Davina laughed. “Oh, right! My older sister Laura owns Twinkly Nails, and I try to help her with exposure as a thanks for investing in my business before we knew it would succeed. She’s an amazing manicurist, and her salon is the only one within a fifty-mile radius that carries the full line of Bettie Pain nail polish. You’d be surprised how many people will travel for it. Are you there? In Pleasant Hollow?”

“Yeah.” I gazed absently through the window as Fred from Miller’s General Store walked by. “My story is about the town.” Whispering so Finn wouldn’t hear me, I added, “The Hallmark-come-to-life angle banks on the sources being locals. I thought you were.”

“Oh no. Can you still use the interview?”

I released a sad sigh. “Unfortunately, the setting of Pleasant Hollow is inherent to this particular piece, but you are fabulous, and someday I’d love to feature you.” Random people who happened to have jobs common to those held in the movies lacked the cohesiveness I required and strayed too far from the story I’d pitched. “I’m so sorry for wasting your time.” It was my mistake to assume she was from Pleasant Hollow based on her Instagram feed. Assume = Ass + U + Me.

“No worries. Definitely check out Twinkly Nails, and tell my sister I sent you! Good luck on the story.”

“Thank you so much.” We ended the call. My spirits deflated like a Mylar birthday balloon a week past its shelf life.

“How’d it go?”

I answered Finn with my eyes closed. “Great. Just great.”

“You’re not dancing anymore.”

I bent over so my head was between my legs. He had to mention it. Of course he did. I was so tired. It was only 10:15 in the morning and I was ready for bed.

It occurred to me it was 10:15 and Finn wasn’t at work. I sat up. “Don’t you have a project to manage?”

Just once, I wanted to run into him when things were going well. Why couldn’t he witness me in action as a capable journalist, not a boogying fool with pizza crumbs on her lip and a stalled story?

“I was on my way out when I saw your impersonation of JLo.”

“I thought I was Shakira.”

His lips quirked. “The interview didn’t go well?”

“It went fabulously, until she told me she lived in Albany, not Pleasant Hollow.” Except it wasn’t her job to tell me. It was mine to ask.

“Shit.” His expression reflected compassion but not pity. “Can you find someone else who lives here instead?”

“That’s the plan.” All wasn’t lost. It was still a solid idea. I’d search for alternatives—people who were actually from the town—and follow up with Garrett as well.