Page 75 of Every Thought Taken

Pine and oxygen. Something to give me life.

Slowly, I open my eyes and twist to look at the trees.

Tall and sturdy and expanding. Evidence you can have roots and still spread your wings.

I open my canteen, bring it to my lips, and take a long pull.

Abundant and fluid. Proof you can move forward and change with each bend or twist.

Rising to my feet, I take a calming breath and let go of the last of the nervous energy in my chest. Take one last look at the lake below as my heart resumes its normal rhythm. And then I curl my fingers around my backpack straps and walk the trail back to town. Back to the noise. Back to her.

CHAPTER43

HELENA

The bell over the door jingles as a woman exits the store with a bag on each arm.

Still in the thick of tourist season, inventory flies out of the store faster than I have time to replenish it. No one will hear me complain about having the best sales year since taking ownership of the shop. Every sale is another opportunity to bring in something fresh and trendy. A new piece to garner the attention of not only the townspeople but also those visiting.

The designers I work with never make the same garment twice. I discuss ideas with each of them, homing in on their individual personalities. They sketch up ideas and share them with me days later. I tell them how many I want and then it’s production time. Quantities are small, so each piece feels more individualized for customers.

From idea to rack, it takes six weeks to get new items in the store. Fashion is never simple, but staying ahead of the game is the hardest part. Thankfully, I procured the best team of women for my business. I support their small business, and they do the same by sending friends and family my way. It’s a win-win.

On the far wall, I straighten tops on wooden hangers and organize any items out of place. I move down the line and make sure everything on the rack looks impeccable and eye-catching. As I adjust a knee-length gray dress on a hanging bust, the bell over the door chimes.

I plaster on my brightest smile and spin around to greet whoever walks in. “Good after—” The welcome catches in my throat as Anderson stands feet from the entrance.

His eyes roam the store at a leisurely pace until our gazes lock. My heart soars with his expression, awe and pride lighting his eyes and smile.

He’d been in the store before, years ago when Gayle owned the shop. Although I kept some things the same—the white shiplap walls and iron pipes used as clothing rods—the store has an entirely new vibe.

Most of what Gayle offered was bold colors. Vibrant reds, royal blues, rich greens, and sunny yellows and oranges. Living closer to the city during college, I frequented countless retail shops for clothing and researched. During those visits, I discovered what I gravitated toward, what caught my eye. I also eavesdropped on others’ conversations as they perused stores and wished they could find this or that.

When it came time to make this shop reflect my style, I did it with ease. Whites and creams. Soft palettes—blush and baby peach, sand and beige, cloudy and silver grays. Pale blues and lighter denim. Every now and then, mostly in fall or winter, I add a few darker pieces.

The pride in Anderson’s eyes gives me an odd sense of validation I didn’t realize I wanted or needed. Others are proud of what I’ve done with Always Classic—my parents, Lessa, Mags—but something about earning his approval makes it stick. Makes all the hard work and countless hours sink in.

I don’t need his endorsement to find joy in my accomplishments, but Iwantit.

Because Anderson’s opinion always weighs heavier.

“Sorry to…” he starts, stepping farther into the shop. “This is”—his eyes roam the store again—“incredible.” The corners of his mouth curve up into a heart-stopping smile. “Everything you do is remarkable.”

I open my mouth to thank him, but snap my lips shut as confusion filters in. It isn’t because Anderson never complimented me or sang my praises years ago. More that he had never been so candid or forthcoming.

“Don’t mean to barge in or disrupt your day.” Step after step, his hiking boots eat up the space between us in five long strides. “We agreed to tomorrow, but I needed to see you again. Before then.”

Clasping my hands together, the fingers of my left hand automatically go to the ring on my right hand, spinning the thin double band. His eyes drop and catch the action, a soft smile tugging at his lips. I unclasp my hands and let them fall to my sides.

“Why?” I ask, unsure I want the answer.

He rolls his lips between his teeth as he turns his head to the side. I study his profile and get lost as I catalog a new image of him. Beard lining his angular jaw, the dark-blond hair is thick and wiry. Light dances over his skin, the gleam creating occasional shadows and highlighting his cheekbone and brow. The slope of his nose looks much the same, but the definition of his philtrum and cupid’s bow are nothing like I remember.

For a split second, I imagine closing the distance between us and pressing my lips to his. Feeling the pressure of his lips on mine and running my tongue over them. Tasting him for the first time in…

“You can’t say stuff like that,” he mumbles as he levels me with his gaze.

Shit. Did I say something while off in lip-lock land?

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