We find him near the gazebo, watching the bluegrass band with what appears to be genuine interest. He's tall, maybe six-two, with dark hair silvered at the temples and the kind of bone structure that probably makes him annoyingly photogenic. His clothes are expensive but understated: a charcoal wool coat, dark jeans, boots that have actually seen some use.
He's also, objectively speaking, extremely attractive.
Not that I'm looking. I have Jake. But I'm not blind.
"Trent," Jake calls out. "Glad you could make it."
Trent Davenport turns, and his smile is warm without being excessive. "Jake. Good to finally meet in person." They shake hands, and then Trent's attention shifts to me. "And you must be the pastry genius I've heard so much about."
"Madison Tate." I shake his hand. "The sticky buns are still warm, if you want one."
"I absolutely do."
We make small talk while I flag down Jenna to bring over a sticky bun. Trent is charming in that effortless way some people have: asking questions and actually listening to the answers, making observations about the festival that suggesthe's genuinely paying attention rather than just waiting for his turn to speak.
"This town is something special," he says, accepting the sticky bun with appropriate reverence. "I've been looking at properties all over Montana, Colorado, Wyoming. Nothing has felt right until now."
"Wylde Mountain has that effect on people," I say. "Trust me, I know. I was just passing through six months ago."
"And now?"
"And now I'm never leaving."
Jake's arm slides around my waist, and I lean into him. Trent watches us with something that might be wistfulness, though it's gone too quickly to be sure.
"Dave mentioned you were in tech," Jake says. "Before."
"Before." Trent takes a bite of the sticky bun and closes his eyes briefly. "This is extraordinary, by the way. Yes, I was in tech. Sold my company last year." He shrugs, a gesture that somehow conveys both pride and exhaustion. "Spent twelve years building something, and now I'm trying to figure out what comes next."
"The Morrison ranch would be a good place to figure that out," Jake offers.
"That's what I'm hoping." Trent finishes the sticky bun and carefully wipes his fingers on a napkin. "I'd love to see it tomorrow, if that works for your schedule. I know you said it's fairly remote."
"About an hour outside town, yeah. The access road can be tricky this time of year, but I know it well. We could head out in the morning, make a day of it."
"I'm looking forward to—"
He stops mid-sentence.
I follow his gaze and see Emma approaching, carrying a tray of sample cups from her coffee booth. She's wearing a rust-colored sweater that brings out the gold in her hair, her cheekspink from the cold, looking like she stepped out of an autumn catalog.
"Jake! Madison!" she calls. "Harper made me bring over samples of the new cold brew, and I need honest opinions because she thinks it's too strong but I think it's perfect and—"
She stops too.
For a moment, they just look at each other.
"Oh," Emma says. "Hello."
"Hello," Trent replies.
It's subtle—so subtle I might have missed it if I weren't watching. A slight shift in Emma's posture. The way Trent's smile changes from polite to something more genuine. The half-second too long before either of them looks away.
"Emma, this is Trent Davenport," Jake says. "He's looking at the Morrison property. Trent, my sister Emma. She owns the coffee shop next to Harper's bookstore."
"Best coffee in Wylde Mountain," I add.
Emma extends her hand. "That's debatable, but I appreciate the endorsement." Her voice is perfectly steady, perfectly friendly. "Nice to meet you, Trent."
