Chapter 17
Ali
“Ispent so many summers here as a kid. I didn’t even realize how special this place was. Now that I’ve been around the world, it’s easy to recognize that Lakeside is unique. Small towns like this are rare,” I said to Wyatt Sinclair, the travel influencer, as we walked around the town square.
It was a practiced presentation at this point after hosting a larger group of travel bloggers and influencers just a week prior. I hoped I was able to conjure the same enthusiasm and energy for what felt like the twentieth time of saying the same thing.
Over the past few weeks, we’d organized the entire town to lean into its wildflower identity.
It started with Betsy allowing me to create a wildflower corner in the market.
It grew from there at the café, the bookstore .
. . even at the Tavern. The whole town embraced the effort, and special, locally produced items were revealed: local honey, wildflower arrangements, pottery, soaps, jewelry, baked goods.
The outdoors were already bursting with flashy color and naturally growing patches of land.
We planned events: a local farmers’ market to take place once a week, a wildflower festival that was scheduled for August, and walking tours of the best wildflower fields and gardens.
And Instagram photo bait, of course. Spots where aspiring influencers would get the best photos and videos of themselves among the wildflowers.
Wyatt was a travel writer and, more importantly, a sustainable tourism advocate.
With 2.1 million followers and more than one hundred thousand Substack subscribers, he had perfect reach for Lakeside.
His videos and photos got noticed. Which was why when Wyatt requested a private tour and stay in Lakeside after the larger group left, I was happy to oblige.
He also happened to be very good-looking.
Wyatt’s chiseled jawline was responsible for at least half his followers.
But they were paying attention, so who cared what lured them to his account.
Because Wyatt and writers like him were getting the word out about Lakeside rapidly and authentically. The plan was working.
The moment Wyatt strolled into town, all long limbs in tight-fitting rugged jeans, sun-kissed scruff, and a dimpled smile that could melt a popsicle in January, I knew the ladies of Lakeside and a few of its men were going to love him. This “out-of-towner” had a much different effect on the locals.
I witnessed the ever-sharp and usually prickly Betsy giggling and fluttering like a hummingbird. I swear she even batted her lashes at Wyatt.
We were standing outside, looking out over the square. I was giving him my rehearsed introduction to Lakeside: some context, history, and insights into our wild gardening initiative. Our. I was thinking more and more like I was actually part of the fabric here. As if I was staying.
“This is all very charming. I’m really glad I could make it out here,” he said, shaking me out of my thoughts.
“I appreciate you making the trip. You were just in Denmark, right?” I asked, eager to move us into the café but pausing to ask Wyatt more about his travels. I knew men like him, and they loved to talk about themselves, their experiences.
“The Faroe Islands,” he said, nodding. “It’s technically an archipelago in the North Atlantic Ocean, east of Iceland, but yes, an autonomous territory of Denmark. Absolutely breathtaking views, cliff sides. It’s extremely isolated.”
“Oh I know. I’ve actually been there. It’s cold, moody, impossibly beautiful,” I said.
He seemed surprised. “Have you? It’s like standing inside a Nordic lullaby. Harsh as fuck but soothing at the same time.”
“Did you sample the fermented lamb? From that roadside stand in . . . Oh, what was that town called?” I said.
“It had to be in Gjógv? Yes. I was there three weeks, and that taste never left my mouth.”
“Even the smell still haunts me,” I added.
“Oh, but it’s a must to try. That’s why I love doing this travel influencer stuff. I can roam and sample local delicacies while sharing the beauty as well as the essence of a place. You know?”
“I’m afraid you won’t find anything that exotic here in Lakeside, but the essence of our town is still special.”
“It’s much easier for my US-based followers to see themselves in a place like this. So I like to mix in charming domestic getaways among the more exciting trips,” he said.
“I think you’ll find our town has its own level of excitement and personality.”
“And beauty? At least in the eyes of some of its residents,” he said with a sly, closed-mouth smile.
Was he flirting with me? I could feel heat rise in my cheeks.
I guess I was so lost in my own thoughts about Lakeside and how natural it felt to be here that I didn’t even notice Wyatt was maybe trying to get my attention.
“You have the most beautiful eyes, Ali. I could see myself writing about those eyes. The depth of blue with streaks of hazel and purple.” He paused. “Like a wildflower field dancing against a sparkling blue sky.”
