When I was a kid, Saturdays meant early mornings at the ranch, dusty boots, and my dad barking orders before the sun had even climbed into the sky. Back then I hated it. Thought the whole town felt too small, too predictable.
But standing on Main Street now, watching the farmers’ market slowly come to life, I realized something.
Predictability wasn’t always bad. Predictable meant familiar. It meant community.
And judging by the way half the town is already setting up tables, stringing little banners between stalls, and hauling boxes of produce onto wooden displays, Lavender Creek has perfected the art of Saturday mornings.
Right in the middle of the chaos is Violet.
Her stand sits directly in front of the café, decorated in soft neutral linens, mason jars filled with flowers, and baskets overflowing with pastries. She moves behind the table with practiced ease, clipping half of her hair in a clip while laughing at something Mrs. Calloway is saying.
I leaned against the lamppost across the street for a moment longer than necessary, watching.
Something about her pulls me in every time. Not just the way she looks, though that alone could knock the wind out of me, but the way she carries herself. Calm. Confident. Like she belongs exactly where she is and knows it.
Like the world makes sense around her.
And maybe that is why I can’t look away.
“I think you’re staring.” Henry’s voice comes from behind me.
I don’t turn around; I can’t hide it. “I’m observing.”
He snorts. “Go say hi before the town notices you are staring. You already know all eyes are on you since you’ve been back, and now you’re just giving them more to talk about.”
I glance around, it’s too late. People are already watching.
Mrs. Calloway pretends to arrange flowers while clearly tracking my movements. Two teenage girls whisper behind a lemonade stand, and even Mr. Brooks gives me a knowing smirk.
I ignore everyone and cross the street. The moment Violet notices me approaching, her entire expression softens.
“Well, look who finally showed up,” she says, setting down a tray of muffins.
“Had to make an entrance,” I say.
“You were leaning against a lamppost for five minutes,” she says, laughing.
God, I love that laugh.
“You want a coffee, or were you planning to just admire me from across the street all morning?”
“Both, ideally,” I respond.
She raises an eyebrow, like she didn’t expect me to say that, but reaches for a cup anyway.
Our fingers brush as she hands it to me. The contact is small, barely there. But neither of us moves away immediately.
And I can feel the shift, where the air changes slightly.
Someone bumps into me accidently and that quickly takes us out of the little world we were just in.
Violet turns toward Mrs. Calloway, who was very obviously pretending not to listen. She smiles and Mrs. Calloway winks back at her.
“Give it an hour and half the town will think we are secretly engaged,” I say, joking.
“Efficient gossip,” I add.
Violet smirks.
