“My place,” Mateo says. “Wine, food, and no more Judith Ashford.”
“Best offer I’ve had all night,” Jess says.
CHAPTER 16
Mateo’s house feels like a sanctuary after the intensity of the town hall.
Isabel and Dean brought wine. Jess and Macy picked up food on the way. Within minutes, we’re gathered in the living room, glasses filled, laughter replacing the tension.
“To Sadie Pierce,” Jess says, raising her glass of water. I narrow my eyes at her, but she just grins and winks. “Who didn’t run.”
“To Sadie,” everyone echoes.
“To not letting the bastards win,” Dean says quietly.
“To romance novels,” Macy chimes in. “And the badass women who write them.”
“To my brother,” Isabel says, grinning at Mateo. “Who finally told Sadie he loves her.”
Everyone laughs. Mateo shakes his head, but he’s smiling.
“Totesoro,“ Mateo finishes, his eyes on me.
We drink. Well, everyone except Jess drinks. I’m watching her. She’s been nursing that water all night. And she wouldn’t take wine at Sips & Stars either. The woman who did tequila shots with me every Tuesday for a year. She catches me staring and raises her eyebrows in challenge, daring me to ask.
I don’t. Whatever’s going on, she’ll tell me when she’s ready.
The celebration continues. Stories. Laughter. Macy is doing a dramatic reenactment of Judith’s face at the end of the meeting. Isabel is talking about mural ideas. Dean is quietly supportive, adding dry commentary that makes everyone laugh.
Around midnight, everyone leaves with long hugs and promises to meet for coffee in the morning.
And then it’s just us.
Mateo and me.
The house feels quiet and still after all the noise and celebration. I pull out my phone and open my Sienna Saguaro accounts. The draft from two weeks ago is still there, waiting.
To the readers who found Sunset Ridge and recognized a real place in its pages: you’re right. Sierra Rose Ridge is my home. It’s the town that saved me, and Wildfire Summer is my love letter to it. I’m not sorry I wrote it. I’m proud.
I hit post.
It’s a small thing. A few sentences. But it’s mine, and it’s honest, and it’s out there now.
Mateo pulls me to the couch, and we collapse together, exhausted. I curl into his side, my head on his chest, his arm around my shoulders. His heartbeat is steady under my ear. Slow and sure, like the rhythm of his hammer on the anvil. Like he’s never been uncertain about anything in his life.
I know that’s not true.
He was hesitant to say the words and spent five years convinced I’d never see him as more than a friend. But his heart doesn’t sound scared. It sounds like home.
“Stop thinking so loud,” he murmurs against my hair.
“I’m not thinking.”
“Liar. I can feel you overthinking.” His hand traces lazy circles on my arm. “What is it?”
I’m quiet for a moment. The wine glasses are empty on the coffee table. The candles Macy lit before she left are burning low.
“I want to write about you,” I say.
