Because that was the whole point of this year, wasn’t it?
To see whether staying somewhere,reallystaying, meant something.
My family had teased me for years about being a flight risk, always pawing at maps and planning the next trip, leaving before roots had the nerve to form. And for the first time since I was nineteen, I wasn’t actively planning an escape.
Mostly.
Except… Carson Reed had arrived.
Tall, quiet, stoic Carson.
Carson with a voice that slid under my skin.
Carson, whose beard somehow over-performed in the category of things I think about at midnight.
Carson, whose body is in that tent—
Nope. Absolutely not. Illegal thought.
I shoved my face into the pillow and groaned.
That night with him had put my brain in a compression chamber. I’d broken all my own rules and then proceeded to feel things I didn’t have a manual for. Now every time I saw him, an entire flock of butterflies migrated violently in my ribcage.
And we had to work together.
Regularly.
For months.
“Great idea, Sienna,” I muttered aloud. “Flirt with the new guide. Sleep with the new guide. Have an early-season meltdown about the new guide. Very professional.”
I kicked free of the covers, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and stared at the beige wall accusingly.
I needed my space to feel like mine again. Something familiar. Something grounding. Some reminder that I had a place to land when my brain started doing escape math.
Which is how, thirty minutes later, I ended up in my Subaru with burned coffee in hand, driving down the road toward Buttercup Lake’s little downtown—not to escape, I told myself firmly, but todecorate.
Today was my day off.
And I was going to use it constructively.
Like a stable adult.
The antique shop sat on the corner between the florist and the used bookstore, its windows filled with stained glass, mismatched teacups, and a mannequin wearing a vintage wedding dress that had either been cursed or waiting for its moment to shine.
The bell over the door jingled cheerfully as I stepped inside.
“Mornin,’ dear!” Grace called from behind the counter. She was a few years older than me and a member of the Sunshine Breakfast Club. Buttercup Lake’s town gossip coalition disguised as a book club.
“Hi,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Just browsing.”
She narrowed her eyes in the way small-town busy bodies did when they knew too much.
“Browsing, hm? Looking for something special?”
“Maybe a throw pillow. Or a lamp. Something for my temporary place at the lodge.”
“I heard your apartment is being painted.”