Wow! He was laying it on thick. Okay, Ali, time to dust off those flirty tactics yourself. Except . . . nothing. It was like I forgot how to flirt. How to be coquettish and alluring. Or maybe . . . maybe I didn’t want to?
“That seems unnecessarily poetic . . . for a girl who is just trying to get you to taste a lavender tea latte made with our local bee pollen and honey,” I said, directing him into the café and hopefully redirecting his attention.
The doors were wide open. Flower boxes and gardening tools spilled out the doors.
Small bistro tables peppered the sidewalk and continued into the café.
A book cart that served as a free lending library invited patrons to grab their next favorite book.
The delightful aroma of ground coffee and fresh baked goods wafted in the air.
We approached the counter where the barista stood looking completely transformed. Her hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, and she wore a crisp white button-down shirt under a tan apron. It was all very “farm-to-table” in vibes.
“Two lavender tea lattes, please.” I placed our order with a smile.
Wyatt wandered through the café, looking at all the local items now for sale. He knelt down to take a photo of a flower basket full of red-and-purple pom-pom-like petals at the end of a long stem.
“Looks like this guy is having a good hair day,” he said as he snapped a few artistic-style photos.
“That’s bee balm. Native. Blooms in the summer. You might know it as wild bergamot?” I said.
Wyatt leaned down to smell the bloom. “That was not what I was expecting. Smells like oregano.” He took another sniff.
“With undertones of mint and . . . thyme?” The way he toyed with the flower between his fingers was suggestive.
Oof . . . or maybe I just hadn’t been with a man in a little too long.
I looked around and noticed our cups on the counter, ready for us.
The barista looked at Wyatt, mouth slightly agape and hearts in her eyes.
“Looks like our order is up.” I grabbed the cups from the counter and handed Wyatt one. We took a seat at one of the tables in the window. And launched into sharing more about Lakeside.
After our lattes and more strolling around the town square, I decided to take Wyatt along the lake to view some of the wildflower gardens that had been created along the path, as well as show off some of the revived meadows and see how the community had made it a cooperative effort.
I knew Lakeside’s story was unique and refreshing.
I also knew that some small towns had become known for tulip farming, lavender fields, and sunflower growing.
My hope was that Lakeside would become known for its wildflowers. And become a destination because of it.
“Here, hold this bouquet. The light is amazing right here. Let me snap a few photos,” Wyatt said.
“Of course. But, Wyatt, I really don’t need to be in your shots.”
I wasn’t being shy. I just sincerely didn’t want this to be about me. This campaign and our efforts needed to outlive me. Outshine me. Plus, I didn’t need anyone from GlennGlobal seeing me here promoting Lakeside and take advantage of our history.
“You’ll barely be able to see your face.
I’m going for artsy. And I want to highlight the flowers and the backdrop.
Your silhouette is all I need,” he said with a wink.
He brushed a piece of hair out of my eyes for me.
God, he was pretty. He had his own engaging eyes and those dimples.
Up close . . . phew, Wyatt was hot. I looked away quickly, but not quickly enough.
I heard a throat clearing behind Wyatt. It was Jake.
“Didn’t realize you were available for modeling,” he said. I heard an edge to his voice, tension in his jaw.
“Jake! Hi! This is Wyatt Sinclair. He’s here exploring Lakeside,” I said a little too nervously.
“Nice to meet you, brother.” Wyatt said brother like an Aussie might—it sounded like brah-tha. He also moved his hand to my lower back as he shifted by my side. A little too comfortably but not offensively. I didn’t shift into Wyatt, but I could see Jake clocked the contact between us.
“Jake is the town pet veterinarian. His clinic, Tender Paws, is just across the street there,” I said, pointing to Tender Paws and stepping out of Wyatt’s reach. I could see Sheila and Eric peeking out of the large front windows of the clinic.
“A pet vet. That’s dope,” Wyatt said. I cringed for him.
“Totally dope,” Jake deadpanned, followed by an awkward silence. So much for kind and friendly Jake to help welcome Wyatt. Did he forget how hard I worked to get this writer here? I gave Jake a warning look and then smiled to Wyatt.
“Why don’t I show you the seed library next? Betsy started it. It’s really cool and the perfect place to start our garden tour,” I said.