Who would trust Sloane after that? She couldn’t imagine the buttoned-up, professional Agent Caplan would. Not to mention her being dishonest had to be some kind of breach of whatever contract she would sign with Rizzie.

No. Sloane’s image of being honest and awkward would turn into being a liar who just so happened to be awkward.

Never mind the fact that one of the main reasons Sloane was excited about a possible book in the first place was because she wanted to use the money she might earn to buy into Mrs. Baker’s florist shop. Then, after that? She could finally start her event-planning business.

But if she ruined her chances of that book and two dreams by getting caught lying through her teeth?

Was saving face really worth that risk?

Sloane looked up at the ceiling of her childhood bedroom and decided, right then and there, that it wasn’t. She’d rather tell Carol it was a joke and suffer the consequences.

But then you don’t get to kiss Brady anymore.

The thought popped into her head so fast, Sloane felt mental whiplash.

That was another detail she and Brady hadn’t pinned down in their clandestine meeting in the clearing behind the bar. What exactly it meant to pretend to date.

Would they go to the café for morning coffee together? Hold hands while strolling down Main? Kiss across the bar top at Cassidy’s like they were in some kind of movie?

Spend the night together to keep the charade going for the neighbors?

Sloane couldn’t help the heat that started from somewhere south of her waist. It traveled up her neck, laughing at her attempt to stay cool.

Kissing Brady again wouldn’t be the worst thing ever. Admitting that to herself was the adult thing to do, she decided.

Yes. Very adult of her.

Sloane threw her legs over the side of the bed and John McClaned her toes into the carpet. She’d call Brady first, then send Carol a message on Facebook, then stay in Callum’s house and sulk for three weeks straight, Emma be damned.

Was that an adult thing to do?

Well, if you were the right adult, she supposed.

Sloane sighed, somewhat content with the plan, just as the doorbell rang.

She eyed the old Sailor Moon alarm clock on her nightstand. It was just after nine in the morning. Her phone was next to it, flipped upside down as she ignored the online world. She waited for it to vibrate with a new call or text.

It didn’t.

Which meant whoever was at the door was either weird, rude, or didn’t have her number.

Or Mrs. Jane, who lived across the street and was all three rolled into one.

“Joy.”