I’ve got to stamp out those feeble quiverings now, before they become a problem. He’s gone and dug a tent out of storage—one tent, singular—to use on Saturday, as he casually mentioned the trip will take us all day and most of the terrain we have to explore will have to be trod on foot. If it gets late, we’ll camp out. In the same tent. Together. Maybe he’s able to be blasé about it because he finds me so unattractive that I’m not even a shadow on his radar; I’m like a shovel, just part of the expedition gear. Or maybe he plans to seduce me. I envision us lying next to a roaring fire as he feeds me s’mores . . .

“You don’t like him,” I tell myself sternly. “He’s a grouch.”

I walk into the ballroom, determined to lose myself in cleaning. The first thing I see is the handmade tinfoil star that’s appeared at the top of my Christmas tree, which I’m not able to reach. Someone has indulged my untimely holiday spirit.

I groan louder, spin on my heel, and walk right back out.

“He doesn’t like me,” I growl at myself. “I’m just the pesky equal inheritor. The necessary evil he can’t get rid of, so he’s sucking it up and making the best of a bad situation.” I smack my face lightly. “Even if he does like me, it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t change the fact that muddying those waters is a bad, bad, bad idea.”

Think long-term, Maybell. Priorities. Eyes on the prize.

I open the dumbwaiter longingly and despair that it’s empty. He made me a tree-topper. It’s even better than a store-bought one, with its cute little irregular edges . . . I have no willpower at all.

I smack myself again.

There’s only one tried-and-true method to escape dwelling on this. I pace back and forth, giving myself a workout, mentally reaching for the door of my café. It won’t open.

A sign on the door reads out for lunch.

“Can’t stop me,” I grumble, probably losing it, as I pick the lock and the door in the clouds shoves open with a tinkling chime.

I definitely didn’t put all these ferns here. Moss creeps up tables, swarming napkin dispensers and condiment bottles. I hack vines out of my way, sidestepping hazard signs, breaking a sweat to get behind the counter. A gurgling sound of rushing water is coming from the jukebox. My doting parents pop their heads in, concerned. “Are you open?”

“Yes! Just give me a minute. It’s . . . ah . . .”

“You’ve got a forest,” Mom notes, eyes large as she stares around.

I scratch my head, three small birds circling. I’m going to get cited by the health inspector. “It would appear so.”

A familiar figure nods politely to my mother as he saunters over, making himself at home on a stool. “What are you doing here?” I exclaim, dropping a pot of coffee. Glass shatters everywhere. “Oh, goodness. So sorry, that’s never happened before.”

“Hi, Maybell.”

“Hi . . . you.”

He grins wider, propping his chin in his hand. “Not gonna say my name?”

“Don’tseetheneedto,” I mumble under my breath. “You really shouldn’t be here right now.”

“Why’s that?” He flicks open a menu. “I’ll have one of these.” Taps the Grumpy/Sunshine Platter: a frowny face of blueberries and banana slices on French toast with a sunny-side-up egg.

“I don’t serve French toast and eggs!” I grab the menu from him, panicking. “Where’d that come from?” Other options I never approved write themselves into existence. Forced Proximity Pancakes. World’s Biggest Cinnamon Roll: Recommended by the chef! Crispy outer layer conceals a soft, delicious center.

“Slow-burned toast,” he begins to read over my shoulder. I snap the menu closed, my cheeks hotter than a stove. “Did I just read something about a secret baby?”

“We’re all out of toast. And secret babies. You can have a donut. We serve donuts.”

“I’ll take your special of the day.” He points at the chalkboard menu on the wall behind me. “Opposites Attract: coffee cake and sweetheart tea. Aw, isn’t that cute.” A dimple pops in his cheek. I die.

Fireworks begin flaming up behind him, huge heart-shaped bursts that transform into confetti. He turns. “What was that?”

“Oh no.” My heart sinks. Flutters. I wring my hands. “It’s happening.”

A skywriter zigzags through the clouds outside the window, barely visible between dense branches. I leap in front of it to block the view, shielding the banner proclaiming MAYBELL LIKES—

He spins back toward me and tosses his head, giving me a knowing look. He has no idea how sensual it is. The tingles that course through me course through the electricity, too, popping breakers. “Oh, yes. It’s inevitable, isn’t it?”

I kneel (or collapse) to clean up the mess of glass and coffee, but it dawns on me that I don’t have a broom and dustpan here. I glance sadly at my 5,840 days without an accident sign as the number switches to 0. What is going on around here lately?

He leans across the counter, surveying me on the floor. I wish it would open up and swallow me. “You all right down there?”

“Fine,” I reply faintly. “It’s fine, I’m only dead.” It was the dimple. It killed me.

RIP, me.

“Did you fall asleep like that? Odd place for a nap.”

The fireworks shape-shift into a chandelier, and as he extends a hand to help me to my feet I’m zapped out of the café. This is IRL Wesley, gripping my hand in his (oh, his hand is strong) and standing me upright in the real world. He hands me my glasses, then holds up a white paper bag. Gives it a shake. “I finished early for the day. Brought home some—”

“Ahhhhhhh-ahh,” I interrupt. He cannot finish that sentence. If that bag has pastries in it, I’ll swoon. Resist! Resist!