My pulse is still racing as we step into the autumn air. The sun slants low, gilding the leaves that blanket the sidewalks in shades of amber and gold. The town square is only a block away, and as soon as we turn the corner, I stop dead in my tracks.
“Oh,” I whisper.
It’s beautiful.
The square has been transformed into something out of a storybook. Twinkling lights loop from lamppost to lamppost, weaving a canopy over the cobblestone walkways. Stalls line the edges, each one draped in rich autumn colors—deep burgundy, pumpkin orange, harvest gold.
Baskets overflow with gourds and apples. Children run past with caramel on their cheeks. The air smells like cinnamon, roasting nuts, and hay.
My heart lurches. Because in all my rushing, all my obsessing over butter ratios and blind bakes, I never thought about this part.
“I don’t have a booth,” I say faintly, panic prickling the edges of my chest.
Norah squeezes my hand, dragging me through the crowds that are already gathering to watch the setup. “Calm down. Everything is sorted.”
“How can it be sorted? I didn’t?—”
We round a corner, and she stops, a smug smile tugging her lips. “See for yourself.”
I do. And my breath catches.
There it is.
My booth.
Not just a table with a cloth thrown over it. Not something thrown together at the last minute. No, this is… gorgeous.
The structure itself is wooden, with sturdy beams framing the space and a peaked awning painted a cream color. Strands of warm lights crisscross above, catching on a carved wooden signthat reads:Wren’s Café – Homemade with Heart. The letters are burned into the grain itself, dark and elegant.
The counter stretches wide enough for trays of pies, with shelves built underneath for storage. Two flower boxes hang at the front, brimming with mums in orange and gold, their blooms spilling color like fire.
I press a hand to my mouth. “No,” I whisper. “You didn’t…”
Norah grins wider. “Oh, I didn’t.”
And then I see them.
Levi is leaning against one of the posts, arms folded, his paramedic jacket unzipped, a smirk on his lips. Simon stands beside him, in his usual button-down, sleeves rolled up, hair mussed like he ran a hand through it too many times. Beau’s there too, towering, his plaid shirt stretched across his chest, cheeks pink like he’s been working.
My voice comes out shaky. “You?—”
“Construction crew handled the heavy lifting,” Beau says quickly, but his grin gives him away. “We just… supervised. And maybe hammered a few nails.”
Simon raises an eyebrow. “Or dropped them.”
“Hey,” Beau mutters.
Levi chuckles. “Point is, it’s yours.”
I turn in a slow circle, drinking it in. The craftsmanship. The details. The fact that someone thought this through when I didn’t even realize what I’d need. My throat tightens, tears pricking at the back of my eyes.
“You did this for me?” My voice cracks.
Norah answers for them. “Of course they did. Because you, my friend, are going to kill it tomorrow.”
I laugh through the sudden sting in my chest, throwing my arms around her. Then I move to each of them, hugging them hard.
Levi squeezes me so tight my feet leave the ground. Beau smells like sawdust and cinnamon, his embrace warm and solid. Simon lingers last, grabbing something from what seems like a small cooler.
