“Wrong person to ask.”
Clay grunts, pointing to a gold band with a diamond on it, just like every other gold band with a diamond on the page. “I’m thinking this one.”
“They all look the same to me, buddy.”
“Yeah, me too.” He runs a hand over his beard, scowling at his phone. “That’s why I’m struggling. I want to get something special for Savannah.”
My brother has been determined to put a ring on her finger ever since they met. It’s all he talks about. I’m happy for him, but the personality change is still giving me whiplash.
“She’ll love whatever you pick,” I say.
“I hope so.” He swallows hard, eyes fixed on his screen. “Fuck, I hope she says yes.”
“She will.”
They’re crazy about each other. There’s no way Savannah would ever refuse him.
“Been dropping lots of hints,” Clay says. “I think she knows it’s coming.” He glances back toward the tree line—toward his own cabin, a mile away—and his expression shifts. Suddenly, he steps back from my truck, like an invisible rope is pulling himhome. I swear he can’t bear to be away from Savannah for more than five minutes.
“I’ll let you get to the diner,” he says distractedly. “Thanks for looking at the rings.”
“I wasn’t much help.”
“It’s okay.” He shrugs me off. “Like you said, wrong person to ask. Guess we’re not exactly big romantics.”
He raises a hand in parting and turns on his heel, striding impatiently into the trees. Once he’s gone, I close the truck door and start the engine, heading up the dirt track until I hit asphalt. The road down Cherry Mountain snakes between towering pines and firs, their branches choked in silver haze. Drizzle spits against my windscreen as I near the bottom, my mind running over what Clay just said.
We’re not exactly big romantics.
It sure used to be true for Clay. Until he met Savannah, my brother never believed in romance and thought marriage was a sham. He always assumed I felt the same, and I never corrected him. But truth is, I always believed she was out there. My dream woman. I could feel it lodged deep in my chest—a stubborn, irrational certainty that fate would bring her to me one day.
So I waited.
And waited…
And waited.
I started to lose hope after a while. Forty-two years of age, and I’d never even been tempted. Never even slept with a woman. Hell, who’d want a man like me? I’m the size of a goddamn grizzly, with a face to match. People flinch when they see me. Step back when I enter a room. Cross the street without thinking about it. After years of shit like that, you stop expecting anything different. You try to make peace with it: the solitude, the loneliness, the life built for one.
But everything changed when I walked into Creekside Diner last month.
Everything changed when I sawher.
My chest tightens as I enter the town, crossing the bridge over Sugar Creek. The diner sits right on the water, still half frozen from last night’s frost. It’s a squat clapboard building, painted sage and set apart from the other stores on Main Street—the creek on one side, a thicket of pines on the other.
I park out front and get out of my truck, heart thudding. The bell jingles as I push through the door to the diner and duck into the warmth, the familiar smell of bacon and pancakes hanging in the air.
Then I see her.
Josie.
She’s pouring coffee behind the counter, her pink lips curling into a smile as she talks to a waiting customer. Her long red hair is pulled into a high ponytail, a few loose strands softening her freckled face. She’s wearing jeans, a dark green sweater, and her usual black apron withCreekside Dineremblazoned across the front—her thick curves filling out every inch of fabric.
Fuck. She gets more beautiful every day.
Every time I see Josie, it feels just like the first time—the same shudder moving through my body, the same helpless lurch in my chest. I’ve been obsessed since the moment I set eyes on her last month. Hell, I wasn’t even planning to visit the diner that day. I pulled in on a whim after delivering some wood to Stirling’s Lumber and Hardware—a split-second decision that turned my world upside down.
Swallowing hard, I head for my usual booth, feeling Josie’s eyes on me. As I pass the counter, an old man sitting on the end stool glances up from his coffee and does a double take—eyes traveling up, and up, and up to my face. I see him draw back almost instinctively as I pass, wilting like a dead plant. I don’treact. Never do. You can’t argue with instinct, and when people see me, their instinct is fear. I stopped expecting anything different a long time ago.
