The protective walls I'd built so carefully after Lily died, they were crumbling into dust. I was falling in love with Cole Brennan and his sweet niece.
Falling for them meant facing the mountain eventually. Risking devastating loss. Opening my hands.
But sitting here, in a kitchen still echoing with their laughter and warmth, I realized something both terrifying and wonderful:
My hands were already open.
And I wasn't sure I wanted to close them again.
11.Cole
Nothing could have prepared me for the terror of wanting to kiss Emma Reed under a sky full of witness stars.
Not my time at foster homes that made Lord of the Flies look like a summer camp brochure. Not the hive of angry bees I had to face after a bear raid.
Let me backtrack a little.
The Pine Ridge Elementary gymnasium smelled of popcorn, floor wax, and the faint desperation of parents trying to survive another school event with their sanity intact. Orange and black streamers drooped from the ceiling like exhausted party guests. A banner reading "Fall Festival Fun!" hung slightly crooked above the refreshment table, the exclamation point feeling aggressively optimistic given the circumstances.
I stood just inside the double doors, feeling like a boulder among river stones. Every other man in the room seemed to have received a memo about appropriate attire. I was surrounded by khakis, polo shirts, and boat shoes that had never seen an actual boat. I'd worn my cleanest flannel. The one without holes. The one I'd actually ironed, which was a process that had involved YouTube tutorials and mild profanity.
This was apparently still the wrong outfit.
A woman in a cardigan gave me a wide berth, clutching her punch cup like I might snatch it from her hands. A man I vaguely recognized from the hardware store nodded once, the kind of acknowledgment you'd give a large dog of uncertain temperament.
Then I saw her.
Emma was across the crowded room, talking to a group of parents near the pumpkin display. She wore a yellow sundress, the color of sun-warmed butter, her honey-blonde hair down in soft waves around her shoulders instead of its usual practical bun. She was laughing at something, gesturing with her hands, absolutely radiant in a way that made my chest constrict painfully.
She looked like summer had gotten lost and wandered into autumn by mistake. She looked like the kind of warmth I'd stopped believing existed.
As if feeling the weight of my stare, her gaze drifted across the room and found me. For a moment, her expression flickered with surprise; maybe she hadn't expected me to actually show up. Her polite social smile transformed into something private and bright, meant only for me.
My heart did something deeply embarrassing in response.
She excused herself from her conversation and wove through the crowd, navigating around small children and folding chairs with practiced grace. I watched her approach, acutely aware that I was standing too stiffly, that my hands didn't know what to do with themselves, that I'd probably already terrified at least three parents just by existing in their general vicinity.
"You came," she said, stopping in front of me. Close enough that I could smell her perfume, something floral and warm that made me want to lean closer.
"Sarah's singing in the choir. Wouldn't miss it."
"That's the only reason?"
"The primary reason." I paused, attempting humor. "The popcorn was a factor."
Her smile widened, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "The popcorn here is terrible. It's been sitting in that machine since approximately 1987."
"I'm aware. I have low standards."
She laughed and touched my elbow lightly. The contact sent electricity up my arm. "Come on. They're about to start. I saved us seats."
She led me through the maze of folding chairs and chattering parents to a row near the front. We sat, and our shoulders brushed. The gymnasium was warm and crowded, filled with the cacophony of excited children and adult conversation, but all my awareness narrowed to that single point of contact where her arm pressed against mine.
Pathetic, I told myself. You're a grown man. Get a grip.
My arm stayed exactly where it was.
The choir shuffled onto the makeshift stage, two dozen nervous children in matching black and orange shirts, arranged in wobbly rows on risers that looked like they'd seen better decades. Sarah spotted us immediately from her position in the second row and waved with absolutely zero subtlety, her whole arm windmilling enthusiastically.
