“Thanks,” I say. “This is just what I need.” As I take a sip, a thought hits me, and I add, “I’m guessing you guys already know Lucian?”
“Not well,” Holden says. “His cabin’s pretty close, so I’ve seen him out in the forest a few times. Only ever said a few words to each other.”
“Does he live alone out here?”
“Think so. Never seen anybody else around his cabin. He keeps to himself.”
I ponder this as I take another sip of cocoa. I’m not surprised Lucian lives alone—he doesn’t seem like much of a people person.
“So he’s not married or anything?” I ask, faking nonchalance.
“No.” Holden shrugs. “Don’t think so.”
I try to ignore the flicker of satisfaction I feel at hearing this. Lucian’s marital status shouldn’t mean anything to me. He’s a stranger who saved me from the consequences of a very dumb decision—nothing more. Heck, I don’t even think he likes me. He could barely look at me on our way back to Holden’s cabin. But then I remember his words to Holden, the seriousness in his eyes.
Take care of her.
He said it like he truly cared…as if it was the most important thing in the world to him that I was taken care of. But then he didn’t even look back as he left. I can’t make sense of it. Nor can I figure out why I care so much, or why I’m analyzing every detail of our meeting, every word, every look.
Even just the memory of Lucian is enough to make my pulse race. His thick beard and towering height. His grumpy scowl. The way his muscles bulged as he crossed his arms. His handsome face, lined and weathered like the mountain itself. All of it sends a bolt of longing through me, something hot and needy blooming deep inside me.
God, I think I’m losing my mind.
I seriously need to stop obsessing over him.
Once I’m all warmed up, I force myself to spend the rest of the day applying for jobs online, scrolling through hundreds of listings. But my mind is still back at the river with Lucian, and when I finally head to bed around midnight, I sink into a heavy sleep, dreaming of dark gray eyes and a voice deeper than thunder.
I carefully scoopa dollop of batter into each cupcake liner, deep in concentration. It’s late morning, but Holden andMila are still in bed—no doubt making up for the interruption yesterday—and I’ve taken over the kitchen in their absence. Bowls and open packets line the counters, and my hands are sticky as I finally put the cupcakes into the oven and hope for the best.
I’ve never baked before. My parents never let us do stuff like that. They said it was beneath us—that baking was what we paid our personal chef for.
You’re a Van Alstyne, Grace,they’d always say.Act like it.
It sounds crazy now. Van Alstyne is just a name, nothing more. Coming from a rich family shouldn’t stop me from baking or gardening or getting my hands dirty. But growing up, my parents discouraged everything that might encourage me to be my own person: any hobby or interest that could spark joy or open my mind in any way. They wanted me pliant and controllable, and for twenty-two years, that’s exactly what I gave them.
Not anymore.
I dyed my hair purple last week, a pastel shade of lilac that I thought looked pretty. It was my first little act of defiance. Now I’m baking cupcakes and making a mess. To most people, these are just normal little things, but to me, it feels like rebellion. Like freedom.
“Hey, look!” I say aloud, picturing my parents’ haughty faces. “Grace Van Alstyne is baking cupcakes and the world hasn’t ended!”
And they’re going to be the best cupcakes ever.
So screw you, Mom and Dad.
They’re not the best cupcakes ever. When I take them out of the oven, they’re too flat and too brown on top. But once they’re cooled, I cover them generously in frosting, which adds to the height and hides the color. I take a bite of one and nod approvingly to myself. They taste much better than they look,and I set aside a few for Holden and Mila, then place the rest in a plastic container, snapping the lid shut. But as I carry the container toward the front door, I falter slightly.
Is this really a good idea?
When I went to bed last night, I had no intention of bothering Lucian again. Then I woke up this morning with a weird ache in my chest, a kind of longing to see him. Cupcakes were the best excuse I could think of—some sweet treats to say thank you for yesterday. But now I’m second-guessing myself.
He won’t want to see me after yesterday.
I’ve given him enough trouble already..
But my doubts aren’t enough to stop me. I muster all my courage and stride out into the woods, my heart thudding. It’s a chilly October morning, fresh and crisp as an apple. I know roughly where Lucian’s cabin is—Holden mentioned offhand that it was about five minutes up the mountain—so I head uphill through the colorful trees, keeping my eyes peeled. I’m extra careful as I walk, avoiding the river. The last thing I need is to end up flat on my back in the mud again.
After a few minutes of walking, I catch sight of a gleam of metal through the trees. I head toward it until a silver pickup truck comes into view, shining in the morning sun. It’s parked outside a large chalet-style cabin made of dark wooden logs. It’s beautiful, like something from the Alps, with wooden shutters and a steeply pitched roof. Orange and red-leaved trees shroud the clearing, with Sugar Creek running past to the left, the water moving more calmly today. I feel like I’ve wandered into a storybook illustration.
