Page 3 of Wild For You

He crossed his arms. “You have Haley to take care of. I’m not your kid.”

His words broke my heart. My kid or not, he was family.

“You are my blood regardless, Chase. You don’t deserve to live like that.”

It was time to figure something out. Michael might not let me take Chase back with me, but it was only a matter of time before he went to jail again. Chase would call me and I’d move back here and raise him myself.

Our dad scarred us for life. Most of our childhoods, we were beaten daily, for the most minute things. My mother's attempts to escape with us ended up with her in the hospital and himpromising never to repeat it. Michael, unlike me, has been devastated since he left us.

“We will figure this out. Michael can’t behave for long. Until then, let’s eat and catch up.”

My nephew would not turn on his father, much like Michael, never turned on our father either. However, the law would be in my favor when Michael went to jail again. All I had to do was wait for Michael to mess up.

2

Josie

Carla Stevenson's local bakery was a quaint establishment. A gentle tinkle of the bell heralded each newcomer, while the air inside swirled with the scent of cinnamon and yeast, a symphony of warmth that seemed to embrace patrons in a cocoon of comfort. I loved to come here, but usually not until after morning rush.

“Isn't this just heaven?” Molly sighed as she took a delicate sip of her coffee, the steam curling up into her blue eyes. Her laughter, bright and clear, mingled with the clinking of spoons against porcelain from the patrons enjoying their breakfast.

I nodded, my lips curving around the rim of my own mug, the rich aroma of Arabica beans grounding me in this moment of simple pleasures. I watched as a powdered sugar snowfall settled on Molly's nose from the pastry she'd bitten into—a raspberry danish as plump and inviting as the cushions we sat upon.

“Pure bliss,” I agreed, my voice soft. I reached for a cinnamon roll, its glaze glistening under the bakery's warm lights, the perfection of its swirls almost too beautiful to disturb. Carla had the best pastries in Lawson Ridge.

“Carla really outdid herself today.”

“Every bite is a reminder of why I'm never leaving this town.” My heart was anchored to Lawson Ridge as much as to the people who breathed life into it. The pastries were not just confections; they were Carla's love made edible, a sentiment I knew all too well. My life's work—capturing the essence of love through my lens—was my own way of baking sweetness into existence.

Molly leaned forward, her presence as comforting and familiar to me as the bakery itself. “You know, this place isn't going anywhere. And neither are the memories.”

“Or the calories we're consuming,” I quipped back as I took another bite.

“Wouldn't have it any other way,” Molly replied, raising her cup in a silent toast to many more mornings just like this one.

My heart swelled with gratitude, both for Molly's presence and for the sense of belonging that seemed to seep from the very walls of Carla's bakery. But beneath it all lay an undercurrent of restlessness, a nagging whisper.

I chased the thought away with another sip of coffee. For now, this was enough. This moment of friendship and indulgence, this small corner of the world that felt so very much like home. I brushed a wayward strand of my long hair behind my ear.

“Another weekend full of 'I dos' and lace?” teased Mr. Henderson from across the room, his voice carrying over the hum of the coffee grinder.

“Always,” I replied, my grin as wide as the aperture on my camera. “Love is in perpetual bloom in Lawson Ridge.” My floral skirt swirled around my knees as I got up to retrieve my refill.

“Isn't it something, though? To witness all those beginnings?” Molly asked, her curiosity piqued by the carousel of emotions that must play out before my lens.

“Something indeed,” I mused, my fingers tracing the rim of my coffee cup. “Each couple spins their own universe of affection. I just find a way to freeze it in time.”

“Show me the latest?” Molly prompted.

Lifting my phone, I swiped to a gallery of recent shots: a tender look shared between bashful newlyweds, a veil caught mid-dance by the breeze, a tear glistening on an elderly groom's cheek as he beheld his bride.

“Look at that,” Molly breathed, leaning closer. “You've got a knack for catching the uncatchable.”

My smile faltered for a heartbeat, a silent acknowledgment of the irony. I could preserve others' love forever but struggled to grasp its strands for myself. I shook off the thought. “It's just about seeing,” I said, my tone light. “The camera sees what's there; I just follow its lead.”

“Your heart follows, too,” Molly countered, touching my arm, a wordless reminder of the depth of feeling my friend poured into every frame.

“Maybe.” I allowed myself the concession, my gaze falling to the couples in my photos. In their eyes, in their clasped hands, in the joyous tilt of their heads thrown back in laughter, I found echoes of the magic she yearned to claim as my own.

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