Page 2 of Spring Fling

Once we deposited my supplies, I thanked Cass profusely. He waved me off. “No big deal. Glad to help. This festival has become a highlight of Wintervale’s year, so it’s fun to witness the behind-the-scenes excitement.”

Leaving Cass to tidy up the hallway, I returned to the foyer. Rory was helping another guest check in, so I gave her a quick wave before making my way up the wide wooden staircase with my suitcase. Each step squeaked softly in a reassuring,this building has historyway. The second-floor corridor smelled of lavender sachets, an aroma that reminded me of a spa, both soothing and welcoming. One door near the top of the stairs was propped open with a housekeeping cart, revealing glimpses of pale walls and a landscape painting above the bed.

Following the room numbers, I reached my door: “205” etched on a small placard. Slipping the key in, I took a breath.So far, so good.The room itself was bright with natural light from two tall windows that overlooked the side lawn, where early spring crocuses dotted the grass in purple and white. The bed’s quilt matched that aesthetic, a riot of pastel squares thatsomehow didn’t clash but felt whimsical. A sturdy old writing desk stood near a standing lamp, and in the corner was a comfy-looking upholstered chair. If I craned my neck, I could see glimpses of the orchard behind the Inn.

Setting my suitcase down, I let out a breathy laugh at how much better this was than some of the motels I’d endured last year. Here, the entire ambiance said,Take a moment, breathe, you’re in a safe place.Just the environment alone helped settle some of my festival nerves. For a fleeting second, I considered making a quick trip to the orchard later if time allowed, daydreaming about scattering orchard blossoms into my designs.

I was halfway through unzipping my suitcase when it happened: I heard a muffled voice outside, male, and low. Something about the cadence, that husky pitch, triggered goosebumps on my arms. I froze, my heart stuttering. The sound was indistinct, but the resonance reminded me of someone I’d tried not to dwell on for months.That’s impossible.My mind conjured an image from last spring—laughter in a bar, a heated gaze in a random hotel corridor, strong arms around me, a night so scorching I’d told him it felt like a fantasy. We’d parted in the morning, each going back to our busy schedules. Real names? No. He’d introduced himself as “Jack,” I’d teased him by calling myself “Jane,” aware we were indulging in anonymity. We parted with half-smiles and the knowledge we were each due somewhere else.

Yet the voice in the hallway hammered at my rational side. Could it truly be him? My pulse spiked in a weird combo of dread and excitement.No, Daisy. That was a one-night fling hundreds of miles away.We hadn’t stayed in contact. I didn’t even know if “Jack” could be his real name. The memory alonehad kept me warm on lonely nights, but I’d never expected an encore.

Sucking in a breath, I closed my suitcase with exaggerated calm and tiptoed to the door. The old door had a slight gap near the frame, letting me peek into the corridor. Carefully, I eased an eye to the crack. Initially, all I saw was Cass’s broad back. Then he stepped aside, revealing another man—tall, well-built, with sandy blond hair that caught the overhead light. A wave of recognition crashed over me. The shape of his face, that strong jawline, the slope of his shoulders…Dear god, it’s him.

I stifled a gasp. My chest tightened, my heart in my throat. So “Jack” was real, right here in Wintervale, at the same inn, chatting casually with Cass about something I couldn’t make out. The muffled words might have been about luggage or a room key, but it didn’t matter.He’s here. He’s definitely here.My mind reeled with questions:Had he come for the festival? Was he also in horticulture or something related? Had he recognized me in the foyer?

I pressed a hand to my rapidly thumping heart. Our single night together had meant more than I’d admitted to anyone, even myself. The spark, the unstoppable chemistry—it’d all vanished with the dawn, leaving me with a tender ache. Now, as if fate wanted to test me, we were about to exist in the same building. Possibly for days. My stomach churned at the idea of seeing him face to face. Would he be glad? Shocked? Would he even remember?

Through the faint corridor lights, I watched him shift slightly, handing Cass a small piece of luggage. Cass nodded and pointed to a door a few feet away from mine. My heart hammered again. He was going to be just down the hall.I can’t hide forever, obviously.

As if to confirm my worst or best fear, Cass said in a clear voice, “We’ve got you in 207, Hayden. Let me show you where it is.” The man—my fling—responded with a low “thanks,” the same timbre that had once murmured “Jane” against my ear in the dark.Hayden.So that was his real name. I nearly sagged in relief mixed with shock.Hayden.It felt simultaneously correct and jarring, rewriting my memory of him as “Jack.”

