if I left the table only to have it snatched up by someone else.

Jiggling my foot, I swipe open my phone. I attempt to distract myself with Instagram, but I barely see the images as I scroll. Clicking off my phone, I tap it against my palm, my eyes sliding to the Blooms & Baubles tent again.

Maybe I should text Perry…

He still hasn’t said anything about the mural. Granted, we’ve only exchanged pleasantries between frantic bouts of festival setup, but still… I wonder what he thinks about it. We also haven’t addressed our almost-kiss the other night or what that might mean for me and him… or for me and Devin and our future, or possible lack thereof.

Unexpectedly, the hair on my arms stands up. A green shirt and head of copper-brown hair flickers in the corner of my vision.

I look up to find Perry standing at the entrance to the Blooms & Baubles tent, talking to a customer, and my mouth goes dry. His smile is as carefree as ever, his posture relaxed as he chats. When the customer finally leaves, he turns and our eyes lock. Even with twentysome feet and the odd person weaving between us, I feel the scorching intensity of his gaze down to my toes. It’s as though we’re the only two people in the world.

Perry thumbs over his shoulder—to the mural glowing in the bright afternoon sun—then points to me. His mischievous eyebrows raise in question. Was that you? he silently asks.

Smiling, I shrug. Maybe.

Shaking his head with a wry grin, he places his hand over his heart.

And I’m a goner.

“Cass. Cass?”

“Huh?” I jerk toward the sound of the voice.

Andréa is holding out a cardboard to-go box—my sandwich. “Your lunch,” she says, eyebrows pinching in concern. She, Mercedes, and Frank are all staring at me, probably wondering why I’m just sitting here staring into the distance like my mind wandered off for a vacation.

“Oh, thank you.” I quickly take the box from her along with the plastic cup of beer Frank offers me. “Sorry. I thought I saw someone I knew.” I scoot down the bench, and by the time I look up again, Perry’s disappeared inside his tent.

Once everyone is settled in, Frank plants both palms on the table and leans forward. “So, Andréa and I wanted to have lunch with the two of you today for a reason.”

“Apart from the chance to enjoy your sparkling company,” Andréa adds, causing Frank to boom a laugh.

“Exactly.” He looks at her, and she prompts him with a nod. “We have some exciting news to share. You weren’t supposed to find out until next week, but Glenn gave us permission to spill the beans early.”

Mercedes’s back is so stiff she looks like she might shatter at the tiniest tap. My own heartbeat accelerates. Could this be…?

Frank’s eyes light up until they practically twinkle. “We’d like to officially welcome both of you to the Smith & Boone family… as first-year associates.”





Oh my God, I did it. They offered me my dream job—the one I thought I’d lost a year ago. My mouth falls open and I can’t seem to form words beyond a vague croaking sound. Mercedes looks as stunned as I feel. Her blue eyes are wide, and her hand is fluttering against her chest as though she’s trying to keep her heart from spilling out.

“Frank, I’m honored. Thank you so, so much,” she breathes.

“Yeah,” I finally manage to say. “Wow. Thank you.”

Laughing genially, Andréa shakes each of our hands in turn. “Allow me to be the first to say, welcome to the firm.”

“Assuming you accept, of course,” interjects Frank. “Your formal written offers are coming next week, which I’m sure you’ll read with a fine-toothed comb. You’ll want to know all about your pay, billable-hour requirements, bonuses, benefits, vacation time, that sort of thing.”

Fluffing out her paper napkin, Andréa lays it across her lap and flips open her takeout box to reveal a hearty salad. “As a heads-up, vacation time isn’t really a thing. You get personal time off, which includes sick leave, but most first-year associates don’t use it. Not unless they don’t want to make their billable hours,” she says with a laugh.

Frank pauses with his burger halfway to his mouth. “True. But the good news is, once you have enough years under your belt to take some time off, you’ll have enough money in the bank to go wherever you could possibly want.”

“Like Fiji, right Frank?” says Andréa.

“Exactly. That’s where the wife and I went for our twentieth anniversary last summer. Two weeks of nothing but sun, sand, and snorkeling.”