Those were awesome,” Spencer commented as we walked to the car the next morning. “I kept thinking, with their love of cookbooks and slasher novels, maybe they’re trying to lure us into some evil plot, but I don’t care. Pass the syrup.” “I hear you,” I said, but the truth was, I’d been too happy and excited to eat much of anything. I just sipped orange juice and played footsie with Spencer under the table. I was absentmindedly eating a cookie as we walked along the road—Mildred had insisted I take one with me. We’d spent the night talking, kissing, talking, kissing, occasionally snuggling—I think I probably slept about two hours. When I woke up with Spencer next to me, at first it seemed like just another one of my la-la-land dreams. Then he said, “Nice bed head,” and I knew it was the real Spencer. I contemplated snapping a quick photo—you know, just for evidence’s sake. That seemed a little odd, though, so I kept my camera put away. We’d gotten up around 9:00 and eaten breakfast with Mildred, Curt, and a dozen other guests at the B&B before heading back to the parking lot at around 10:30 to check on our car.
