He walks closer, careful not to track snow onto the rug. His hands are in his pockets, his whole posture that mix of confidence and bashfulness that makes people instantly trust him.
He stops near the counter, glancing around like he’s seeing the place for the first time. “You’ve been busy.”
“Always.” I lean against the workbench. “What’s up?”
“So,” he starts, scratching the back of his neck, “we’re doing the Halloween project for the festival—the community hall’s going to be part haunted maze, part harvest fair. Brighton wants the construction team to handle the staging and build-out, but we’re kind of stumped on the look. Thought maybe you could give some advice. You know, aesthetics. You’ve got the eye for it.”
I grin. “You mean because I told you not to paint the tavern’s patio orange last summer?”
He chuckles. “Exactly. You saved that place from looking like a pumpkin patch.”
“Well,” I say, crossing my arms, “I can’t have Fox Hollow losing its reputation for taste. What are you thinking for the space?”
He pulls out his phone, scrolling through photos of floor plans and half-finished mock-ups. “We’ve got this big open section in the back that’s supposed to be spooky but still family-friendly. Ryker is pushing for something industrial, but I think it needs texture. Atmosphere. You know?”
I take the phone from him, scrolling through the pictures. “You’re right. Industrial feels too cold. You need something that pulls people in, not something that feels like a warehouse.”
My mind’s already spinning through color palettes.
“What about deep purples? Amber lights? Maybe black flowers. I’ve got these new calla lilies—they’re technically a deep burgundy, but they look black in low light. We could scatter them through the tables, mix them with dried lavender and sage. Add just enough life to balance the dark.”
His brows lift. “Black flowers. You’re serious?”
“Very,” I say, and swipe to a photo on my own phone. “Look.”
He leans in close, close enough that I catch the faint smell of sawdust and cedar clinging to his jacket. His shoulder brushes mine as I scroll, showing him a display I did last year—dark blooms layered with wheat stalks and silver leaves.
“It’s elegant,” I say. “Not gory. You want mystery, not mess.”
He hums, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. “That’s… actually perfect.”
Our hands brush when I hand him his phone back. It’s a small thing, but my whole arm tingles from the contact.
The air between us shifts, just slightly, and when I look up, he’s watching me, thoughtful, like he’s trying not to give something away.
I clear my throat and move toward the counter, pretending to rearrange a vase. “So, the black callas,” I say, “and maybe some dark foliage. I can do a mock-up if you want to show the committee.”
“That’d be great,” he says, still smiling. Then, after a beat, “You thought any more about the cold room?”
I glance toward the back of the shop. The empty corner I’ve been planning to convert into a cold storage space stares back at me like a half-finished sentence. “Still weighing it,” I admit. “It’s a big investment.”
“It’ll make your life easier,” he says gently. “And it’ll pay off. Especially with holiday orders coming in.”
He’s right. I know he’s right.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell him. “Promise.”
Jude nods, and for a second, neither of us says anything. The only sound is the hum of the heater and the faint creak of the sign outside swinging in the wind.
He glances around the shop again, his expression softening. “You know, this place feels like you. Warm. Kind of chaotic, but in a good way.”
I laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
He rubs his jaw, a shy smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s a compliment, Norah.”
“I’ll take it.”
He stays for another half-hour, helping me move a few planters and talking through layout sketches for the Halloween fair.
