Page 113 of The Story Between Us

He hadn’t slept.

Every time he closed his eyes, he was back at the festival. The lights in the trees. The taste of caramel. The soft shock on her face when he’d kissed her.

She’d kissed him back.

And now it was six thirty a.m., and he was staring at his ceiling, and the question that had kept him awake all night was still pulsing in his chest like a second heartbeat:

Could they write their own story?

Not Emma’s story. Not the book he owed the publisher. Something new. Something that belonged only to them.

He didn’t know. But maybe he didn’t have to know what was on the other side to jump in.

What he did know was that he couldn’t stay in this bed for another second.

He swung his legs over the side. The floor was cold under his bare feet. Through the window, the lake was steel gray in the predawn light, the trees along the shore committed to their autumn colors now, amber and crimson outbidding the green.

Huck lifted his head from his bed by the door, one eye cracked open. You’re up early.

“Can’t sleep.”

Huck put his head back down. Finn was nowhere to be seen—probably already stationed outside Livvie’s cottage door, the lovesick traitor.

Nate pulled on jeans—the same ones from the festival, he realized, still smelling faintly of woodsmoke. A gray thermal shirt. His flannel jacket. He didn’t bother looking in the mirror. He knew what he’d see: dark circles, stubble, the slightly manic look of someone who’d spent six hours replaying a life-changing, perfect, he-wanted-more kiss.

And now he was hopeful in a way that felt dangerous.

He needed coffee. He needed air. He needed to figure out what happened next.

The walk into town took twenty minutes, through the forest and the path they’d walked last night. It wound through pines and past summer cottages closed up for the season, their windows dark, their docks pulled in. The sky lightened as he walked—gray to pink to gold—and by the time he reached the edge of the town square, the sun was clearing the tree line.

Huck had followed him, padding along at his heels with the patient loyalty of a dog that’d learned not to ask questions. Finn caught up with them somewhere along the way, appearing from the direction of Lila’s cottage, tongue lolling, tail wagging like he hadn’t just abandoned his post.

“Traitor,” Nate told him.

Finn wagged harder.

The square was waking up. Vendors were setting up booths along the perimeter—tables being unfolded, canopies going up, boxes of merchandise being unloaded from trucks. Someone was testing a speaker system, and country music crackled in and out.

The big maple tree in the center of the square had been transformed. Flannel ribbons—red-and-black-and-blue plaid—wrapped around its trunk and hung from its lower branches, fluttering in the morning breeze. The effect was somewhere between festive and absurd, and Nate found himself smiling despite everything.

This was Maple Lake. This was the town where he and Emma had grown up, where they’d written their first books together, where they’d dreamed about the future during long summer afternoons on the dock.

He hadn’t let himself feel part of it in three years. But this morning—the morning after the kiss—something felt different.

He crossed to Maple Sweets. The bakery door chimed when he pushed it open, and the smell hit him like a wave: cinnamon, maple, fresh bread, butter. Remi was behind the counter, flour dusted across her apron, her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.

“Nate Rivers.” Her smile was bright, uncomplicated. “Two days in a row. We’re on a streak.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“The festival will do that.” She was already pouring his coffee—black, no sugar. She remembered. “How’s the book going? Everyone’s been asking.”

“It’s nearly done. Just one more scene.”

“Are you serious? That’s amazing! I need to add a whole heap more stars to your chart.” She slid the cup across the counter, then walked over to the chapter tracker. “So you’re writing chapter twenty?” she asked as she began adding stars.

He picked up the coffee. Could only nod. The idea that the town had been paying attention—that they cared, that they were betting on him—was still disorienting in a way he couldn’t quite name.