I let Junie lead me down the hill. I joke that I’m an extroverted introvert; I love to socialize with the right people, but I always need time alone afterward to recharge my battery. My daughter, however, is—like her dad—the most natural extrovert on planet Earth, even as a three-year-old.
I hear the roar of a chain saw, followed by the thunk of hammers. Glimpsing inside the barn, I see there’s a whole mess of people there already at work. The fire was started by some bad electrical wire, and while the exterior of the barn escaped mostly unscathed, the interior is a disaster.
But judging by how many people showed up to work, it’ll be fixed in no time.
There’s a flutter inside my chest. Hartsville is a special place. The sense of community here—how people genuinely give a shit about each other—is kind of the best thing ever.
Junie makes a beeline for Mrs. Wallace and her chocolate cake.
“Mrs. Wallace!” My daughter slams into the older woman’s legs and wraps her in a hug. “Mrs. Wallace, there’s cake! Can I have some?”
I laugh. “How do we ask? And didn’t I say you needed to have some real food first?”
“Well hey there, little lady,” Mrs. Wallace says with a laugh. “It’s so good to see you. Of course you can have some cake! But only after you eat”—she glances at the food—“some of Mrs. Nielson’s chicken. Do you think you can do that?”
“But I don’t like chicken.”
My turn to laugh. “Sorry, Mrs. W. She’s trying to play you. Junie loves chicken. Hey, Vince.”
“Hey there, Ava. And hey, Miss June. Can I get another high five for how well you did this morning? You were such a big help.” He holds up a hand.
Junie jumps up to slap it. Not gonna lie, this kind of thing makes me feel all warm and mushy inside. This morning, I took Junie out for a trail ride so we could visit the Wallaces’ herd of cows. We ran into Vince when we were done, and he showed Junie how to untack our horse and brush him down. I don’t know who enjoyed the lesson more—her or Vince. His boys are teenagers now, and I can tell he misses having little kids around.
“All right, Junie.” I put my hands on her shoulders and start steering her toward the food. “Let’s eat our chicken, and then you can have some cake.”
We’re just about to grab some plates when I see Sally approaching, hand in hand with Wyatt. I’m always struck by how much he reminds me of Sawyer—something about the shade of his eyes and his confident, steady stride.
Then again, everything seems to remind me of Sawyer, so I’ve never read too much into it.
Seeing me, Sally smiles and waves. My stomach flips, nerves returning with a vengeance.
Stop it. You’re going to be fine.
I wave back and force brightness into my voice. “Hey, y’all! Thank you so much for coming. We’re blown away by the turnout!”
Wyatt grins. I don’t miss the way he keeps Sally close, their arms brushing as they absently swing their joined hands.
“Welcome to Hartsville, where everyone’s nosy as hell but always willing to lend a hand.” He nods at the kegs. “The fact that there’s free beer here doesn’t hurt.”
I smile. “Least we could do.”
“So, Ava,” Sally says, glancing at her fiancé, “Wyatt and I would like you to meet someone.”
Looking at Junie, I pretend to be surprised. “Oh? This sounds fun.”
Junie, ever the optimist, screams with delight. Together we follow Sally and Wyatt into the barn. The singed smell of smoke burns my nostrils, but it’s alleviated somewhat by the clean, fresh scent of new lumber. Several men and women are hard at work repairing some framing on the far wall. A little girl busies herself with a pink plastic hammer in the opposite corner, a safe distance from the construction.
My gaze immediately catches on a tall, broad-shouldered guy smack dab in the middle of the wall. He’s in jeans and a flannel shirt he fills out to perfection, biceps bulging as he lifts a two-by-four—at least I think that’s what you call those long, thin wooden boards? A tool belt is slung around his hips.
Even from behind, you can tell he’s handsome.Especiallyfrom behind. The way his butt fills out those broken-in Levi’s?—
Wait a second.
Wait. A. Second.
Those jeans—that thick, dark hair—oh, God, now he’s turning, offering me a glimpse of his side. He’s got his sleeves rolled up, revealing a big, bold line of script tattooed on his thickly muscled forearm.Ella.
There’s a faint buzzing in my ears that’s overtaken by the panicked throb of my pulse. My head suddenly feels like it’s being squeezed inside a vise, even as my heart leaps in elation.
