Before she could answer, her mother appeared, eyes bright with successful-opening chaos.
“Honey, the cider’s running low, and I can’t find where Will stored the backup jugs.” Tara glanced between them, clearly registering Colton’s presence. “Oh! I didn’t know you were coming. Welcome back.”
“Thank you, Tara.” He caught himself on her name. “The inn looks incredible.”
“We’re getting there.” Tara was already steering Ally toward the kitchen. “Come find me later—I want to hear everything.”
Ally looked back over her shoulder. Colton stood by the display with Daisy pressed against his leg, watching her go.
She didn’t know what came next. She wasn’t ready to trust it yet. But when she emerged twenty minutes later with fresh cider jugs, she found him talking to Ryan about some video game while Daisy and Angus sprawled together under the display table, tails occasionally thumping against the floor.
He caught her eye and smiled—not the practiced camera smile or the charm he’d deployed at Manhattan parties, but something smaller. Uncertain. Real.
She had products to sell and a mother to help and a hundred reasons to keep her guard up. But she crossed the room anyway, taking her place behind the display, close enough that their elbows touched when she reached for jars.
“So, what’s the plan?” She kept her voice carefully even, rearranging a basket of cherry tomatoes. “Long-term, I mean. You can’t just hide out at your lake house forever.”
“Why not?” He handed a customer their change, his movements easy. “I’ve got the horses. Got the house. Maybe I’ll finally finish that dock I started building last spring.”
“You’d go crazy inside a month.”
“Probably.” He was quiet for a moment, watching the crowd. “I keep thinking about the kids at the community center. The ones who want to play ball but can’t afford equipment, can’t get to practices. There might be something I could do there. Coaching, maybe. Or just showing up.”
It was the first thing he’d said that sounded like the Colton she remembered—the one who’d spent hours teaching Will’s nephew how to throw a curveball, who’d donated anonymously to the little league fund last Christmas.
“That sounds like something worth doing.”
“Yeah.” He turned to look at her, and something in his expression made her breath catch. “I’m trying to figure out what’s worth doing. What actually matters.” His hand brushed hers as they both reached for the same jar. “Turns out, most of what I was chasing in New York wasn’t it.”
The afternoon light was shifting, slanting gold through the windows, catching the mountains in that particular September glow. Another hour and they’d need to start breaking down for dinner service.
“Hand me the wildflower.” She reached across him for a jar a guest was eyeing. “And help me pack up the tomatoes—we need to clear the table before Mom starts bringing out the appetizers.”
They worked in easy silence, boxing up unsold produce, consolidating honey jars, Daisy and Angus weaving between their legs. When their hands touched over a bundle of dried lavender, neither of them pulled away.
It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t a promise. But it was something—a door cracked open instead of slammed shut.
For now, that was enough.
CHAPTER 23
MARCO
Mist rose from the lake in slow ribbons, curling against the water like smoke.
Marco had been walking for an hour, maybe more, his body caught somewhere between Milan time and whatever schedule this mountain town kept. Sleep hadn’t come at the inn—it was too quiet after months of city noise, too much space in that king-sized bed. When the first light crept through the curtains, he’d given up and pulled on jeans and a sweater, slipping outside while even the birds were still waking.
The lake path wound through trees just beginning to turn. Here and there a maple showed hints of gold and red at its edges, but most of the forest was still deep green, the mountains holding onto summer for a few more weeks. The air held a bite—crisp, clean, carrying the faint scent of pine and leaves. His breath made small clouds as he walked. Nothing like the humidity of Miami or the exhaust-thick air of Manhattan.
He’d told Colton he needed to get away. Had gone to the events, flew to Milan, did the show as promised and then he’d simply vanished, hoping to find something real.
This seemed real enough. The cold seeping through his sweater. The crunch of leaves under his shoes—the wrong shoes for this path, but he hadn’t exactly packed for hiking. The mountains reflected in the water so perfectly he couldn’t tell where the sky ended and the lake began.
He rounded a bend in the path.
And stopped breathing.
Was he dreaming? How was it possible? Honey-blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. That profile—he’d traced it with his fingers in a dark hotel room, memorized the curve of her cheekbone, the line of her jaw. She was walking toward him, not looking up yet, her attention on something in front of her.
