At the stove, Bram is pouring hot water through a copper filter, wearing a clean grey tee that matches Ash’s sweatpants. His movements are slow, and I can feel how peaceful he is.
His phone dings on the counter and he reaches for it. A small, soft huff of breath escapes him and he turns around, holding the screen out.
“Jenna,” he says.
The photo is a close-up, slightly blurry shot of a single white bud, the petals tipped with pink, clinging to a dark, mossy branch. First blossom.
“She says the ground is dry enough for the tractor,” Bram says, setting the phone down. He steps over, sliding his hands around my waist from behind, his chest pressing warm against my back, his chin on my shoulder. “We go Thursday?”
“Go Thursday,” Reed says. “I want to check the gaskets on the new cider press before the spraying starts.”
These days, we’re mostly in Lakeview. The seasonal split is three months old, the two million from the Holt contract sitting in the orchard trust to keep Jenna on a year-round salary as manager. She runs the day-to-day now, along with the two hands she hired for the spring pruning. The alphas kept the craft windows—the blossoms, the pressing weeks, the harvest. The work no hired hand can do.
My job at the library is still mine, but it has changed. The relocation program Bob told me about turned out to be far more flexible than I realized, allowing me to split my time between Lakeview and the orchard. I can work my usual shifts in Lakeview, then pivot to taking extra unpaid leave as needed. Since we don’t need my library salary to survive anymore, it’s the perfect setup. I keep the library because I love it, and the weeks Ido spend at the orchard are focused on expanding our cider line. It’s working, too, Hollow Gold is pulling in enough profit that Bram’s already talking about hiring two more full-time hands to manage the summer weeding.
Speaking of weeding, there are some treats begging me to weed them out.
I pick up the brown paper bag Maren left by the door earlier, now sitting on the counter. It’s grease-stained and smells deliciously of butter. Tucked into the string is a scrap of yellow paper, and I pull it out to read it.
Eat these before Reed does. —M.
Oh, Maren. What did I ever do to deserve a friend like you..?
I let out a soft sigh. Considering she’s been working herself right to the bone these past few weeks, she shouldn’t be using any energy to take care of me. Harper, Beth, and I have actually tried to stage a tactical intervention three times this month, but she’s managed to dodge all of them. So far, anyway. We’re going to corner her eventually.
“I’m going by the bakery tonight,” I say, leaning back against Bram. “I think Maren’s drowning.”
“I’ll go,” Reed says, mouth full of pastry. “Her flour mixer was squeaking last week. I’ll bring the grease gun.”
“She doesn’t need a grease gun, Reed,” I say. “She needs to stop working sixteen-hour days.”
I know she’s tough. I know she’ll eventually figure out how to make her bakery work without breaking her back. Or she won’t, and we’ll be there to catch her, regardless. That’s the thing about having friends. You don’t have to carry the ceiling by yourself.
Bram’s arms tighten around me, pulling me back against his chest. A wave of leather and warm coffee rolls off him, wrapping around me like a heavy blanket.
“I’m not even worried about her,” he murmurs, his voice low and vibrating against my back. “Not when she has a friend like you in her corner.”
Ash reaches out, his fingers hooking my belt loop again and pulling me gently toward him. He’s sitting on the counter stool, his dark eyes looking up at me, his voice unusually soft.
“And to think Bram almost traumatized you right out of our lives the first day you met him...”
I cup his face, looking him in the eyes, and wink. “Good thing we do it willingly now.”
Reed shifts, propping himself against the counter. “You know, I was thinking last night about how close we came to losing everything. None of what we have today would be here without you, Luna. We’re a real lucky bunch.”
He pulls me down for a kiss, hot and tasting of woodsmoke. When we part, breathing harder, Ash leans up for his turn, his fingers tangled in my hair. Then Bram, his large hands anchoring my waist.
“I love you,” I tell them.
We love you too, sweetheart. More than anything.The words ripple through the bond, braiding into a single, unbreakable promise.
***
THE END… FOR NOW
