“I was going to pay for it!”
She chuckled. “Of course you were, sweetheart.”
I marched to the register, slapped the pillow down, and handed her cash, but she held the bill with a thoughtful frown.
“You know,” she said lightly, “sometimes settling down doesn’t mean stopping. It means choosing a home base.”
The words struck deeper than she knew.
“Have a lovely day, dear,” she added, bagging my pillow.
I stepped outside into the spring sunlight, feeling unsettled, exposed, and far too seen. The pillow warmed against my chest as I walked toward my Subaru.
I wasn’t ready to run.
Not yet.
But staying?
Letting myself want something real with Carson?
Letting roots form?
That was its own kind of terrifying.
And as I climbed into my car, pillow beside me, engine humming, one truth settled uncomfortably but firmly in my chest.
I wanted to stay.
I wanted to see what this season could be.
With the lodge.
With my family.
With him.
Even if it scared me.
Maybe especially because it scared me.
I had just put the Subaru in reverse when someone tapped the driver’s side window.
I jumped so hard I smacked my elbow on the cup holder.
Carson stood there, hands in his pockets, looking too calm for someone who’d nearly given me cardiac arrest. His hair was a little messy, like he’d run a hand through it recently, and he wore that dark navy fleece shirt that made his shoulders look unfairly broad.
I rolled down the window an inch. “You can’t just materialize next to vehicles. People die like that.”
His mouth twitched. “I saw your Subaru. Thought I’d say hi.”
“Oh.”
Totally normal. Totally fine. Totally not sweating.
His gaze flicked to the passenger seat. “New pillow?”
I clutched it possessively. “Don’t judge my nesting.”
