“The real person underneath is kind of a mess,” she said.
“The real person underneath is human.” James squeezed her hand. “That’s all any of us are.”
From inside the inn, a burst of laughter erupted. Sophia found herself wanting to go back inside, wanting to be part of it, wanting to let herself belong somewhere that didn’t require perfection.
“I’m not leaving yet,” she said. “I know I said I’d only stay a few weeks, but?—”
“Good.”
“I still have to go back, eventually. The company needs me, and there’s a spring collection that won’t design itself.”
“I know.”
“But I could come back. For visits. Longer ones.” She met his eyes, letting him see the uncertainty she usually hid. “If you wanted.”
James didn’t smile—he rarely smiled—but something warmed in his expression. “I’d like that.” He touched her cheek. “I’ll come visit, if you’ll have me.”
“I will.”
They sat together in the fading light, hands still linked, the garden peaceful around them. Inside, the celebration continued. Outside, the first evening star appeared above the mountains.
“We should go back in,” Sophia said. “Before they send a search party.”
“Probably.” But neither of them moved.
The bouquet toss was Ally’s idea. “It’s not a wedding, sweetheart,” Tara had said that morning. “It’s a christening.”
“It’s a celebration,” Ally had countered, already arranging the leftover flowers from the ceremony into a tossable bundle. “And we have approximately seventeen single women in that room.”
So here Tara stood, watching her daughter hurl a bouquet of bronze and gold chrysanthemums over her shoulder toward a laughing crowd.
Francesca caught it. The bookshop owner looked down at the flowers in her hands, her cheeks flushing pink, and across the room Bo Cooper’s face transformed. The sheriff—usually so composed, so professionally neutral—was grinning like a teenager. He pushed through the crowd toward Francesca, took her hands, and said something that made her laugh and duck her head.
“Twenty bucks says he proposes by Christmas,” Will murmured in her ear.
“That’s a sucker bet.”
“Fine. Ten bucks says he proposes by Thanksgiving.”
Tara elbowed him, but she was smiling. This was what she’d wanted when she’d imagined the inn—not just guests in beds and breakfast on tables, but moments like this. Connections forming and strengthening.
She scanned the room. Ryan and his gaming friends had commandeered the parlor, their cards and dice spread across the coffee table. Dora had gathered an audience near the fireplace, regaling them with stories about moonshine runners and the old days in the mountains. Sam drifted through the crowd with her camera, capturing candid moments for the portfolio she was building—art school applications due in January, her future stretching bright ahead of her.
Near the windows, Evan was bouncing baby Grace on his hip, talking to Marco. Tara caught fragments—community college curriculum, business fundamentals, local job market—and watched Marco nod with what looked like genuine interest.
“Your son is trying to recruit a billionaire to teach a fashion class,” Will observed.
“My son is passionate about education. It’s not his fault Marco keeps asking questions.”
“I like him. Marco, I mean.” Will’s arm settled around her waist. “He’s not what I expected.”
“No,” Tara agreed. “He’s not.”
She watched Christina emerge from the side porch. Her daughter’s expression had lost some of its tension—not all, but enough. Something had shifted between them.
Christina caught her mother’s eye across the room and gave a small nod.
Tara excused herself from Will and made her way through the crowd. Up close, she could see the traces of tears Christina had hastily wiped away, the slight tremble in her hands as she held Violet.
