"Too late for that," I murmur, the words escaping before I can censor them.
His expression shifts, understanding the unspoken meaning. "Riley." Just my name, nothing more, but laden with question and longing.
The air between us thickens, charged with the memory of skin against skin, of whispered confessions in the mountain cabin. My gaze drops to his mouth, remembering its taste, its skill, the way it traveled down my body with devastating precision.
Noah steps closer, one hand still on my waist, the other coming up to brush a strand of hair from my face. "Tell me to stop," he murmurs, his breath warm against my cheek.
I should. We're in a storage closet at a community fundraiser, surrounded by vacuum cleaners and extra tablecloths.
Instead, I lean into him, our foreheads touching, sharing breath in the small space between us. His thumb traces my lower lip, a question and a promise. I part my lips in silent answer, eyes drifting closed as his mouth descends toward mine.
"Noah? Riley? Are you in there?" Eleanor's voice penetrates the closet door, accompanied by an impatient knock. "The first guests are arriving. We need those chairs immediately.”
We spring apart like guilty teenagers, Noah running a hand through his hair with a rueful laugh. "Perfect timing, as always," he mutters, then calls out, "Coming, Gram. Just sorting through the stacks.”
I straighten my blouse, hoping the dim light conceals my flushed cheeks. Noah gathers several folding chairs, passing half to me with a look that promises our interrupted moment is merely postponed, not canceled.
Eleanor's knowing smile when we emerge suggests we aren't fooling anyone, but she simply directs us to set up the additional seating near the buffet tables. "And don't forget, dinner service begins at five sharp. The blue aprons are for servers."
The remainder of the afternoon passes in a blur of last-minute preparations. By five o'clock, the fundraiser is in full swing—dozens of community members and tourists mingling on the lawn, bidding on auction items, and enjoying live music from the stage. Mabel circulates proudly, accepting compliments on the venue and explaining the guest house's historical significance.
As promised, Noah and I find ourselves stationed behind the buffet table for the dinner shift, serving alongside other volunteers. We work well together, anticipating each other's movements in the limited space, exchanging occasional glances that communicate more than words could safely express in public.
Throughout the evening, I observe how people interact with Noah—the respectful nods from business owners, the easy camaraderie with fellow emergency responders, the affectionate teasing from lifelong residents. Children approach him without hesitation, and teenagers regard him without theusual adolescent skepticism. He belongs here, completely and irrevocably, in a way I've never belonged anywhere.
"You're staring," he murmurs as we refill chafing dishes side by side.
"Observing," I correct. "For the article."
"Is that what we're calling it now?" His smile is private and intimate despite the crowd surrounding us.
My phone vibrates in my pocket before I can formulate a suitably professional response. I check the screen—my editor's name is displayed prominently. "I need to take this," I explain, passing my serving spoon to Noah.
I slip away to a quiet corner of the porch, the festivities creating enough background noise to ensure privacy. "Lisa, hi. How's it going?"
"Just checking on your progress." My editor's voice crackles with her usual energy. "The planning committee is absolutely loving your Angel's Peak concept. So much that we want to move it up to the September issue."
My stomach drops. "September? That's... soon." Three weeks sooner than planned, to be exact.
"Rush job, I know, but this is good news. The feature spot, eight pages, prime photography budget." Lisa's enthusiasm barely registers through my sudden panic. "And between us, the senior editor position is all but yours if you nail this. Crawford's practically engraved your name on the door already."
The promotion. The corner office. The validation I've been working toward for years. Everything I wanted when I left Angel's Peak a decade ago.
"That's... wonderful," I manage. "When do you need the final draft?"
"Monday. Which means you're coming home this weekend, right? Your car's fixed?"
Home. Chicago. Leaving.
The words hit like physical blows.
"Yes, Pete called yesterday. The rental's ready whenever I need it." I watch Noah across the lawn, laughing with Eleanor as they serve dessert together. "I'll head back Saturday."
"Perfect. I'll set up the editorial meeting for Monday afternoon." Lisa continues outlining details about the layout and photos, but I'm barely listening, my focus still on Noah and the realization that I have less than forty-eight hours left in Angel's Peak.
After finishing the call, I remain on the porch, watching the celebration unfold. The sun begins its descent toward the western peaks, casting golden light across the scene—neighbors chatting over plates of food, couples swaying to music from the small stage, and children chasing each other across the lawn. It's the kind of community tableau that would make a perfect closing image for my article.
I should be elated. My career is accelerating exactly as planned. The promotion I've worked toward for years is within reach. I'm about to achieve everything I left Angel's Peak to pursue.
