"I'm still gathering personal stories."
"Good. Because right now it reads like an economic impact report with scenic descriptions. I need the emotional core—what makes Angel's Peak special enough that people fight for it."
"I understand." I press my fingers against the beginning of a tension headache. "I'll dig deeper."
After finishing the call, I wander back toward Mabel's Guest House, my mind churning with all I've learned today. Noahplanning to follow me to Chicago. Turning down prestigious positions to stay in Angel's Peak. The dedication Eleanor described with such pride.
None of it fits neatly into the narrative I've constructed over the years—that we were young, that our paths naturally diverged, that leaving was the only sensible choice. If Noah had been willing to follow me, if he had those applications ready...
The implications are too destabilizing to consider fully.
Mabel greets me at the guest house door, a knowing look in her eyes that suggests news of my argument with Noah has already made the rounds. Small towns and their infernal gossip networks.
"Package came for you, dear." She hands me a small paper bag with the Margie's Bakery logo. "Hand delivered, no less."
Inside, I find a cinnamon roll—the miniature version, not the massive ones Margie usually serves—and a folded note in a strong, familiar handwriting:
Riley,
I'm sorry about earlier. Ten years of unfinished business doesn't make for great bar conversation, and after that kiss…
Let me make it up to you—no arguments, no accusations, just a guide showing you the Angel's Peak most visitors never see. The real heart of this place, if you're still looking for it.
Tomorrow, 6 AM. Dress warm, wear hiking boots. I'll bring breakfast that isn't just sugar and caffeine.
Peace offering?
- Noah
P.S. The mini cinnamon roll is symbolic. See? I can compromise.
Despite everything—theargument, the confusion, the professional complications—I find myself smiling at the note.The postscript especially feels like the Noah I knew before, the one who could defuse my worst moods with unexpected humor.
I sink onto the window seat, staring at the note while evening shadows lengthen across the room. The rational choice would be to decline and maintain professional distance after today's emotional minefield. I need to focus solely on gathering the material for my article and nothing more.
Instead, I find myself reaching for my phone, typing a response before I can overthink it:6 AM is uncivilized, but I'll be ready. This better be worth sacrificing sleep.
His reply comes almost immediately:Some things are worth losing sleep over.
Butterflies erupt in my stomach, a sensation I haven't felt in years. I press a hand against my abdomen, as if I might physically contain them.
This is dangerous territory. Noah Morgan has always been dangerous territory for my heart. But as I set my alarm for the ungodly hour of 5:30 AM, I can't deny the anticipation curling through me at the thought of tomorrow.
Professional complications, be damned.
Chapter 8
Mountain Rescue
The alarm blaresat 5:30 AM, yanking me from a dream where Noah and I were back at Lookout Point, except this time his radio never interrupted us. I groan into my pillow, briefly contemplating texting him to cancel, but professionalism—and curiosity—propels me from the warmth of my bed.
Research, I remind myself as I pull on hiking pants, a moisture-wicking top, and a light fleece. This is for the article. My editor wants heart, and what better way to understand Angel's Peak than to see its hidden treasures through the eyes of someone who knows it intimately?
The mental justification feels flimsy even to me.
The sky is just beginning to lighten when I step onto Mabel's porch. A thin mist hovers over the quiet street, giving the town a dreamlike quality. Noah's SUV idles at the curb, headlights cutting through the morning haze.
"Morning, sunshine." His voice holds a hint of teasing as I slide into the passenger seat. "Not a morning person still, I see."