I ducked back as Cass and Hayden walked past my door. The swirl of footsteps receded. Silence fell. My entire body trembled from the adrenaline.So not only is he here, but he’s apparently in the room next to mine.Or at least close enough for me to hear him talking in the hall. I sank onto the edge of the bed, burying my face in my hands.This was supposed to be a stress-free start to the best business week of my life. Now my long-lost fling—and best sex I’ve ever had—just waltzed in.

A swirl of emotions battered me: excitement, confusion, longing, and more than a little fear. Part of me wanted to fling open the door, march over, and say, “Hi, remember me?” Another part insisted I hide until I could figure out my next move. Because real or not, a fling from a year ago was the last thing I needed overshadowing my festival ambitions.But how can I ignore him?The memory of that sizzling night threatened to replay in vivid detail—heated whispers, tangled sheets, breathless laughter. I felt my cheeks burn.

No matter what, I had to keep it together. Tomorrow was day one of the festival, which meant final booth prep, meeting potential clients, and ensuring my design was up to par. My success hinged on concentration, not old lust.Then why is my heart pounding like a wild drum?

I inhaled, exhaled, repeated. The quiet of the room enveloped me, but it did nothing to calm the wild swirl in my head.Hayden… he’s just down the hall.The notion made mymouth go dry.I’ll figure out a plan,I told myself firmly.No meltdown. No letting it hamper my big break.

The day might bring everything I never knew I wanted. Or it might yank me into a tangle of emotions I’d spent a year burying. I had to face it: from the moment I recognized him, the show had taken on a new dimension. The question now was whether I could juggle a major professional opportunity with the emotional shock of encountering the one-night flame who haunted my best and most confusing memories.

My gaze flicked to the door again, half expecting him to knock. But no further sound came from the corridor.He must be settling in.I forced myself to stand, smoothing my hair back. After a shaky moment, I strode to the window, focusing on the orchard’s pale pink blossoms to ground me. The day outside was breezy, brimming with life, much like my future if I only played my cards right.

One thing was certain: I wasn’t leaving Wintervale. The festival was too important. If Jack—Hayden, I repeated in my head—was here, I would just have to put on my big-girl panties and handle it. My pulse fluttered as I imagined seeing him face to face with real names and no illusions. I recalled the grin that had once melted my defenses. Steeling myself, I squared my shoulders.I’ll deal with it—somehow.

An anxious laugh slipped free. Then I pressed my palm against my mouth, half giddy, half overwhelmed. The Inn’s walls felt both comforting and conspiratorial, as if they knew secrets we were about to unravel. I was bound to run into him sooner or later. And then neither of us could pretend we were strangers anymore.

Chapter Two

Hayden

I woke up to my phone buzzing on the antique nightstand, the unfamiliar ring tone jarring me from a restless sleep. Blinking groggily, I took in my surroundings: Evergreen Inn, Room 207—polished wooden floors, a warm area rug, and the faint aroma of fresh flowers drifting from the corridor. For a moment, I thought I was still dreaming, caught between memory and reality. But the phone kept vibrating, demanding my attention.

Rolling onto my back, I drew a slow breath to steel myself and picked up. “Hayden Brooks,” I said quietly, trying not to disturb any neighbors through the thin walls.

A crisp female voice came on: “Hayden, good morning! Marlene from the publisher’s PR department here. Sorry for the early call, but we have some updated demands for your schedule. We need you at two sponsor meet-and-greets this afternoon before your first lecture—plus a quick photo session, if possible. The festival crowd is apparently bigger than we anticipated.”

I forced away the remnants of sleep and sat up, the old bed creaking beneath me. “Got it,” I said, my voice sounding grufferthan I intended. “But let’s keep it within reason. I’d rather not spend all day posing with potted plants.”

A polite laugh came through the line. “We know you’re not thrilled about media obligations, but it’s important. After all, your how-to gardening book is top five in horticulture right now. Sponsors want face time with you, and the flower and garden show’s event coordinator believes your presence can boost turnout.”

I closed my eyes, half wishing I could vanish among the actual flowerbeds instead of playing the part of horticulture’s rising star. “Fine,” I replied, massaging my temple. “Text me the updated schedule.”

“Will do,” Marlene chirped. “Try to sound enthusiastic at these meet-and-greets, okay?”

I stifled a sigh. “I’ll do my best.”

She hung up, leaving me in the hush of the Inn’s gentle morning. Great, I thought, another day of forced smiles and small talk. All I wanted was to deliver a few lectures on sustainable gardening, maybe sign a handful of books, then retreat to the market grounds to view the new plant hybrids. But my publisher insisted on parading me around like a horticultural celebrity. It felt surreal; six months ago, I was just a university instructor, filming a few casual videos for students. The viral success that followed had thrust me into a role I neither asked for nor admittedly fully appreciated.

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