Chapter 30
Ethan
It was the morning of opening day, and they were just about ready. His hands were busy stacking buckets, but his eyes kept drifting to where Honey was trimming back a bush. The sight of her—hair tied up, shirt a little rumpled from the morning’s work—pulled at something deep in him.
The last few days had been something else entirely. In his mind, the bells tolled over and over, each chime marking the moments he fell for her again. Every brush of her hand, every lingering glance, every breath caught between them only pulled him deeper. Waking with her beside him, stealing touches in the kitchen, trading quiet smiles over the girls’ heads. He couldn’t remember the last time life had felt that easy. For the first time in years, he let himself pretend.
“People! We open in ten minutes!” Brooke’s voice rang out.
Ethan’s heart gave a proud twist as she marched toward them, clipboard in hand, Melly trailing behind like a pint-sized assistant manager. Both girls wore matching Petals and Thorns shirts and very serious expressions.
“Pick-your-own-fruit?” Brooke called out.
“Check,” Melly said.
“Petting zoo?”
They all looked over toward the barn where Ethan had built a small pen for the goats and alpacas Marlene had loaned them.
“Delilah, don’t you dare sit in that mud,” Marlene scolded, stomping across the hay toward an alpaca that only blinked at her. “You are representing my name today.”
She turned to the other. “And Lucille, I swear on my best Tupperware, if you spit on a single child, there will be no watermelon for a week.”
“I think Marlene has it handled,” Ethan said.
“Check,” Brooke said, making a decisive mark. She turned briskly on her heel.
“Wait!” Melly said, scrambling to dig something out of her little purse. She pulled out a disposable camera and squinted up at them. “Can you take our picture? I wanna show it to Mom.”
Ethan froze. Melly’s hope was so bright, that for a moment, all he could do was stand there with his arms slack at his sides. He wanted to promise her that picture would find its way into her mother’s hands, but the lie caught in his throat.
Honey moved first. Gently, she took the camera from Melly’s outstretched hands while Ethan stood there feeling useless and guilty.
No one said anything as Brooke and Melly lined up in front of the freshly painted sign. Ethan couldn’t look at the words too long, because if he did, he’d start imagining a life where this wasn’t temporary. Where the girls had roots here and Honey wasn’t packing her things in a borrowed room.
“Smile, girls,” Honey said as she raised the camera up and clicked the shutter.
“Okay, let’s go,” Brooke said. “We still haven’t checked the handwashing station.”
Ethan watched the girls dart off, then glanced back toward Honey. “Melly says that every once in a while. She’s got a whole little shoebox of things she plans to show Leticia when she comes back. I’ve told her I don’t know when that’ll happen, but she does it anyway.”
“Oh.” Honey folded her arms. “So the clue from Clover didn’t work out?”
Ethan’s jaw tensed. “I haven’t had a chance to check.”
Of course he hadn’t. He’d been too busy stealing time he shouldn’t have with Honey. He’d spent the last few nights with her, kissing her in the dark, and touching her like she was already his. For a few precious days, he’d let himself forget that there was still a woman out there he was supposed to be searching for.
He hadn’t just pulled himself away from the search. He’d let himself pretend there wasn’t a search at all.
Part of him thought maybe it was for the best. Even if Leticia walked back in right then, he couldn’t imagine what it would look like. There was no going back to how things were. As much as he wanted the girls to have their mom, he had no idea what she was like now.
“I will, though,” he added. “After all this is over.”
Honey nodded, and the way she didn’t push stung worse than if she had.
They fell into step again, walking past the orchard rows where the morning sun filtered through the branches. The trees were full and ripe, their apples glowing red and gold in the light. At the farm stand, Brody Fitch in an apron restocked crates with jars of peach preserves, hand pies, caramel apples, and bundles of cookies tied with twine. Pickles bleated lazily from the petting zoo pen nearby.
“You really pulled it off,” she said, nudging his side.
