My safety was wildfire and wonder and warmth.
Elodie was the reason I tore down every fence I’d ever built.
She was the sun.
And loving her?
That was the only thing worth chasing.
EPILOGUE
Callum
The sun waslow and slow, stretching gold across the orchard like it knew we needed one more perfect day.
I stood just outside the barn, my boots planted in the dirt, arms crossed as I watched a group of kids charge Tire Mountain like it was Everest. One of them lost a shoe halfway up. Another screamed with delight and launched into a dive-roll. Nobody cried. Nobody got hurt. The kind of chaos that made a place feel alive.
And it was alive—every inch of it.
It was perfect. Chaotic, a little sticky, probably two safety violations away from a lawsuit—but utterly perfect.
A year ago, this farmland was just overgrown hills and a distant what-if. I didn’t even believe in forever back then—not until a fiery brunette in muddy boots showed up and refused to leave.
The scents of woodsmoke and warm cider curled through the air. Someone had spilled kettle corn near the firepit, and a trail of toddlers were treating it like a buffet.The hayride was packed, the tractor rattling down the path behind the barn while laughter and squeals echoed behind it. The bluegrass trio had set up beside the pumpkin patch and was strumming into the late-afternoon light.
A golden retriever with a bandanna labeled “Hank” was doing laps between tables, joyfully stealing doughnuts off paper plates like it was his personal fall buffet. Someone yelled “Hank, no!” and he responded by snagging another one and bolting toward the hayride.
And Elodie?
She was in the middle of it all. Barefoot in the grass, curls wild from the breeze, her laugh carrying farther than the music. She was leaning down to tie a child’s shoe, waving at a family she’d met ten minutes ago, smoothing a plaid tablecloth that refused to behave. Her flannel was too big—because it was mine. Her cheeks flushed pink from the chill.
And she was the most beautiful damn thing I’d ever seen. Barefoot and radiant, curls like wildfire, her laugh lifting above the music. She looked like chaos and comfort wrapped in plaid.
And she was mine.
I could’ve stayed back, just watched her in that golden hour glow like a fool—but I had things to do.
The new sign hung at the front gate, wood-grain lettering carved deep and clean:
Star Harbor Farm & The Drifted Spirit Inn
Est. (again) 2025
Two pieces finally made whole.
We’d closed on the land weeks ago. With JP’s help, Elodie had purchased the farm outright, but not just the farm and orchard or the cottage. With the historic easement in place, we were able to fold the Drifted Spirit and theacreage into one—just like it had been before time had torn it apart with lines and paperwork and poorly maintained recordkeeping.
Now it was whole again.
And so were we.
The big blue barn was under renovation, one wall already stripped to the studs, the scent of sawdust clinging to the air like possibility. Construction would pick up in the winter when the events slowed down, and by spring, it would be ready. Our restaurant. Her design. My food. Our dream.
I turned from the barn to help an elderly woman with her bag of apples—Elodie’s friend Sheila from bingo, who’d already threatened to steal one of our scarecrows—and walked her to her car. When I turned back around, I saw Elodie standing with Levi at the edge of the bustling pumpkin patch.
His hoodie sleeves were too long, and his sneakers were muddy, but he looked lighter somehow. More settled. Taller.
I watched them talk. She bumped his shoulder, and he rolled his eyes in the exaggerated way that only a teenage boy could. Then she knelt and adjusted something on his boot—probably his laces—and whatever he said made her laugh. That belly-deep, messy laugh I never got tired of.
