Shifting the camera bag I brought for pictures of Phoebe and her classmates, I try to ground myself in the present. Standing in these trees, in front of Aiden, is overwhelming.
I take him in, heat creeping up my neck as I do. He’s older and more chiseled, with sexy lines around his eyes as he squints across the distance at me. Even with the space between us, the hard line of his mouth is evident beneath his dark beard.
This rugged look suits him well, like Endgame Captain America—and the realization knocks the air from my lungs. I shouldn’t still know exactly how he undoes me. Abby likes her romance novels, and I’m clearly a sucker for a man in uniform.
I’ll never be able to watch an Avengers movie the same again.
I freeze as he crosses the field, the big red barn looming behind him. It’s a cinematic moment, and I wish I could capture how confidently he moves. If I raise my camera, I know the light will frame him perfectly.
Storywood Ridge always seems to deliver drama at the perfect time. And I hate that I want that image hanging on my wall.
“No horses today?” He jabs his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bus, and the tension between us bursts.
A giggle trickles out of me, along with a shred of relief, and I grin.
“That only applies in Texas. I prefer transportation with heated seats up here.”
“Smart move.”
His gaze dips to my mouth, then flicks back to my eyes—like the thought of saying something else crosses his mind. Then heshutters it, clearing his throat like he’s locking the moment back in its cage.
He reaches up with one hand and rubs his eyebrow with his thumb, and I take in how familiar he still feels. He’s layered for the weather but also for work—shirt, flannel, and a ranch coat. A wool beanie covers his head and ears, likely for practicality, but I wish he’d worn his cowboy hat instead. He always looked the most handsome in one.
A new image flashes in my mind: Cap with a cowboy hat on, and I dip my head to hide the blush.
What is wrong with you?
When we met in college, he’d bought into the stereotype that we ride horses everywhere. Sure, we have mounted police officers, and yes, some people ride horses to the store. But most of us drive cars and trucks like anywhere else. His disappointment was palpable. And adorable.
Aiden temporarily moved to Texas after he’d been accepted to an exclusive forestry program at a local agricultural college, and we’d met while trying to snag the last snickerdoodle from a campus café. Our mutual love for the holiday treat led to an afternoon of skipped classes, getting kicked out at closing, and a late dinner.
We’d been pretty much inseparable, despite the long-distance relationship we struggled through when he came back here, until the end.
Images flash through my mind at warp speed—younger versions of us chasing each other through these very trees, the gentle press of his lips against mine, our laughter ricocheting off the rafters of his family home, a flour-filled kitchen after a family food fight while baking sugar cookies.
The memories feel close enough to touch, like this land is replaying them on an invisible projector—and daring me to believe they could exist again.
I didn’t expect seeing him again to feel so raw. My nerves flutter, just like at the start of our relationship. Reeling from nostalgia and tender bruises on my heart, I automatically grasp my necklace, tracing the outline of Colorado with my thumb to steady myself before the emotion carries me off.
“The farm looks good. There are more trees than I remember.”
I’ve never been good at small talk, but it’s what I reach for to quell the onslaught of emotions I feel.
“We planted quite a few new ones, actually.” He stands a little taller as he looks out over the land.
The view of the farm has always been spectacular: rows of evergreen trees stretch out to meet the Rockies in the distance. I took this sight for granted when I’d been here last, and suddenly, I want nothing more than to capture the sunset from this very spot. Or sunrise. The sun’s rays stretching into the heavens beyond the trees have got to be magnificent.
With every breath, the air tastes like pine and nostalgia, like the whole Ridge is steeped in old stories that haven’t finished yet.
Just like ours. There’s an unexpected ache in my chest as the thought flits through my mind.
“Dad planted a bunch a few years back, before…” A shadow crosses his face. He clears his throat, the mood between us darkening with unspoken emotion—then, as if catching himself, his tone shifts brighter. “They’re still small, but they’ll get there.”
“Tiny but mighty,” I murmur. “It’s funny, isn’t it? Sometimes the small things make the biggest impact.”
His gaze meets mine, and the sadness there draws me in. I want to tell him I’m sorry about his parents. To step closer and reach for him the way I used to. Another old habit that I can’t afford. Wanting was never the problem, but letting myself take it?
That’sthe issue.
