So now he is gone.
And I am still sitting at the tiny table by the window, staring at the blinking cursor on my laptop and trying to decide whether starting a blog because a rugged mountain man told me to believe in myself is romantic or insane.
Probably both.
I have a title doc open.
Lovestone Ridge.
Under that, I have written exactly three lines before deleting all of them.
Apparently it is easier to announce a life change to the universe than it is to write the first sentence.
My phone buzzes beside me.
I glance down and smile before I can help it.
Weston:Roads are clear enough. You behaving?
A laugh slips out of me.
Me:Define behaving.
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
Weston:Trouble.
Warmth spreads through me.
Me:I’m trying to write.
Weston:Good. Proud of you.
And there it is again.
That simple, impossible support that still feels unfamiliar enough to make my chest ache.
Before I can answer, there is a knock at the door.
I blink.
Weston would not knock.
Maybe it is one of the town ladies. The matchmaking committee, or whatever version of it this place has. Maybe someone is bringing pie. Or storm leftovers. Or unsolicited relationship advice. Maybe they want to congratulate me for finally taming their grumpiest lumberjack.
The thought makes me grin as I stand and cross the cabin.
Then I open the door.
And my whole body goes cold.
Darren stands on the porch.
For one stunned second, I just stare at him.
He looks exactly the same. Hair stiff with too much gel. Expensive sneakers he did not pay for himself. That practiced expression he always wears when he wants something.
My stomach turns.
