We’re two weeks out from the event and everything’s falling into place—no,soaringinto place.
Everyone’s locked in. Vendors are confirmed. The Honey Bea products we’ll be selling are labeled and ready to go. Kade,Ridge, Hazel, and all the farm hands managed to keep the fields gorgeous despite everything that’s happened, and the west meadow is a rainbow right now.
This week alone, we finished organizing flower cutting stations for guests, scheduled back-to-back meet-the-animal tours, and set up a tasting tent near the front gate where Bea will personally walk people through every single variation of Archer honey—wildflower, alfalfa, orange blossom, clover.
There’ll be food trucks from Wildwood, music from that Langley bluegrass band everyone loves, pop-up booths from just about every local shop I could talk into showing up.
The twins are running a face painting booth and Hazel’s organized horse rides. And tucked into the middle of it all, thereal surprise—Aurora’s first birthday bash, built into the main event.
I ordered her a confetti cake, decorations, and the sweetest little crown I could find on Etsy. Everything’s bee themed, including our matching dresses, which is insanely stupid on my part, but I can’t find it in me to care anymore. Of course, she has no idea, but it’ll mean something big to Kade.
Sort of hope he cries.
Grinning, I skid up the porch steps, already unbuttoning my blazer. My cheeks are flushed from the run and the fact that, for once, things feel...good.
Like mine. Like I belong here.
The moment I hit the bedroom; I head straight for the dresser, his dresser, and open the second drawer without thinking. My clothes are folded neatly inside. A mix of farm gear, soft tees, and a few pairs of my favorite jeans.
I slip into a tank and one of the Archer Farm tees Bea gave me, then pull on jeans and boots before tucking my work clothes into the hamper. It’s weird. I don’t even pause anymore. I sleep hereevery single night. Between Bash planning and life with Kade and Aurora, it’s just easier to crash at his place.
Besides, being here feels as easy as breathing.
Bea’s expecting me at the main house to show me how to harvest honey—something I’ve been weirdly excited about for weeks. There’s a whole art to it. The frames, the uncapping, the spinner. I’ve watched countless videos so I can impress her, but really, I’m just happy to spend time with Kade's mom.
But first, I need my checklist.
I jog into the kitchen, scanning the counter, the table, the messy coffee table. No sign of it, so I start opening drawers.
“Where did I put you?” I murmur, tugging through the silverware tray, a pile of notepads, rubber bands, and tiny Post-its that say things like “Georgia’s gluten-free” and “DO NOT FEED HER THIS OR SHE’LL DIE” in Kade’s handwriting.
The corner of my mouth tips up and a chuckle slips free.
Sweet, over the top, wonderful man.
God, I love him so much.
Spinning, brows furrowed, I move to the living room.
My cardigan’s draped across the back of the couch next to Aurora’s. My sneakers are by the front door, between one of Aurora’s sandals and Kade’s mud-crusted boots. Gluten-free flour is still on the counter from the waffles I made this morning beside her sippy cup and a plate I forgot to rinse.
My chest tightens and I freeze.
There’s a mug beside the sink—mine. A scrunchy on the doorknob. Robin’s quilt I brought from my place is tossed over the arm of the couch, now part of our nightly movie routine.
Signs of me are…everywhere.
My heart skips, then twists. And not in a sweet way.
In a spinning room, can’t catch your breath, you’ve let it happen again kind of way.
Day by day, he said.
And day by day, I fell. Deeper and further into the kind of life I never believed was meant for me.
I haven’t told him I love him.
And he hasn’t told me, either.
