“Good changes,” I say, as my own emotions threaten to overwhelm me. “You’re going to be an incredible mom.”
“I hope so.” She wipes her eyes. “But this means I need to scale back and I’m giving up the event business. The art gallery is enough to handle, and once the baby comes...” She trails off, then meets my eyes. “I would love someone I care about to take it over. Someone who knows this town, who loves event planning, who’s already proven herself with this fundraiser.”
My heart stutters. “Nic?—”
“I’m not asking for an answer today. But Ember—” Her voice goes soft. “You belong here. I see the way you light up when you talk about Peachwood Grove. The way you fit into this community like you’ve always been here.”
“I’ve been here two weeks.”
“And you’ve already made more impact than some people make in years.” She squeezes my hand. “Think about it. That’s all I’m asking.”
She disappears into the growing crowd, leaving me standing alone with a vision I’m terrified to want: A storefront office on the square. My name on the door. Roots. Permanence. Ryan.
Always Ryan.
My phone buzzes.
Ryan: Vendor delivery truck is trying to park in the emergency vehicle zone. Want me to redirect?
Me: Please. Send them to loading area B.
Ryan: Done. You’re amazing, you know that?
I stare at the message, my throat tight. We’ve been doing this dance for three days—professional coordination layered with deployed compliments, neither of us acknowledging the gaping hole where our relationship used to be.
Me: Just doing my job, Captain.
Ryan: You’re doing a hell of a lot more than that.
I want to tell him I miss him. That I was wrong. That independence shouldn’t mean isolation, and needing someone doesn’t make me weak.
But I can’t say it through a screen. This conversation deserves to happen face-to-face, and in two hours when the fundraiser officially starts, I’ll see him for the first time since I walked out.
Two hours to figure out how to tell the man I love that I made a huge mistake.
By 9 AM,the park is transformed into something magical.
Market lights crisscross overhead, creating a canopy of warmth even in daylight. The vintage fire truck gleams red and chrome, surrounded by laughing children trying on helmets three sizes too big. Food vendors send competing aromas into the air—barbecue, funnel cakes, fresh peach cobbler that makes my mouth water.
I’m adjusting the balloon arch for the third time when I feel him before I see him.
“Hey Firecracker.”
I turn, and there’s Ryan, holding two cups of coffee and looking like he hasn’t slept in days.
We haven’t been this close since the fight. Since “I love you” and “I need space” collided in his conference room.
“Hi,” I manage, my voice breathy.
“Coffee.” He extends one cup. “Hot this time. Two creams, one sugar.”
My eyes sting. He remembered. Of course he remembered.
“Thank you.” Our fingers brush as I take it, and electricity shoots up my arm.
We stand there, coffee cups between us, an entire conversation happening in silence.
I miss you.
