And then came Sienna, and the list was blown to smithereens.
I didn’t know what box to put her in. I didn’t know what label to stick on her. She wasn’t simple. She wasn’t predictable. She wasn’t background noise. She wasn’t anything I had prepared for.
And she wasn’t anything I could easily walk away from.
That was the part that bothered me most. The part that worried me, irritated me, tugged at a part of me I’d locked down a long time ago. Attraction was fine. Attraction went away. But the feeling that someone could get under my skin without even trying?
That was dangerous.
The snow had mostly melted by the time I reached town. Buttercup Lake was quiet for a weekday afternoon, only a few cars parked along Main Street, the snowplows from last week’s storm leaving behind gray slush packed against the curbs.
Buttercup Java stood on the corner, its mint-green door propped open slightly despite the chill. Pine garlands framed the windows, and warm light spilled out across the sidewalk. The smell of espresso floated onto the street like a little promise of sanity.
Good. I needed sanity.
And caffeine.
And at least twenty minutes where nobody was watching me like I was the new plot twist in their favorite TV show.
As soon as I stepped inside, I felt calmer. The place was cozy without being cluttered, with its wood floors, chalkboard menus, mismatched mugs, and plants in ceramic pots. A couple tapped at laptops near the front window. A man in a flannel read a newspaper like it was still 1998. And behind the counter…
“Hey there!” the barista chirped, wiping down a milk pitcher. “What can I get you?”
I recognized her from the lodge’s files, which listed the who’s who of Buttercup Lake, when I was interacting with guests.
Abby. Friendly. Efficient. Possibly psychic. The kind of woman who noticed more than she let on.
I stepped up to the counter. “Large Americano. Extra hot. And a croissant, please.”
Never mind that I was still digesting lunch from the lodge. I needed a distraction, and a croissant would have to do.
“You got it.” She punched the order in. “Still the quiet one.”
I blinked. “I… guess?”
She grinned. “Don’t worry. In this town, quiet is interesting. Loud is normal.”
I didn’t know what that meant, so I gave a small nod and paid.
While she made the drink, I stood at the far end of the counter where a few local flyers were pinned on a bulletin board for fishing tournaments, a sign-up sheet for snowshoe rentals, and the Sunshine Breakfast Club Book Schedule, which if memory served me right, I wanted to stay far away from.
I stretched, rolled my shoulders, and exhaled.
Finally.
A moment to think.
Except thinking meant remembering.
Last night—Sienna’s laugh, her lips, the stunned look she’d given me right before she kissed me like she’d been waiting for the right moment for months instead of minutes. The way her breath had hitched when my hands tightened around her. The way she’d pulled back slowly, eyes dazed and bright, like she wasn’t sure whether to apologize or kiss me again.
Then the applause.
God.
I wasn’t built for public anything, especially not that, but I kept replaying the moment. It wasn’t the noise or the chaos, but the look on her face when she’d pressed her head to my chest for half a second. It was like something inside her had finally let itself breathe.
And something inside me, against all logic, had breathed with it.
