Page 28 of All You Need Is Macchiato

"Do you?" She rises, touching my arm. "Or do you see what you're afraid of seeing?"

"I'm not afraid."

"No?" Her grip tightens slightly. "Then why are you organizing linen closets instead of talking to her?"

Because talking means explaining. Because explaining means admitting that watching her with Cam felt like losing something I never had permission to want.

"Your mother was just like you, you know." Aunt Evie's voice softens with memory. "Always so sure she knew how stories would end. Until your father proved her wonderfully wrong."

"This isn't?—"

"A love story?" Her smile is knowing. "Maybe not. But it could be something real, if you'd stop folding towels long enough to find out."

She leaves me with the fading light and her too-accurate words. The mountains stretch endless before me, painted in shades of purple and gold as the sun sets. Somewhere in town,a coffee shop is probably closing for the day. A wall of wishes is waiting to be read.

Including one I wrote too high for anyone to reach.

The evening air carries the scent of pine and wood smoke, reminding me of Kathryn's soft sweater, her genuine laugh, the way she looks at this town like it's something precious. The way she looked at me, before I convinced myself to look away.

Maybe Aunt Evie's right. Maybe I am afraid.

But some fears are easier to face than the possibility of watching another person you care about choose something—someone—else.

Chapter Eleven

Kathryn

"We granted twenty-seven wishes this week." I make another note on my tablet. "And I’m guessing it’s even more community connections formed."

The numbers are impressive, but they feel hollow this morning. The coffee shop hums with its usual activity. Annie crafts lattes, regulars check the wall for new wishes and Old Joe in his corner shows off his first attempt at knitting. Everything's working exactly as planned.

So why does success taste like black coffee gone cold?

My phone sits silent beside my tablet. No response to my text about vendor arrangements for the harvest festival. No trademark dry comments about corporate efficiency. No Nolan.

"Earth to Kathryn." Jake drops into the chair across from me. "You've been staring at that same spreadsheet for ten minutes."

"I'm analyzing data."

"You're brooding."

"I don't brood." But I find myself glancing at the door again, like a certain flannel-wearing marketing expert might materialize if I wish hard enough. "I'm just thinking."

"About why Mountain Man's been MIA since the farmers' market?"

I close my tablet with more force than necessary. "He's busy with the lodge. Weekend rush, remember?"

"Right." Jake's voice drips skepticism. "That's why you keep checking your phone like it might explode."

"I'm expecting an email from corporate."

"And I'm expecting to sprout wings." He leans forward. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened. That's the problem." I fidget with my coffee cup. "One minute we're planning events, talking about community connections, and the next he's practically running away when I stop by the lodge."

"Men are idiots."

"Says the man."

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