Trace muttered, “Damn, somebody’s wound tight.”
“Leave him alone,” Holt said. His gaze slid to me, steady as ever. “And you—you’d better be sure about her. That woman’s not the kind you screw around with.”
“I know.” My voice surprised me with how certain it sounded. I stared into the fire, heat prickling my skin. “That’s why I’m not screwing around.”
Thatcher gave a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned. The Butterfly says he’s gonna land.”
Even though my oldest brother was joking, the words still stung, but I let them roll off. Ridge’s shadow lingered at the treeline, brooding, his storm waiting for its turn.
Mine wasn’t over either. Because when I’d passed Town Hall earlier, I’d caught Rowan through the window, her shoulders squared behind her desk. She just kept writing like last night had never happened. Like I was a risk she’d already decided not to take again.
But staring into that fire, I made a vow. Let the podcaster run his mouth. Let the town gossip. Let whoever wrote The Ex-List call me a butterfly until the ink faded.
I’d show them—and I’d show her. Not with words. With follow-through. With a fire that didn’t burn out. With roots that finally went deep enough to hold.
CHAPTER 8
ROWAN
By nine the next morning, my inbox had learned my mood and arranged itself accordingly. Permit revisions at the top. Vendor confirmations for the Founders Festival underneath. There were three emails from residents who wanted to know if Main Street could accommodate a pumpkin trebuchet. The answer was no, and I wrote up a polite reply with a link to park guidelines that explained projectile limits in plain English.
I typed with mechanical precision, the rhythm almost enough to drown out the voice in my head: I don’t blur lines. I don’t do this. The other night was an anomaly. A lapse. Not a precedent.
The packet from The Woodshed sat open on my desk, sheets aligned, every signature where it belonged. The new certificate named the courts and listed the town as an additional insured. The notice affidavit was correct. The lighting cut sheets matched the fixture specs we required. Dane had done everything I asked.
Even so, it was irrelevant. I refused to let personal bleed into professional. That was how cracks started.
I drafted the memo to council. Recreational use consistent with the zone. Conditions attached. Minor dogleg adjustment on the ADA path. Stamped stormwater plan included. I stopped my pen on the last line and stared at the dot of ink. If I kept my eyes on the paper, everything stayed simple.
“Still breathing in here?”
I looked up. Gillian stood in the doorway, her headset crooked around her neck and a pencil stabbed through her bun.
“I’ve been covering phones while Petra’s at the DMV,” she said. “You’ve been typing like the building’s on fire. Want me to bring you a sandwich or a sedative?”
“I’m fine,” I said, eager to get back to work.
“Hmm.” Her grin was pure mischief. “You’ve got that look. The one where you’re pretending forms can’t break your heart.”
“They can’t. That’s the point.”
“Sure.” She disappeared down the hall humming, leaving the faint smell of peppermint tea in her wake.
I pulled my shoulders straighter. Over-controlled was safe. Distance was even safer.
“Hey, Rowan?” Petra, the admin from the clerk’s office, leaned into my doorway a half hour later. “The Timber Mill Inn called. They want someone from town hall to check their parade-day staging plan. Also, a podcaster is in the lobby asking who approves public recordings on Main during the Founders’ Festival.”
“Recordings on public sidewalks don’t require approval.” I stood and rolled my shoulders. “I’ll stop at the Inn on my way to lunch.”
Petra grimaced. “He’s… enthusiastic.”
They usually were.
I filed the packet for The Woodshed, slid my arms into my jacket, and walked out into a late-summer afternoon that smelled like coffee and cedar. Main Street was already shifting toward festival mode. Store windows sprouted hand-lettered signs about apple bars and flannel discounts. Kids chalked trees on the sidewalk. Sabrina had a crate of mums out in front of Morning Wood and a line stretching to the corner.
The Timber Mill Inn sat at the far end of the block like it had decided a century ago to hold the town’s stories until someone asked for them back. I loved the place even when it made my job complicated. Inside, the lobby had been staged for the upcoming festival. A banner board listed events. A display table held brochures, a jar of peppermints, and a stack of glossy cards printed with a microphone and a title: The Ex List: Hard Timber Uncut.
I was still processing that when the owner of the inn, Mrs. Qualle, came out of her office.
