Page 16 of Fall Into Love

She’s still smiling when she looks up at me, and I watch her realize what this means. The relief moves through her like the tide going out. “It was never him,” she says quietly.

I tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re safe, darlin’. You’ve been safe the whole time.”

She leans into my hand, and we stand there a second in the cold, and I decide it’s now or it’s never again, because apparently that’s the only speed I’ve got tonight. “Come home with me.”

She blinks up at me.

“Not for—I mean, yes, forever,” I add, because I’m me and I’m still learning to get the words right with this woman. “I’ve got a house six blocks the other way, and for the last week I couldn’t make myself walk into it, because you’re not there, and I got real tired of noticing that.”

The cold hangs between us for a moment too long, and I brace for her to say it’s too fast or not tonight. Instead, my hometown girl slides her hand into mine, laces our fingers together, and says, “I’d like that.”

We lock up her shop and walk the dark streets of Hemlock Point toward a house that, starting tonight, is going to feel a whole lot different. I glance over my shoulder, having to give credit where credit is due. Because somewhere, up in the tree line, a very well-accessorized raccoon is giving Danny’s meddling a run for his money.

His Song

Emma

The Hemlock Point square has never looked prettier.

My Marigold’s booth sits on the green between the cider stand and Molly’s bakery table. It’s been mobbed since the opening at ten. Hay bales and pumpkins everywhere, string lights zigzagging overhead, the whole town smells like cinnamon and whatever Danny’s got mulling in that enormous copper pot. I’ve sold nearly every scarf and sweater I brought, three of the rhinestone brooches—returned, cleaned, and slightly more famous now—and a number of the little embroidered autumn totes Abby talked me into ordering.

Abby, who is, at this exact moment, running the Marigold’s storefront two blocks over entirely on her own, and—according to the texts I’ve gotten—thriving.

Abby: SOLD OUT of the pumpkin candles, don’t panic, reordered.

Abby: Redid the window display, hope that’s okay?

Abby: A tourist cried (good crying) over the family autumn scene!

Abby: STOP CHECKING ON ME AND GO ENJOY YOUR FESTIVAL, BOSS.

I laugh and put my phone away, and something in my chest settles that hasn’t been settled in a long time. Because I’m not doing it all on my own. I hired one part-time girl, and the sky didn’t fall. Marigold’s is still mine, just not run by myself.

Some meddling old man is going to be insufferable about being right.

Speak of the devil, Danny materializes at my booth in a pumpkin-orange cardigan with two cups of steaming cider, surveying the square. “Cider for the hardest-working woman at the festival.” He hands me a cup. “Or second-hardest. That Abby of yours hasn’t sat down in a week.” His eyes twinkle. “Where did you find such a gem?”

I roll my eyes. “You recommended her.”

“Did I?” He sips, innocent as a lamb. “Well, I do have an eye.” A beat, then, “She’s settling in beautifully at Ivory Heights, you know. And I did just meet the most interesting young man—”

“Danny…”

“I’m only making conversation.”

“You are never only making conversation.”

He beams, entirely too pleased with himself, and I love him for it.

“And how’s our other troublemaker?” I ask. “The furry one.”

“Relocated,” he announces. “Live trap, one can of tuna, and off to the tree line on the far side of town, where I’m told the foraging is excellent and the jewelry scarce.” He shakes his head fondly. “Half the festival’s been asking after him. You’ve got the only boutique in Washington with a former furry-resident-burglar, my dear. People do love a story.”

They do. And I’ve decided I especially love this one—the one where a bejeweled raccoon and a meddling landlord helped me find exactly who I needed.

I find him in the sea of people without meaning to.

Caleb’s across the square near the little stage, in a flannel over a T-shirt that had me giggling this morning when he put it on of two pumpkins clinching beer mugs, saying: LET’S GET SMASHED. He’s shaking hands and clapping shoulders and laughing.