“That’s what we should do, should we?”

She blinked. “Oh. Oh, I mean you, of course. It was just an idea. Just a thought. Anyway, I guess I better clean up before we go, too, since apparently I have flour all over me.” He definitely wasn’t imagining the blush tinting her cheeks.

At least now he wasn’t the only one off-kilter. “I call the bathroom first. Try not to walk in on me.”

“Very funny, Neil MacKean.”

If not for the fact that at some point tonight, Wilder Monroe would be showing up with a man who may or may not be her uncle, Sydney might find herself enchanted by the Muir Harbor Autumn Market.

The air, startlingly warm for the last weekend in October, smelled of cinnamon and popcorn, and the strains of “Goodnight, Ladies” from the trio of fiddlers in the gazebo filled the town center, along with the buzz of a growing crowd.

What had been an empty stretch of grass when she’d been in town earlier this week was now lined with booths and tables, all crowded with people. Paper lanterns hung from the branches of every tree in the circular lawn, promising bubbles of light once the sun finally set.

But as of now, it still lingered in the horizon, the sky a show of pinks and purples that reflected in the glass windows of the buildings surrounding the town center.

She’d spent the past three hours following Lilian’s instructions, first organizing and arranging their stand, one of the largest at the center of the market, and then assisting customers as they picked out and paid for items.

A woman she recognized perused the array of jams and jellies and baked goods arranged at the front of their counter. Mason jars filled with dried wildflowers and the last of the season’s produce from Lilian’s garden—a few pumpkins and a slew of various varieties of squash—festooned their stand with color.

“I think I’ll take this pie.” The woman’s bottle-blond hair peeked out from the burgundy scarf she wore over her head and tied under her chin.

Patti Brighton-Smythe. The wig lady. “Oh, you picked a good one. Maggie just made that one this morning.”

“Well, then, I will buy it and not even comment on the price increase.”

Lilian’s snort sounded behind her.

Patti lifted both penciled brows. “Lilian Muir, you missed the Thanksgiving committee meeting on Thursday.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Brighton-Smythe. Work.”

“I suppose you haven’t given any more thought to hosting the holiday dinner?” Patti Brighton-Smythe—why was it impossible to think of her by anything other than her full name?—handed Sydney a twenty-dollar bill.