“Easily enough time,” I lied, and scribbled notes into my book as the others discussed having an extra float, albeit a bike with the shell of a giant Yule goat, pulling a sleigh full of books on wheels.
“I like it,” Hunter said at my side. “I’ll help sponsor it and work on it with you?—”
“I’ve got it,” I snapped, and thank goodness, everyone else was talking about the logistics of another float being added this close to the parade.
“Wes—”
“You don’t have to be interested,” I said under my breath, and he huffed.
“Well… I am.”
I turned to face him. “Did you accept the job?”
He blinked at me, surprised. “Not yet, I?—”
“Did you have the realtor value The Real McCoy?”
That made his expression change, shifty, not quite able to meet my eyes. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’m not a barista. I’m a history professor…” He seemed flustered.
“Why didn’t you tellmeabout moving ahead with selling the store?”
Now he was confused. “Why would I?”
I swallowed. Yeah, why would he tell me? “I might have wanted to buy it.”
“You do?” He seemed hopeful then, and I kicked myself. Maybe in a year, I could do that, when the trust fund was in my hands, but for now, fuck, I had nothing.
“No,” I said, then slid off the sofa so I could sit on the floor where Bailey had unfolded the huge parade map. I couldn’t be angry with him selling, I understood why—he was a history professor, he didn’t want the store… but fuck… my heart hurt. I needed to get over this mooning phase and get my life in order.
I was so freaking confused and out of my depth.
I traced the parade route with my finger, forcing my focus onto street names and float placement instead of the ache hollowing out my chest. Voices buzzed around me—Callum talking budgets, Bailey designing, Lucas debating logistics—but they sounded muffled, distant. I swallowed hard and scribbled notes I’d never be able to read later, anything to keep my hands busy. If Hunter wasreallyleaving, then I had to learn how to breathe without him. This was my town, my safe place,and I would never leave unless I had to. Yes, it would break my heart if I had to close The Story Lantern, but I’d find something else to do for a year, and then maybe buy it back—if I even manage to sell it.
Then, somehow, I’d find someone in Wishing Tree or close enough who made me feel all squirmy inside, someone whoactuallyfelt squirmy right back at me.
Easy.
Chapter 10
Hunter
Wesley wasn’t talkingto me; he was maintaining a constant chatter, but it felt brittle—or was that just me? He was hurt. I hadn’t told him about the realtor, but it wasn’t as if I was actually selling. I just wanted to know how much I’d get if I decided to sell. Wes didn’t need to know that the figure was a good one, or that I’d felt weird listening to the realtor’s pitch when she explained several people were already interested in Wishing Tree Main Street property. Harry McCoy had started this place as a small café, but it had evolved over the years into the coffee shop I now run. And although I’d never known Harry, I felt a pang of something when she talked so eagerly about profit and selling. Probably history.
But if I were relocating to Seattle, or LA, or hell, upstate, then I’d need the money. A move like thatwouldn’t be a change of scenery—it would mean making a fresh start, finding new work, new people, new everything. And that kind of leap came with a price tag I couldn’t ignore. Especially since walking away from my relationship with my ex had left me with nothing.
I’d kept Lucas talking far longer than necessary. Hockey, history, the parade float plans, even the goddamn weather—anything to give Wesley time to bolt ahead and get home before I walked out. The man had a way of unraveling me, and after the question about the valuation, I needed a few deep breaths before I saw him again. When I stepped outside into the frosty night, relief was short-lived—because Wesley was right there, waiting.
Not wearing a coat.
“Jesus, Wes,” I muttered, shrugging out of mine and dropping it around his shoulders before he could protest. His ridiculous cloak billowed under the weight of my jacket, but at least he’d be warm. He was shivering, though he tried to play it off with a grin.
He slipped on a patch of ice near the curb, and his hand shot out to grip my arm, fingers tight on my sleeve. Heat burned where he touched me, but I shook it off and focused on the knee-high leather boots he was wearing with their slick soles, completely wrong for icy sidewalks.
“Careful,” I said, steadying him. “Those things are an accident waiting to happen.”
