The opening chords of “Landslide” drifted across the parking lot as Maya and Axel leaned toward the same microphone, their voices blending in harmonious counterpoint.
“They seem good together.” On stage, Maya and Axel shared a smile that definitely wasn’t just about music.
Noah grunted, but when his eyes met mine, they softened in a way that made my breath catch. For just a moment, his walls were down completely.
Something warm and unexplored passed between us.
“Noah!” Dad called from the cooking station. “We need your mountain man muscles to move these propane tanks!”
“Be right there!” Noah answered, but his gaze lingered on mine for a heartbeat longer. “We’ll talk,” he said, like he could read my mind. “After the festival.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, a mixture of anticipation and anxiety warring in my stomach. “After the festival.”
When Noah went over to help Dad, I surveyed the transformed parking lot, taking in the cumulative efforts of our unlikely coalition. Booths lined the perimeter, colorful banners announcing everything from wildlife photography exhibits to conservation education stations. A small army of volunteers in matching t-shirts moved between stations, hanging signs and distributing flyers.
But as if they had a mind of their own, my eyes drifted back to Noah, where I was treated to a nice view of him bending over to pick up a propane tank.
“That mountain man is a very hard worker.” Mom appeared at my elbow, somehow having navigated the crowdwithout me noticing. She had an uncanny parental ability to materialize exactly when you were thinking inappropriate thoughts.
“More important, he’s a good man,” she said, nodding approvingly toward Noah, who was now efficiently directing the placement of picnic tables. “Strong hands, too.”
“Mom.”
“What? I see how you look at him. The same way I look at a perfect batch of fresh xiao long bao.” She made a slurping gesture and a sucking motion with her lips that I desperately hoped Noah couldn’t see from his position across the lot.
“I’m not looking at him like anything,” I protested. Weakly.
Mom’s expression turned unexpectedly serious, her hand tightening on my arm. “Samantha. For many years, you’ve shown me pictures of fancy food, fancy hotels, fancy everything. All pretty, no substance.” She waved her free hand dismissively. “But here? With these mountain birds and this mountain man? You have purpose in your eyes. This is not nothing.”
Her words hit me hard. For the first time, Mom wasn’t criticizing my career choice or questioning my life decisions. She was seeing something in me that I’d only just started to see myself.
“I’m just trying to help a good cause.”
“Mm-hmm.” Mom’s skeptical hum contained multitudes of disbelief. “And I just make hundreds of dumplings because I’m hungry.”
Luckily, a commotion near the entrance caught our attention before I lost it completely. I wiped away the one tear that dribbled down my cheek.
“They’re here!” Brie called, waving frantically. “First festivalgoers are arriving!”
A small crowd had already gathered at the parking lotentrance, carrying homemade signs with slogans like “Let the Grouse Get Down” and “Dance Like Nobody’s Bulldozing Your Home.”
“Showtime,” I murmured, a mixture of nervousness and excitement bubbling in my chest.
Mom squeezed my arm once more before releasing me. “Go. Save birds. Win hearts. Multitask like a true Li woman.”
As I moved toward the entrance to greet our first supporters, I caught Noah’s eye across the crowded lot. He gave me a thumbs up, that rare genuine smile transforming his face from brooding mountain man to something that made my heart stutter in my chest.
Whatever happened next with Victoria, with LuxeLife, with Noah, at least we’d created something real together. Something authentic.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
No longer the quiet wilderness outpost I’d first encountered, the Adventure Center now crackled with raw, vibrant energy. Festival-goers packed every available space, moving between vendor stalls, conservation booths, and the main stage area where Axel Ryder, backed by the Wayward Sons, were delivering their third set of the day.
I wove through the crowd, stopping to pose for selfies with fans who recognized me from my viral grouse video, now lovingly dubbed “The Disco Chicken Dance” across multiple social media platforms. The genuine enthusiasm on their faces, not just for meeting me, but for the cause we were championing, sent a surge of pride through me, unlike anything I’d felt from posting perfectly filtered breakfast photos.
Parker materialized at my elbow, an iPad in one hand and his laptop in the other. “The numbers are insane,” he announced, falling into step beside me. “We’ve blown past all projections.”
“Details, Parker. Feed me details.”
