Jenna nudges me as we inch closer to the front. “Maze, look alive. That’s your match.”
Maybe I could fake a twisted ankle. Or blame pollen allergies. Or disappear into the Stitch Sisters’ tent and pretend I’ve been taking quilting lessons. But then, Beau Callahan turns—and all my excuses go fuzzy around the edges.
There he is.
For a second, everything else fades—the applause, the glitter, even Jenna’s hummingbird energy beside me. My breath catches.
Beau Callahan stands near the edge of the main stage platform, flannel sleeves rolled up, one scuffed boot propped against the corner trim. He’s staring straight at me like I’ve just announced I’m selling his secrets in the church bulletin.
Beau is tall. Lean yet muscular. Broad-shouldered in a way that speaks to years spent building fences, fixing porches, and hauling lumber. Tousled dark brown waves brush his collar, long enough to tie back or tuck under a well-worn ballcap. The kind of length that looks effortlessly handsome—he didn’t try for it, but somehow got it just right anyway.
Backlit by the sun, his hair looks as though it probablyfeels as lovely as velvet or a dryer-warmed plush baby blanket—soft enough to make you wonder, unruly enough to draw the eye. A well-groomed beard frames a face that’s older now—sharper cheekbones, more angles—but still familiar enough to stir something in my memory.
Suddenly I remember once, years ago, spotting him crouched in the gravel driveway outside their house, fixing Tess’s bike chain with precise, capable hands and a smudge of grease across his cheek. He hadn’t noticed me watching from across the street, but I’d stood there longer than I meant to, wondering how someone so unassuming could still draw my attention like a magnet.
And those eyes. Blue-gray and clear as a tide pool. Watchful. Reflective. Deeper than they seem at first glance. He studies me, and I sense he is trying to compare the present version of me with someone he might’ve once passed in a hallway.
At five foot four, I don’t take up much space. But the way he’s looking at me? It makes me feel that I do. As though every inch of my curvy, soft frame is being seen and measured—not in a critical way, but in a way that still makes me shift my weight and tug at the edge of my apron. I’m not overweight. I know that. But I’ve never been willowy or svelte. I’m shaped like a woman who lifts flower buckets for a living—cushiony, full curves, strong arms, and hips that bump into narrow doorways.
The rest of the crowd is clapping, chatting, calling out names. From the back, someone shouts, “Ooh, good luck with that one, Beau!” followed by laughter. I barely register any of it. Just him. Just that look.
Under his direct gaze, there’s a twinge of self-consciousness. Not because I feel wrong, but because his eyes don’tflit away at all. And something in me is bracing, unsure what he sees. There’s a strange vulnerability to being seen and not knowing what that means yet.
Jenna whispers, “Still want out?”
Chapter 2
Absolutely Not (Okay, Maybe)
Maisie
Iwant to say, “Yes get me out.”
I want to say, “I left the oven on.”
Instead, I practice my meditative breathing. Once. Twice. And stay as rooted as one of the daffodils in my window display.
I can’t look away either.
Our eyes are locked.
His mouth quirks as though he might smile. Not big, not warm—enough to make me wonder if he’s amused, confused, or barely keeping it together like I am. His almost-smile shifts and dims before I can read it fully, as if he caught himself just in time.
And then, as the crowd begins to cheer, he mutters something I can’t catch and shakes his head. It reminds me of someone trying to wake himself up from a dream he never expected to find himself in. And rightfully so, because same as for me, I’m pretty sure the town just flipped a page in his story without warning or permission.
The applause swells. I swallow hard. I didn’t come here looking for romance. I came for routine, tradition, and town spirit. I may be loud, a little extra, sometimes even a walking emotional fireworks display, but I still need to feel in control of my life.
I need to be able to design the direction of my future in the same way I arrange my window displays: orderly, curated, safely framed behind glass. That way my life won’t suddenly veer off course again the way it did a few years ago.
But for a quick second, I wonder what would happen if this match—the one I never asked for—turns out to be the one I never saw coming.
Sweetpines locals buzz around the square as if our charming little town is auditioning for its own holiday special. Music from a nearby speaker floats through the air—something pop/country with too much ukulele. The scent of powdered sugar and deep-fried dough curls around me, a sly scent memory. Streamers snap and sway overhead, and Peaches lets out a yip that startles a tiny girl into dropping her lemonade. I flinch and wipe my palms on my skirt, which is already sticking where the breeze doesn’t reach.
A hammer clangs against metal in the distance, and I feel it in my bones. The sun flashes off the compatibility quilt’s glinting embroidery, beams like light sabers burning straight into my eyes. I wince, lashes twitching as a bead of sweat slips down and clings to the edge of my eye, hot and stinging. My vision blurs for a heartbeat, long enough to match the rising heat rising under my cheeks.
Even though I’ve grown accustomed to this yearly event—everything about today’s festival is gaudy and crazy loud—but not loud enough to drown out the echo of his name still bouncing around my brain.
Beau Callahan. Tess’s brother. Panic spiral beginning, but at least he’s cute.
