I left Adam and Molly on their own that night, promising to check in on them the next day. Imagine my surprise when myphone calls went straight to voicemail, and my text messages went unanswered. Instead of hopping in my car and directly confronting him, I decide to take a step back and give the man some space. Room to breathe. To think clearly. He’s obviously got a ton on his mind, and I don’t want to be the kind of woman who incessantly haggles with him for answers.
By Monday morning, I’m back behind my polished veneer, sitting in my office and staring at the computer screen in front of me. I don’t know what else to do except work. The ball is in Adam’s court. He’ll have to reach out to me when he’s good and ready.
My mind drifts to snapshots of our time together. We connected almost immediately. I love his gentle spirit. His quiet soul. His smile makes me feel like time stops when he looks at me. I know deep down he’s struggling with a certain loss. What that is, I still don’t know. But I can feel his vibe. His pain is heavy, and I fear we may be drifting apart before we’ve even started anything.
I wish I could check in on him. I hope he and Molly are okay. I wish he wasn’t carrying this burden in silence.
Being at the Lavender Festival together felt like a scene out of a movie, just the two of us, the dog, and the purple fields. I remember thinking this could be the start of something real. We shared stories, our bond feeling like something more than just attraction. His charm matches my energy beautifully. I want more shared moments, laughter, and quiet walks with him. I recognize something unique in Adam that could potentially define the next chapter of my life. Or maybe I’m being totallydelusional and only imagined there was something blossoming between us.
My email suddenly pings with an incoming message. I sigh and shift into work mode, clicking on the link. I blink back at the multiple images popping up on my computer screen.
They’re photographs. Of me.
My mouth drops open as I scroll, heart thumping with disbelief and pride. Each soft, dreamy picture is a revelation. These are not simply photos, but glimpses into something gentler, more hopeful inside me. Adam was right. The lavender fields, the flowing fabric of my dress, and the careful way he captured me brought out a romantic vulnerability I didn’t know I could show. I study the images, my breath catching. I am radiant, bathed in an ethereal glow. This artist didn’t just transform my look; he let me see myself with fresh, softened eyes. No more stiff stock-photo grins or forced beauty-queen smiles. I appear approachable, warm, and sincerely ready to welcome a neighbor. I can’t help but think: yes, I trust her. I’d buy property from this smiling, genuine woman in the picture.
“Oh, my goodness,” I mumble, floored by his talent.
My phone dings with a text message, and I’m tempted to ignore it, transfixed by the images in front of me. I sneak a glance and realize it’s Adam. My fingers fumble as I quickly click the screen to read what it says.
Come to the house after work, at dusk. I have a surprise for you. Don’t dress up.
I type back a reply with my top teeth pressed into my lips to thwart off a smile.Can you give me a little hint?
No.
Why not?
Trust me, Angel Face.
I snort-laugh out loud. For some reason, I like it when he calls me by my high school nickname.
Come on. One little clue.
I wait, tapping my heeled foot against the wooden floorboards, my tummy pooling with heat. I scowl when a full minute goes by without a response.
Please?
That one word seems to do the trick, and I can see the little text bubble percolating with a reply. I hold my breath.
He sends me three emojis: a tent, a fishing pole, and a fire emoji. My grin is instant.
Adam Woodbury is taking me camping.
Chapter Eleven
Adam
I drive my camper van down a craggy dirt path next to the house. I continue through the expansive meadow toward the creek, scoping out the perfect spot and park. I spend all day airing things out. Scrubbing and cleaning the floors and counters. Placing the cushions and mattress in direct sunlight in the soft grass, among the fresh breeze. Molly frolics in the background, happy to be off-leash. She chases butterflies and brings me sticks. I happily throw them, keeping her entertained while I work.
Lifting the floorboards, I find a box of fairy lights and string them across the open end of my van facing the water. The sound of the creek soothes me, and I almost start to feel grounded again.
I want to tell Keri about my wife and daughter. I do. It’s been weighing heavily on my mind since the day we met. But first, I want to shower her with a lovely evening in a place that holds happy memories for her.
Earlier, I drove into town and picked up supplies for our little impromptu campout. Hot dogs and chips, chocolate bars, marshmallows, and graham crackers. A bottle of vino. Some eggs and bacon for a good old-fashioned scramble in my cast-iron skillet over the fire in the morning,ifshe chooses to stay the night. And that’s a big if. I sure hope she does.
Nothing beats a generous woman like Keri. And that’s exactly who she is. She’s a woman generous with her time. Someone who shows up ready and acts as if she has nothing else to do that day. A woman who’s generous with her heart. The type of girl who would share her home and buy you the most delicious salsa. Someone who leans in and listens with her whole body. Especially when she knows it’s something that I care about. The “just because” kind of generous. The “I don’t have to, but I want to” generosity. She’d probably go without in exchange for a simple smile or a quiet laugh. She’s someone who’s generous with her affection too. Her head leaned against my shoulder. Her hand in mine. Soft lips pressed against my mouth.
I’m lucky I found her, and I’m not about to let her go.
