Page 21 of Summer Showdown
He didn't argue, just walked me to the door in silence. As I stepped onto the porch, I finally risked a glance back. The hurt in his expression made my chest ache, but I forced myself to turn away.
"Goodnight, Wade," I said softly, then fled down the steps before he could respond.
The walk back to the Evergreen Inn was mercifully short, the quiet streets of Wintervale offering little distraction from my tumultuous thoughts. I passed a couple sitting on their front porch, sharing quiet laughter over glasses of iced tea. The simple intimacy of their moment—the comfortable silence, the private jokes, the easy affection—sent an unexpected pang of longing through me.
How long had it been since I'd allowed myself that kind of connection? Had I ever?
As tears unexpectedly filled my eyes, I quickened my pace. This wasn't why I came to Wintervale. I wasn't here to develop feelings for a small-town woodworker with kind eyes and capable hands, no matter how genuinely he seemed to see me.
I was here to weather a professional storm, to strategize my next career move, to protect the reputation I'd spent years building. Getting emotionally entangled with Wade Foster—a man whose life was firmly rooted in the very place I was just passing through—was the height of foolishness.
Yet as I climbed the steps to the inn, the lingering warmth of his kiss seemed to mock my carefully constructed reasoning. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I had no strategy, no clear path forward.
And that terrified me more than anything else about this Montana summer.
Chapter Six
Wade
The familiar smell of sawdust and machine oil greeted me as I entered the high school woodshop early Wednesday morning. Summer vacation might be in full swing, but I still had work to do before the new school year began in September. Principal Garrison had finally approved my budget request for new safety equipment in the wood shop, and I needed to inventory what we had and what we needed to order.
I ran my fingers along the surface of the demonstration workbench, feeling the smooth finish and familiar nicks and gouges from years of student projects. This space had always been my sanctuary—a place where problems had solutions, where broken things could be fixed with enough patience and the right tools. Unlike relationships, wood was predictable; it responded to care and attention in consistent ways.
After leaving Lark's last night, sleep had been impossible. I'd replayed that kiss over and over in my mind—the softness of her lips, the way she'd leaned into me before suddenly pulling away. The confusion and vulnerability in her eyes had beenunmistakable. She was fighting the same attraction I was, trying to maintain the boundaries we'd set for our arrangement.
But pretending had become harder with each passing hour. Our fake relationship was developing real roots, whether either of us wanted to admit it or not.
I busied myself with the inventory, clipboard in hand, checking off items we already had: chisels, hand planes, calipers, safety goggles. The methodical work usually calmed my mind, but today my thoughts kept circling back to Lark. To the way she'd tilted her head when considering my pasta recipe, to how she'd run her fingers reverently over the dining table I'd crafted, to her slight intake of breath when our hands accidentally touched.
"Hello Wade. I thought that was your truck outside."
The voice—painfully familiar despite eighteen months of silence—sent an uncomfortable jolt through me. I turned slowly, bracing myself.
Vanessa Mitchell stood in the doorway, looking exactly as I remembered yet somehow different. Her dark hair fell in the same perfect silky curtain down her back, but was several inches longer than when I’d seen her last. Her lips were fuller than I remembered—clearly enhanced—and her eyelashes impossibly long. Her skin had the flawless bronze sheen that came from expensive salon treatments rather than honest time in the sun. She wore tight skinny jeans that probably cost more than my monthly truck payment and a silk blouse that seemed ridiculously impractical for Wintervale's casual lifestyle.
"Vanessa," I managed, keeping my tone neutral. "Didn't know you were back in town."
She stepped into the workshop, her designer heels clicking against the concrete floor. "Just got in last week. Needed some time to... regroup."
I returned to my inventory, determined not to show how her sudden appearance affected me. "Regroup from what?"
"Bradley and I are over," she said, her voice taking on that soft lilt I'd once found impossible to resist. "The divorce was finalized last month."
I looked up, meeting her eyes directly. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Are you?" She tilted her head, studying me. "I figured you'd be pleased, considering how things ended between us."
"I don't take pleasure in anyone's pain, Vanessa. Not even yours." I moved to the supply cabinet, counting safety glasses and making a note of how many we needed to replace. "So what brings you back to Wintervale? I thought you found it too provincial for your tastes."
She sighed dramatically, perching herself on the edge of a workbench. "Bradley wasn't who I thought he was. All that talk about developing luxury properties across the Midwest, and it turns out he was leveraged to the hilt. When the market shifted, everything fell apart." She glanced around the workshop. "Wintervale may be small, but it's home. Sometimes you don't appreciate what you have until it's gone."
The irony of her statement wasn't lost on me. When she'd left, her goodbye note had been brutally clear:I need more than small-town Montana can offer. More than you can offer. I’m sorry.
"Seems like you're doing fine," I said, nodding toward her designer outfit and the diamond studs still sparkling in her ears—remnants of her life with Bradley, no doubt.
"I'm managing." She smoothed her hair with a manicured hand. "Still doing my digital marketing work remotely. But enough about me." Her smile turned coy. "I've been seeing your name all over Wintervale Whispers. You're becoming quite the celebrity."
I groaned inwardly. Of course she'd seen Zoe's blog. "Don't believe everything you read."
