“She’s a good dog. She didn’t deserve to be abandoned just because her owner was having an identity crisis in Manhattan.” The words came out sharper than she’d intended. Colton flinched, but he didn’t argue.
“You’re right.” He met her eyes. “I missed everything, Ally. The mountains. The way the air smells in the mornings.” His jaw tightened. “You. I missed you so much I couldn’t think straight sometimes.”
Around them, the inn’s opening continued—guests admiring Sam’s artwork on the walls, her mother at the cider station, the low murmur of conversation. But Ally’s pulse was too loud in her ears to catch any of it.
She stepped back from the table, needing space between them. “You made that choice. The cameras and contracts?—”
“I know.”
She caught him dragging the back of his hand across his eyes before shoving it in his pocket. “I know I did. And after a few weeks, I realized I’d made the worst decision of my life.”
Daisy pressed warm against his legs, refusing to leave his side. Through the window, the mountains rose green against the September sky, with just the faintest hints of gold and red starting to appear at the highest elevations.
“What changed?” She crossed her arms. “Did the modeling contracts dry up? Did Frank find someone younger?”
“I’m still under contract, signed three new deals.” He said it flatly, without the old pride. “Been doing the shoots, the endorsements. Keeping busy.” He shrugged, a tired gesture. “But I can consolidate everything—fly in a few times a year, knock it all out at once. The rest of the time, I want to be here.”
“Doing what?”
“I don’t know yet. That’s the honest answer.” He met her eyes. “But I know this is where I want to figure it out.”
Ally remembered standing in that Manhattan hotel room, watching him waver. The memory still stung, a bruise that hadn’t faded. But the man in front of her carried something different in his face now—a quiet uncertainty where restlessness used to live.
“I’m not asking you to decide anything,” he said. “I’m not asking for anything you’re not ready to give. I’m just asking if you might give me a chance?”
Through the glass, Will and Ryan moved an old farm table near Patty’s Garden, where late-season roses bloomed beside the bronze plaque. Her mother was laughing at something James said. The scent of apple cider drifted from somewhere behind her, warm and spiced.
“The display’s running low.” Ally heard herself talking, gesturing at her table with its mix of honey jars, small bouquets of dried flowers, and baskets of late-season produce from her garden. “I need to restock, but I’ve got orders to package for tomorrow’s market, and Mom wants help with dinner service?—”
“Tell me what to do.”
She studied his face—the familiar jaw, the blue eyes that had kept her awake for months, the new lines around his mouth. He looked tired. He looked real.
“There are boxes in my trunk. More honey, plus the dahlia bundles and the last of the heirloom tomatoes. The blue folder has the price list—make sure the bouquets are displayed with stems in water or they’ll wilt before dinner.”
He was moving toward the door before she finished, Daisy trotting at his heels. “Stems in water. Got it. Anything else?”
“Don’t let anyone buy more than three honey jars at a time. Mrs. Patterson tried to take the entire lavender batch this morning.”
The corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile. “Her biscuit obsession.”
“She claims it’s the secret ingredient.”
“She’s not wrong.” He held her gaze, and something fragile stretched between them before he turned. “Be right back.”
She watched them cross to the parking area—Colton’s familiar stride, Daisy pressed against his leg like she was afraid he’d disappear again. Ally’s chest ached with things she wasn’t ready to name.
When he returned with two boxes balanced in his arms and Daisy supervising, she directed him to the display table, showing him where to arrange the dahlia bundles, adjusting his placement of the tomatoes, their shoulders bumping as they worked.
The old rhythms came back faster than she’d expected. He anticipated her needs, she finished his sentences. When Mrs. Patterson inevitably appeared with designs on the wildflower honey, they presented a united front that sent her away with three jars, a bouquet of dried lavender, and a promise of more next week.
“She’s persistent,” Colton said as Mrs. Patterson retreated.
“She’s not the only one.”
He looked at her then, and she felt the weight of everything unsaid. The hurt. The hope. The terrifying possibility that he meant what he was saying.
“Ally.” His voice dropped low enough that only she could hear. “I know I have to earn this. Earn you.” He swallowed. “I don’t want to be Colton Matthews, celebrity. I want to be Colton Matthews, Ally’s boyfriend—if you’ll ever let me be that again. New York was empty without you. The apartment, the parties, all of it. None of it meant anything because you weren’t there.”
