"The valley's not subtle when it wants something." He shifted closer to me. "It's saying what I haven't been brave enough to say yet."
"Which is?"
"That you belong here. That this—" He gestured at the blooming garland. "This is real. We're real. And maybe you don't have to go back to a place that broke you when you could stay somewhere that wants to help you heal."
The flowers bloomed brighter, their scent wrapping around us. Ben's free hand rose, hovering near my face, asking permission.
I leaned in—just slightly, and his fingertips brushed my jaw.
His lips were a breath away from mine when—
"Places for Act Two!" Mrs. Brubaker's voice interrupted.
We jerked apart. The flowers remained, proof that I hadn't imagined it all. Ben's eyes were dark, his breathing unsteady.
"Later?" he asked quietly.
"Later," I agreed, even though I had no idea what that meant.
Charlie's scene started across the stage. His voice carried clear and strong, no script in hand and no fear shadowing his words. When he finished, the cast erupted in applause, and every light in the theater flared bright.
I watched him beam with pride, chest puffed out, and saw myself at eight years old—terrified and determined, needing someone to believe in me. My grandmother had been thatperson then. Today, I'd gotten to be that person for someone else.
Ben squeezed my hand once before we both turned back to work. His shoulder pressed against mine as we finished securing the garland.
"Sometimes the most important performances happen in places like this," he said quietly.
Chapter four
Ben
The problem with handcrafting Victorian storefront trim after midnight was that every flourish started looking the same. I squinted at the scrollwork, trying to decide if it matched its partner or if I'd carved one loop too many. Up in the catwalks, ropes creaked as they settled. The ghost light cast long shadows across my workbench, and snow tapped against the high windows like impatient fingers.
The wood deserved better than my distracted attention. I had quartersawn oak, tight grain, the kind that sang under a sharp chisel when you worked with it instead of against it. My grandfather would've knocked me upside the head for letting my mind wander.
Though he probably would've understood why I was distracted. Green eyes. That lithe body that moved with a quiet elegance. The surprise in his expression when joy broke through despite his best efforts to scare it away.
My phone buzzed. Holly, of course.
"The winter sage bloomed early tonight," she said without preamble. I heard the jangle of her bracelets through the phone."Which means you're still fussing with that molding instead of sleeping. The yarrow also suggested you might have company soon."
I smiled. "Your plants are awfully chatty about my personal business."
"They care about you, dear. As do I." Her voice softened. "He's walking up Cedar Street right now. Two cups of coffee—one black, one with cream."
"Did you—"
"Just thought you'd want to wipe the sawdust off your face." She hung up.
I looked down. Sure enough, pale dust covered my flannel. I brushed it off and had just raked my fingers through my hair when the stage door creaked open.
"Hello?" Alex's voice echoed through the empty theater, tentative but warm. "I saw your truck outside..."
He emerged into the work lights carrying two cups, steam curling up around his face. He'd changed from his rehearsal clothes into dark jeans and a blue henley that set off his impossibly green eyes.
"Figured you might need this." He handed me a cup, and his fingers brushed mine. "Holly said black coffee was your poison of choice."
"Holly says a lot of things." I accepted the cup gratefully. "Most of them are true, unfortunately. Thanks."
