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Emma stared at her, an intense and unreadable emotion settling behind her green eyes. She crossed her arms, her posture shifting into something fiercely independent.
"If I take the space, I am taking over the 6-months lease," Emma said, her voice leaving no room for argument. "And I am reimbursing you for every single penny of that deposit. I am buying my own equipment, with my own payout, and my own name on the debt if it goes under. You are not my investor, Victoria. Are we clear?"
Victoria stared at her. The sharp, unyielding pride in Emma’s voice sent a different kind of thrill straight down her spine. "Crystal clear."
Emma didn't answer immediately. Her gaze drifted past the counter toward the glass panes of the kitchen window, locking onto something in the back garden.
Before Victoria could form another word, Emma turned on her heel, pushed open the back door, and stepped straight out into the cool breeze.
The latch clicked shut, leaving Victoria standing alone in the silent kitchen.
Victoria stared at the glass panes, her chest tightening until she couldn't pull in a full breath. She had pushed too far. After everything—the secret sale of the inn, the secret meetings with Lucy, the renovations, the scary leap of quitting her job and standing in this kitchen waiting for hours—she had overwhelmed her. She had taken over Emma's village, Emma's dreams, Emma's future, without ever stopping to ask if Emma even wanted any of it. She had ruined it.
"Emma!" Victoria gasped, panic surging through her throat like bile.
She lunged for the door, shoving the glass frame open so hard it rattled against the brick. Cold autumn air hit her face, smelling of damp soil and rotting oak leaves, biting straight through the loose knit of her cardigan.
Emma was already halfway across the lawn, her coat cutting through the grey afternoon light.
"Emma, please!" Victoria yelled, her boots skidding on the wet grass as she scrambled off the stone patio. She ran after her, abandoning every shred of dignity, her hair coming loose from the pins at the back of her head. "I just told you I walked away from my entire life for this place! I’m standing here baring my soul like a complete idiot, and you’re just walking away?"
But Emma wasn't walking toward her truck. She had stopped in the corner of the yard, beneath the swaying branches of the oak tree. She was standing in front of the generator shed.
She stopped, resting her palm flat against the timber.
Victoria skidded to a halt three paces behind her, the heels of her boots digging into the wet lawn. Cold air tore through her lungs. Every instinct screamed at her to close the distance, but her feet stayed glued to the damp soil as she watched Emma’s fingers slide toward the metal latch. The exact rusted fitting that had snapped shut on them during the storm, trapping them in the dark while the rain hammered overhead and the smell of motor oil filled the air.
Only it was not rusted anymore.
The rotted pine was gone, rebuilt in fragrant cedar under fresh asphalt shingles. When Emma pulled the door open, the hinges offered no complaint. They glided inward on oiled brass without a sound, revealing the dry room within.
Heat rushed up the sides of Victoria’s neck, burning across her cheekbones.
"Ah," Victoria blurted out. The syllable climbed an octave higher than normal, betraying her instantly. She cleared her throat, crossing her arms tight and burying her trembling hands beneath her elbows. She stared hard at a patch of clover near the toe of her boot, mortified down to the soles of her feet. "Right. Well. I had the latch replaced. It opens from the inside now. Both sides."
Her throat felt tight. The heat burned all the way to the tips of her ears.
"There is no danger of being trapped in the dark," Victoria muttered, keeping her eyes fixed on the grass. "Unless you want to. In which case... we could always pretend."
Emma turned around. The autumn wind caught the unbuttoned edge of her wool coat, sweeping it back against her hip. Her green eyes took in Victoria’s slouching frame, the unpinned hair blowing across her mouth, the gray dust still clinging to her faded denim.
The silence went on for three agonizing seconds. To Victoria, it felt like an execution.
The mortification flipped back into sheer panic. She dropped her arms, taking an urgent step forward with her hands open, desperate to fill the quiet before Emma walked through the garden gate and left for good.
"I know I should have asked you," Victoria pleaded, the words spilling out in a frantic rush. "I know I take over when I am terrified, Emma, but I wanted you to have a place of your own. You spent years putting Joe first, putting this leaking roof first, looking after everyone in this valley while nobody looked after you. I wanted to make sure you were protected. Because I sat in that New York office every day thinking about you, about the smell of your kitchen, and I could not survive another year pretending that I—"
"Victoria."
The name didn’t carry anger. It came out soft and cracked around the edges, breaking through the air like the snap of dry kindling.
Victoria flinched, the frantic stream of words lodging sideways in her throat. Her hands stayed suspended mid-air, trembling, looking entirely useless against the grey garden light. She stared at Emma with wide eyes, bracing her ribs for the impact, waiting for the polite rejection, the distance, the door closing in her face.
Emma took two slow steps across the damp lawn. The hem of her coat brushed through the yellowed blades of grass. When she stopped, barely six inches separated them. The autumn wind carried the scent of rain, cedar shavings, and that faint trace of toasted vanilla that lived in Emma’s blonde hair.
Emma looked at her face. Not with the sharp calculation of a chef checking an oven, but with an intimacy that felt almost unbearable. Her gaze traced Victoria’s unpinned hair blowing across her mouth, the tight tension knotting her jaw, the grey dust still clinging to the knee of her jeans.
A tiny, breathless laugh slipped past Emma’s lips, shaking her shoulders.
