"I don't drink cider."
Of course he doesn't.
He says it like cider personally offended him at some point in his life.
"Coffee?" I try. "Hot chocolate? Maple syrup straight from the bottle? Pick your poison.”
He stares at me for several seconds. Finally, he says, "I'm fine."
He definitely hesitated, though…
"You sure?" I ask, letting my voice carry just a hint of teasing, "Because you look thirsty to me.”
That almost-smile flickers across his face again, like sunlight through clouds. But he shakes his head. “Like I said, I’m fine.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind an ear and try to hide my disappointment. “Okay. Well, thanks again. For Pickles.”
He bobs his head once. “See you around, Harper.”
“See you,” I call back, but he’s already disappeared around a bend in the maze.
I glance down at the little monster at my feet. “Think we’ll ever see him again, boy?”
Pickles barks in response.
“Yeah,” I say with a wistful sigh. “I hope so, too.”
Chapter 3
Harper
"Youhavegottobe kidding me."
I stare at the hand-painted vendor sign nailed to the pop-up tent directly next to mine. Elegant script on reclaimed wood reads "Dixon Woodworks - Felix Dixon, Artisan."
Felix. As in Mr. Tall, Dark, and Mysteriously Allergic to Cider from the Corn Maze.
As in the man who caught my dog and made my pulse literally skip a beat.
As inmy booth neighbor for the entire weekend.
Pickles, who has apparently decided that Felix is his new best friend, lets out a happy yip and plops down in the grass between our booths. He immediately begins working on a twig like it'sgourmet jerky, completely unbothered by the cosmic joke that seems to be unfolding around us.
I lean around the edge of my colorful mosaic display to get a better look at Felix's setup. He's arranging furniture on a wooden platform—handcrafted pieces that look like they belong in a luxury mountain lodge catalog. A coffee table with live-edge wood and delicate copper inlay. Bar stools with curved backs that seem to flow like water. A rustic bench with such clean lines it makes my artist’s heart physically ache.
He glances up and freezes when he sees me watching.
"You again," he mutters, but there's no real annoyance in his voice. More like resignation mixed with something that might be amusement.
I grin and wave like we're old friends. "I could say the same thing! Looks like the universe wants us to be neighbors.”
"It's a small town," he says, going back to his careful arrangement of wooden bowls. “We were bound to run into each other again.”
"I prefer to believe in fate.”
What can I say? I’m a romantic.
And I’d rather believe there’s a Grand Design than chalk this reunion up to a small-town coincidence.
