“Whatever works.” I shrug, resisting the urge to pull her against me with everyone watching. I settle for my hand on her lower back instead—professional enough for public, but I still get to touch her.
Suddenly there’s commotion from the pen. The chocolate Lab pup—the biggest, most adventurous one—has his front paws hooked over the edge, trying desperately to escape.
We move in perfect sync without a word. Sophie grabs his front paws while I circle around to unlatch the gate. Our hands meet as we catch the wiggling puppy, who’s as determined as before.
“Just like Mrs. Tate’s Great Dane,” Sophie laughs, securing the Lab against her chest. “Remember when he decided the exam room was a prison and made a break for it?”
“How could I forget? You went left, I went right?—”
“And he went straight through the reception desk,” she finishes, laughing. “Poor Jen nearly had a coronary.”
The sun climbs higher, warming the town square. I catch the scent of cotton candy from the adjacent booth, grilled corn from the food trucks, and roses absolutely everywhere. Our pet adoption station sits directly across from where elderly gardeners argue over their entries in the rose naming competition.
“You two make such a lovely couple,” Mrs. Peterson announces, approaching with her minuscule Chihuahua tucked under one arm. “I was just telling my book club how wonderful you look together.”
Sophie’s cheeks flush that pink I love, while I stand taller, feeling both proud and protective.
“So glad it all worked out,” Mrs. Peterson continues, patting my arm. “I told Sophie last year when you helped save our clinic that you were a keeper. Didn’t I, dear?”
“You did,” Sophie confirms, shooting me a look that says she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Multiple times.”
“Well, when you’ve been married fifty years like Herbert and me, you develop an eye for the real thing.” She adjusts her sunhat, beaming at us like a proud grandmother. “So when’s the wedding?”
“Still finalizing the details,” I say smoothly, knowing Sophie hates being cornered about wedding planning.
Mrs. Peterson nods knowingly. “Don’t wait too long. Life moves faster than you think.”
As she toddles away, I catch Sophie watching me with an expression that makes my chest tight. “What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“Nothing.” She shakes her head slightly. “Just… you handled that perfectly. Last year, you would’ve announced our exact wedding date if we’d had one, desperate to prove to everyone you were staying.”
I shrug, but warmth spreads through me at what she’s noticed. “I don’t need to prove anything anymore. Not to this town. Not even to myself.”
She takes my hand, our fingers interlacing like they were designed specifically for this. “No, you don’t.”
Around us, the festival pulses with energy—kids shrieking at the petting zoo, teenagers giggling near the face painting booth, the mayor rehearsing his speech by the gazebo. But right now, all that noise fades as I look at her.
A year ago, I stood in this exact spot, watching her from across the square, trying to build courage to approach. Every step toward her felt like wading through concrete, every word between us weighted with five years of damage.
Now she leans into me, warm and solid and mine, as we observe the festival crowd together. The Lab pup who attempted escape earlier snoozes at our feet. When Sophie shifts her hand, sunlight catches her ring and scatters prismatic light across our table.
“Henderson family’s heading back,” she murmurs, indicating with her chin.
I squeeze her hand once before releasing it to greet them about puppy adoption. I need to walk them through the application process, explain our home visit requirements, discuss what it means to bring a high-energy breed into their family. But what I’m really thinking, what fills every corner of my mind:
I’m home. Right here. With her. And I’m never leaving again.
Harper’s flame-red hair cuts through the crowd like a beacon, and I spot her heading our direction with purpose. She walks fast and sure, moving around families and kids with cotton candy. She’s woven wild roses into her hair that actually looks pretty good. A year ago, seeing Harper approach would’ve tensed every muscle in my body. She made it crystal clear that if I hurt Sophie again, she’d ensure I regretted ever returning to Bellrose. Today, I’m genuinely glad to see her, even with that clipboard she’s holding like it contains state secrets.
“Found you!” Harper announces like we’ve been concealing ourselves instead of manning a booth in the dead center of the square. “We have a critical wedding emergency to address.”
Sophie sighs beside me, but I can hear the affection underneath. “Harper, we’re in the middle of?—”
“Rescuing homeless animals, yes, very noble,” Harper interrupts, flipping through papers on her clipboard very seriously. “But the bakery needs a decision by next week—lemon cake or chocolate. This is time-sensitive, Sophie.”
I suppress a grin as Sophie shoots me a look. We both know exactly what’s happening. Harper’s appointed herself our wedding planner despite the fact we keep reminding her we haven’t even set a date yet. She’s been leaving bridal magazines all over our house.
“We can’t choose a cake when we don’t have a venue or date,” Sophie points out with flawless logic.
