CHAPTER 18
NEESHA
The drive away from the bookstore takes us out of town limits, along winding country roads that I haven’t been on in ages. “So are you going to tell me where we’re going, or keep me in suspense?”
“Telling you would ruin everything,” he says, glancing over at me with a mischievous smile. His hand catches mine and he holds it the rest of the trip, letting the slow stroke of his thumb soothe me.
As soon as he turns on a dirt road that leads into a wooded stretch, I know wherewe’re going. There’s a for-sale sign along the road, and my heart sinks when I think of someone buying this special place.
This is where Mom and I used to escape in her beat-up minivan when I needed cheering up or she needed a break from the world. We knew the owner before he died, but his children must have decided not to keep the land.
We wind through the forest, and when the road opens up to reveal Maple Lake, its surface like glass reflecting the moon, I have to blink back the emotion that feels like it’s going to spill out.
Even in early summer when the water was still shockinglycold, Mom would sit on that dock with her feet dangling in the water, laughing as I jumped in over and over until my lips turned blue and my teeth chattered so hard I could barely speak. She’d wrap me in a towel that smelled like fabric softener and sunshine, telling me stories while I warmed up enough to jump in again.
“You’re crazy, baby girl,” she’d say with that smile that told me she was just like me. “But don’t ever change.” Those are the memories that make leaving feel impossible, even when staying feels just as hard.
It’s places like this that I know Seattle can’t replace.
“Lucian,” I breathe, “this was our place. Mine and Mom’s. She always said she wanted to buy it someday, but she never had the money.”
He parks near the water’s edge and turns to me. “I know. A little bird told me you loved Maple Lake. Is it okay that I brought you here?” he asks. “Because if it’s not, we can leave.”
I stare at the water for a beat. “I’ve wanted to come for so long,” I admit. “I just couldn’t do it by myself. Couldn’t face the memories.”
Lucian retrieves a large basket and blanket from the truck bed before leading me down the familiar path to the dock, illuminated now only by moonlight.
He spreads the blanket on the dock and begins unpacking his treasures: a thermos of hot apple cider, two mugs, and a small box.
“Who made these?” I ask, smelling a familiar scent of maple syrup and vanilla.
He pulls out two maple-spice cupcakes with cinnamon buttercream—the recipe Mom and I perfected before she went in for her surgery.
“I made them,” he says, and there’s something almost shy in his voice. “Or tried to, anyway. Mimi shared your mom’s recipe with me.” The slightly crooked frosting on the two cupcakes somehow makes them even more endearing. “Emmy mentionedyou haven’t been able to make these since she passed. I thought maybe if someone else made them first, it might be easier.”
He hands me one, and the familiar scent of cinnamon and maple hits me like a gentle wave.
For a moment, I can’t speak because my throat feels too tight. This man—this beautiful, thoughtful man—made my mom’s cupcakes because I couldn’t do it. Every time I tried, I’d end up sobbing over the mixing bowl, overwhelmed by how unfair it all was. Mom wasn’t supposed to die from routine surgery. She was supposed to be here with me, laughing as I jumped off this dock well into my thirties. Knowing her, she’d probably be jumping right off with me, with her shoes on and all.
But sitting here now, holding this imperfect cupcake with its lopsided frosting, that grief feels different somehow. More bittersweet, and less like an open wound, a reminder that the people we lose never really leave us if we carry their recipes, their stories, their laughter with us.
“She would’ve loved that you tried,” I say, my voice wobbling a bit, before I take a small bite. It tastes like autumn and childhood and the way love should feel—warm and safe and a little bit sweet.
“It’s delicious, Lucian. Even with the crooked frosting. Especially with the crooked frosting.”
“Good thing, because I’m pretty sure I used too much cinnamon.”
I laugh despite the tears welling up in my eyes. “Mom always said the best recipes have a little extra love, even if they’re not perfect.”
We sit side by side, sipping hot cider and sharing cupcakes, watching the moon dance on the water. The night is cool but not too cold, and I shiver just a little. Lucian moves closer, wrapping his arm around my shoulders, and this time, I don’t fight it. His warmth feels amazing, making me wish I could stay here with him like this all night.
Lucian’s hand finds mine on the blanket. The movementpushes up his sleeve slightly, revealing the edge of the maple-leaf tattoo on his forearm. It’s attractive in a way that has nothing to do with showing off, and everything to do with a man who’s claimed this town as his own. Like he was made to stay in Maple Falls. The movement feels far more intimate than anything we’ve done together, as if we’ve always touched in this familiar way.
“She was right, though,” he murmurs. “You are special.”
I turn to look at him, and his expression has changed. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he says hesitating. “About the bachelor auction.”
“The one this weekend?” My stomach drops despite how perfect this moment has been. “What about it?”
