Chapter 7
SEVEN
Kye
If someone had told me a month ago that I’d be up before eight on a Sunday morning to go to a farmer’s market, I would’ve laughed in their face.
Yet here I am—wide awake, showered, dressed in my best attempt at a “casual but not a complete recluse” outfit. I’m standing in the middle of downtown Wolf Valley, surrounded by flower stalls, homemade soap stands, and more small children than I’ve willingly been around in my entire life.
And I’m… happy.
What the hell is happening to me?
I spot Sienna near a booth selling fresh fruit, her dark hair pulled back into one of those loose braids she wears sometimes. She’s wearing a flowy yellow top and denim shorts that hug her hips, and her smile lights up the entire street. She’s chatting animatedly with an older woman selling jars of homemade preserves, and I swear the woman looks charmed just to be in her orbit.
Yeah. That makes two of us.
She turns, sees me, and waves so enthusiastically that I can’t help but smile. I must look ridiculous—this six-foot-three ex-loner mountain man, soft as hell for one girl and carrying her tote bag—but I don’t care.
Not even a little.
“Look what I found,” she says, holding up a small jar of blueberry jam like she’s discovered buried treasure. “The lady says she picked the berries herself. Can you believe that?”
I glance at the sweet little older woman, who gives me a wink. “Looks legit.”
Sienna beams and hands me the jar. “Put it in the bag, Mountain Man.”
I arch a brow. “Mountain Man?”
She shrugs, grinning. “It fits.”
Yeah, it probably does.
We spend the next hour walking the market. Sienna stops at every booth. Talks to every vendor. Sniffs every candle. And I follow her like some big, grumpy, willing puppy.
She buys tomatoes and fresh bread, a tiny bundle of flowers, and a hand-painted mug with a tiny chip, which she insists “gives it character.”
I carry everything, of course.
It’s funny. I used to hate crowds. Noise. Small talk. It all grated on me. But today, it doesn’t feel like that at all. With Sienna beside me, it’s all… background music. A quiet hum beneath her voice, her laughter, the way she slips her hand into mine every so often like it’s second nature.
It feels easy. Real.
And I never want it to end.
After one full lap around the market, Sienna turns to me, brushing a stray strand of hair off her cheek. “Hungry?”
“Always.”
“There’s this little sandwich shop down the block. Wanna go?”
I nod, and she loops her arm through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I glance down at her hand on my forearm, her fingers warm through my flannel, and think, yeah—this must be what heaven feels like.
We grab lunch at a small café with outdoor seating, and Sienna insists on ordering us a “garden pesto melt” before I can object. Turns out, it’s incredible.
Halfway through mine, she grins, catching me licking sauce off my thumb.
“Told you.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll never doubt your weird food combinations again.”
She giggles, sipping her lemonade. “That’s all I ask.”
The conversation flows easily like it did during our dinner date. We talk about everything and nothing. She tells me about the weird neighbors she had back in Orlando, the library job she loved, and how she fixed up furniture in her garage with tools she borrowed from her uncle.
I soak it all in like it’s gospel.
When we finish eating, I pay the bill before she can argue. I shrug when she gives me a look. “Let me spoil you a little.”
She blushes, but she doesn’t argue.
We walk back to my SUV, arms full of fresh produce and baked goods, and I drive her to her apartment across town.
The second I pull into the lot, my jaw tightens. I hate this place. It’s not unsafe exactly, but it’s a tiny old building sandwiched between a tire shop and a bar that blasts music late into the night. The paint’s peeling, the steps creak when you walk on them, and the garbage bin out front smells wrong no matter the time of day.
Sienna unbuckles her seatbelt as I glare out the windshield. My hands clench on the steering wheel. I don’t want her to spend one more night in that shoebox apartment. The idea of her walking those cracked sidewalks alone at night, fumbling with her keys in the dark, makes something primal twist in my gut.
“I hate that you live here,” I say before I can stop myself.
Sienna freezes, halfway to grabbing her tote bag. “Yeah… me too. It’s not the best, but it works for now.”
I want to ask her to move in with me, but I know she’ll turn me down. It’s too soon. But if I have my way, it won’t be my house for much longer. It’ll be ours .
I help her carry everything upstairs—dodging a group of loud kids running down the hall and a neighbor’s yapping dog. Her place is neat but cramped, and I hate the thought of her trying to make this shoebox feel like home.
She places the flowers in a chipped mason jar and puts the bread and tomatoes on the counter. “Want to stay for a bit?”
I glance around the tiny space, my chest tightening at the idea of leaving her here. “Actually… I wondered if you want to have dinner with me tonight. At my place.”
Her brows lift. “Another date?”
I smile. “Yeah. If you’re not sick of me yet.”
“I don’t think that’s even possible,” she murmurs.
And just like that, I know I’m done for.
She said yes to another date.
And every part of me—every stubborn, broody, broken piece—already knows: I’m not letting her go.