Page 46 of All You Need Is Macchiato

"They need to tell a story!"

"They do." His arms tighten around me. "Just like everything else you touch."

We sit in comfortable silence, watching shadows dance on the walls. Tomorrow we'll host a local authors' reading. Next week, a series of craft workshops. The calendar on my desk is full of community events, each one a thread weaving this place more tightly into the fabric of Elk Ridge.

"I've been thinking," I say finally.

"Dangerous."

I poke his ribs. "About the spring festival. What if we expanded it? Set up in the town square, get all the local businesses involved. Make it a real celebration of everything that makes this place special."

"Already planning months ahead?"

"Well, I'm not going anywhere." The certainty in my voice makes him pull back to look at me. "What? Did you think I might?"

Instead of answering, he kisses me. It's soft and sweet and tastes like chocolate and promises. When we part, his forehead rests against mine.

"I love you," he murmurs. "Even when you steal my flannel shirts."

"Especially when I steal your flannel shirts?"

"Especially then."

We clean up together, moving in the practiced dance we've perfected over these past months. His hand brushes my back as he passes. I lean into him while he locks up. Small touches, casual intimacies that feel as natural as breathing.

At the door, he pulls me into one last embrace. I rest my head on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat.

"Stay?" he whispers into my hair.

"Always," I promise, and I mean more than just tonight.

Chapter Eighteen

Nolan

Spring mornings in Elk Ridge paint the mountains in watercolor shades of green and gold. Today, those colors stream through the Coffee Loft's windows, catching on the wooden sign I've spent weeks carving. The words "Wishes Made Real" curve around a mountain laurel design, each petal and leaf detailed with care.

I pause in the doorway, taking in the scene before me. Old Joe holds court at his usual table, teaching three tourists about where to find the best fishing spots. Sara's morning delivery has left the pastry case gleaming with possibility. And there's Kathryn, moving through it all like she was born for this. She’s greeting regulars by name, adjusting Marie's fresh flowers, making everyone feel like they belong.

She's also wearing my flannel again (I've stopped pretending I'll ever get it back), sleeves rolled up as she shows a young couple the Wishing Wall. Her hands move animatedly as she explains the tradition, and I catch myself smiling at her enthusiasm. Some things never change.

Other things change completely.

Six months ago, I wouldn't have believed you if you'd told me I'd be here, holding a sign I carved for the woman who turnedmy world upside down. Six months ago, I was too busy building walls to notice someone worth letting in.

"You're doing that staring thing again." Aunt Evie appears beside me, a knowing smile on her face. "Though I suppose you've earned it."

"Just admiring our success."

"Mmm." She eyes the sign. "And creating more excuses to visit? As if you need them."

"It's a business partnership."

"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

Before I can respond, Kathryn spots us. Her whole face lights up—the way it always does, the way that still makes my heart skip—and she weaves through the morning crowd to reach us.

"Is that my sign?" She reaches for it, then stops. "Our sign?"

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