Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Nolan
" T hese need your approval." I place a stack of promotional materials on Aunt Evie's desk. "Fall festival materials."
"Good morning to you too." She studies me over her reading glasses. "You're in early."
"Lot to do before the weekend rush." I'm already heading for the door, needing the solitude of my office.
"Mmm." She picks up the top flyer. "Nothing to do with avoiding a certain coffee shop manager?"
"Not avoiding. Busy."
Through the office window, I spot a familiar figure walking up the lodge's front path. Kathryn's wearing that soft sweater again, the one that makes her look like she's always belonged in Elk Ridge. After yesterday, seeing her with Cam, I'm not interested in competing for her attention. I've been down that road before.
"Nolan?" Connor's voice carries from the front desk. "Kathryn's here about the harvest festival coordination."
"Handle it." I focus on the quarterly reports spread across my desk. "You know the layout as well as I do."
"You're really going with this strategy?"
"It's not a strategy." I meet his gaze steadily. "It's a decision."
Through the wall, I can hear Kathryn's voice mixing with Aunt Evie's. Something about vendor arrangements and community involvement. She's good at what she does. She'll do fine without my input.
"Want to talk about it?" Connor asks.
"Nothing to talk about."
"Right." He crosses his arms. "That's why you're suddenly fascinated by last quarter's numbers."
"The numbers don't come with complications."
"No," he agrees. "Just missed opportunities."
Before I can respond, Kathryn's laugh drifts through the wall. Clear and genuine, like everything else about her. Which is exactly the problem.
"I thought you two were working well together," Connor says. "The Wishing Wall is bringing people back to the coffee shop."
"The Wishing Wall is doing fine without my help." I start actually reading the reports, needing something concrete to focus on. "She knows what she's doing."
"Do you?"
I think of Cam's proprietary air as he worked the crowd yesterday, the way he and Kathryn looked like the perfect corporate team. Some stories follow predictable patterns.
A soft knock interrupts my thoughts. Kathryn stands in the doorway, professional but with an edge of determination that would be admirable if it wasn't so inconvenient.
"Sorry to interrupt," she says, though her tone suggests otherwise. "I needed to check some details about the festival layout."
"Connor can handle it." I keep my voice neutral, my eyes on my work. "I've got reports to finish."
"Right." Something flashes in her expression—not hurt, but challenge. "Because quarterly numbers can't wait another ten minutes."
Connor wisely steps back, but I notice he doesn't leave completely.
"The festival planning is in good hands," I say. "You and Cam seemed to have everything under control yesterday."
Understanding dawns in her eyes. "Ah. So that's what this is about."
"This is about me having work to do."
"No." She takes a step into the office. "This is about you jumping to conclusions."
"I don't need explanations, Kathryn." I meet her gaze directly. "What you do with Cam is your business."
"You're right." Her voice is cool. "It is my business. And if you're interested in actually knowing what that business is, you know where to find me. When you're done hiding behind quarterly reports."
She turns on her heel, leaving me with the distinct feeling that I've miscalculated something.
"Well," Connor says from the doorway. "That was masterfully handled. If by masterfully, you mean not at all."
"Don't you have tours to organize?"
"Don't you have assumptions to reconsider?"
I watch through the window as Kathryn stops to admire the mountain laurel blooms, her shoulders straight and proud. No hint of the corporate climber I'm trying to convince myself she must be.
"You're being ridiculous," Aunt Evie announces from the doorway.
"Did everyone in this family forget how to knock?"
"Did you forget everything you know about that girl?" She moves to the window. "Since when does Kathryn play corporate politics?"
"People change."
"They do." She gives me a pointed look. "Usually for the worse when they let fear make their decisions."
"I'm not afraid." But the words taste false. "I'm being practical."
"No, you're being stubborn. And letting old wounds cloud your judgment." She heads for the door but pauses. "You know what your mother used to say about assumptions?"
"Please, not now."
"She said they're like mountain storms. By the time you realize you're wrong, you've already missed the sunshine."
She leaves me with my reports and my certainly-not-fear. Outside, Connor is showing Kathryn the festival layout. She's taking notes on that tablet of hers, every inch the capable professional she is.
Except for how she handles each interaction with genuine care. How she remembers every vendor's name. How she's nothing like what I'm trying to convince myself she is.
I turn back to my desk, but the numbers blur in front of me. Some decisions are harder to stick to than others.
I spend the afternoon doing things that definitely don't need my personal attention. Reorganizing the supply closet. Double-checking reservation confirmations. Teaching Lisa, our newest desk clerk, the proper way to fold towels.
"Um, thanks?" She eyes the stack of perfectly folded linens. "Though I'm pretty sure guests don't actually measure the corners."
"Details matter."
"Right." She shares a look with Jameson, who's been watching me with barely concealed amusement.
"Is this about why Kathryn left looking like she wanted to throw something?" he asks.
"Don't you have activities to coordinate?"
"Actually," Jameson leans against the counter, "I thought we could talk about why you're hiding in the linen closet instead of helping plan the harvest festival."
"I'm not hiding. I'm working."
"You color-coded the guest information packets." He picks one up. "Twice."
Before I can defend the importance of proper organization, Aunt Evie appears. "Nolan, would you help me with something in the garden?"
It's not a request. I follow her out to the terrace, where the mountain laurel blooms are fading but still beautiful. She settles onto a bench, patting the space beside her.
"I'm actually pretty busy?—"
"Sit."
I sit.
"Connor tells me you spent an hour this morning explaining the proper way to stack firewood."
My cousin has been running his mouth. Not that I’m surprised.
"Nolan." Her voice gentles. "What are you doing?"
"My job."
"No." She gestures to the mountains beyond, painted in late afternoon light. "You're doing what you always do when something matters too much. You're burying yourself in details so you don't have to look at the bigger picture."
"There is no bigger picture." But even I don't believe it anymore. "It's business. The festival, the coffee shop, all of it."
"Is that what you told yourself when you wrote that wish?"
I start. "How did you?—"
"I didn't." Her eyes twinkle. "But you just confirmed my suspicion."
Sometimes I forget how crafty she can be.
"It doesn't matter anyway." I stand, needing to move. "Kathryn has her plans, her partnership with Cam. She doesn't need my help."
"Partnership?" Aunt Evie's voice sharpens. "Is that what you think is happening?"
"I know what I saw."
"Do you?" She rises, touching my arm. "Or do you see what you're afraid of seeing?"
"I'm not afraid."
"No?" Her grip tightens slightly. "Then why are you organizing linen closets instead of talking to her?"
Because talking means explaining. Because explaining means admitting that watching her with Cam felt like losing something I never had permission to want.
"Your mother was just like you, you know." Aunt Evie's voice softens with memory. "Always so sure she knew how stories would end. Until your father proved her wonderfully wrong."
"This isn't?—"
"A love story?" Her smile is knowing. "Maybe not. But it could be something real, if you'd stop folding towels long enough to find out."
She leaves me with the fading light and her too-accurate words. The mountains stretch endless before me, painted in shades of purple and gold as the sun sets. Somewhere in town, a coffee shop is probably closing for the day. A wall of wishes is waiting to be read.
Including one I wrote too high for anyone to reach.
The evening air carries the scent of pine and wood smoke, reminding me of Kathryn's soft sweater, her genuine laugh, the way she looks at this town like it's something precious. The way she looked at me, before I convinced myself to look away.
Maybe Aunt Evie's right. Maybe I am afraid.
But some fears are easier to face than the possibility of watching another person you care about choose something—someone—else.