“Only if you’re sure,” Macy says.
“Worst case scenario, I could always just take them home with me.”
“To your house?”
“That’s where they lived until a couple of months ago. I even have an alpaca shed, remember?”
“So you’re staying in Emerald Creek for good then?” Macy raises an eyebrow.
Her suspicion is warranted. Sitting still has never been my strong suit. Just because I bought a house doesn’t mean I plan to live there indefinitely. I saw it as a smart investment. A property I could rent should the urge to return to my old life—or start a brand new one—strike me.
“It’s a worst-case scenario,” I say, evading the question as I push off the fence. “I think Gertie would miss her new bestie.”
“Ryder would happily let you take Gertie to live with you too,” Macy says on a laugh.
“He mightsaythat, but deep down, I know he’s attached to the little demon. Plus, I’m not equipped to rescue goats who tend to hop onto roofs.”
I feel suddenly antsy, like a wild animal who’s been cornered. Have I considered staying in my hometown long term? Sure. But I’m not about to admit that to anyone. Not until I know for sure. Which is just another reason I should steer clear of Wyatt Knight. That man isn’t the casual sex type. He’s the type to make a commitment and see it through.
“Do you knowhowto take care of alpacas?”
“I could figure it out. But for your peace of mind, let’s hope Ryder’s receptive to alpacas that won’t take away from the ranch’s bottom line. Plus, imagine how great they’ll be for your future petting zoo.”
“If the other two are anything like Birdie, the kids would go wild.”
“Don’t write off us grown adults. Alpaca hugs are officially one of my new favorite things.” I catch myself starting to pace and shift focus. “Hey, want to grab a burger? I need to swing by the diner anyway.”
“Let me get my keys.”
No matter how many miles I venture away from Montana, Grandma Jean’s diner has always been my True North. The place I come home to again and again. There’s a little redheaded girl with braided pigtails coloring a picture in the same booth I used to spend hours doing homework in. Seeing her there, I’m instantly pulled back to my childhood.
Growing up, Grandma Jean used to let me bus tables for spending money. I probably ate my bodyweight in ice cream three times over on one of the black and white stools at the front counter. And I’d never be able to count the number of conversations I had with customers from all over the country about the different framed stills from the iconic movieTwister.
Dad’s favorite movie.
It was his love of it—or more accurately hisobsession—that inspired me to study meteorology. I paired that with Mom’s passion for photography and eventually joined a storm chasing crew. It was an exhilarating life, photographing and filming powerful storms. It was a life I thought my parents would both be proud of. Grandma Jean assured me I was right.
All felt right with the world, until Connie Wilson gave me a reality check that rattled me to the core. The stranger may as well have reached into my chest cavity and squeezed my heart in an icy death grip with her long, bony fingers for the way she shackled my wrist that day and spat those words at me.
I was headed forThe Cow’s Moothe night Wyatt pulled me over. To this day, I’m still grateful for the burnt-out taillight that kept Grandma Jean from seeing me in that disastrous state. Wyatt gave me a chance to regain my composure before I waltzed into the diner the next morning to inform Grandma Jean that I was moving back to Emerald Creek.
I owe Wyatt so much, not just for covering for me, but for being there for me time and time again.
Why did I have to go and mess that up by kissing him?
It was way more than a kiss, and you know it.
“I’m starving,” Macy says as we claim a couple of stools around the front counter. Normally, we’d commandeer a corner booth, but I want to show Grandma Jean that photo. She’s a lifelong resident of this town. If she doesn’t recognize the ranch in the background, she might know someone who will.
“Well isn’t this a pleasant surprise.” Grandma Jean’s expression brightens as she spots the two of us behind the counter and approaches. “Here for ice cream?”
“Believe it or not, we’re here for dinner,” Macy says.
“Ice cream after, then,” Grandma Jeans says with a wink as a redheaded woman I don’t recognize appears from the kitchen with a tray of plates.
“Who’s that?”
“Gemma,” Grandma Jean answers, as though that clears everything up. I don’t recognize her, but it’s possible the woman lives in another town.
