Chapter 25 Wells
WELLS
The path through town square is scrubbed clean under new snow—hushed and bright, every bare branch powdered to sugar. Flakes are still drifting down, lazy and fat. They soften the edges of our little world.
Elsie walks backward a few paces ahead of me, chewing on a pastry from Juneberry. She’s in no rush to get home today, and I like it. Like that she’s not hurrying to lock herself away, that she’s letting me share the in-between.
She gestures with the roll, cinnamon sugar dusting the air.
“I was thinking,” she says, muffled around the bite. “We should swing by Haven & Hearth before we head back. See if they’ve got any more of those little dishes with the blue sparrows on them. You know, to match the others.”
I grunt. “The house is bursting at the seams, and your grand plan is more dishes?”
She grins around her mouthful, unbothered. “They’d be a set, Wells. You can’t just have two lonely birds. That’s cruel.”
“What’s cruel is letting them fucking multiply like this.”
Her laugh carries through the cold, bright and sharp, and she tosses me the last bite of the roll. I catch it one-handed, shake my head, but eat it anyway.
Truth is, I don’t mind adding to the clutter. I’m just happy she’s walking here beside me, cheeks pink from the cold, curls heavy with snow. I’d pushed her to get out of the inn again this morning.
Yesterday, I told her she needed it, but I didn’t realize she’d be gone all day long. And night. The house felt too quiet without her there.
When the wind rattled the shutters and the rooms settled into silence, I lay awake wondering what she and Isla and Winnie were doing—drinking wine? Laughing? Talking about me? The thought twisted in my gut.
I know Isla and Winnie like me, would talk me up if pressed. But they also remember the way I used to be, the reputation I earned when I first came here. Would Elsie care if they told her? Or worse—would she not even be thinking of me at all?
“Don’t roll your eyes,” she says now.
“Then stop saying things worth rolling them at.”
She sticks her tongue out, which is exactly when her boot skids on a slick patch.
I lunge, too late. The paper bag slips from her arm, and then she’s colliding with me—sharp elbow to ribs, breath punched clean out of my chest. We go down hard into the snow.
Her hands land flat against me, one over my heart. Soft curls spill loose, scattering cold flakes across my cheeks, my jaw. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she purposefully found the softest place to fall.
She’s lodged between my hips, legs tangled with mine, a heat blooming where there should be pain.
“Graceful.” She lets out a startled, breathless sound. “As usual.”
I groan. Not from the landing. From the fact that she’s moving now—just a little—trying to push herself up, and every shift drags her thigh along mine.
“You’re going to murder me one of these days.”
“That implies intent,” she says, wriggling, which is absolutely the opposite of helpful. “I’m more of a hazard than a certified criminal.”
“Stop—” My voice cracks. “Moving.”
She freezes, eyes wide, cheeks flaming. It hangs between us, that thin, electric line. Her breath clouds the air above my mouth. One more inch and she’d be tasting it.
A beat. Two.
“Wells.”
“Elsie.”
God help me, I don’t know whether to roll her off or pull her closer.
Her laughter fades when she notices. Our eyes catch and hold. Snowflakes melt against dark lashes. The world feels tight and narrow.
“You’re lucky I was here to catch you,” I murmur roughly.
She blinks up at me. “I’m fine.”
“You nearly cracked your head open on a maple root,” I counter. “That’s not fine.”
“Would’ve been a quick way to solve the trust problem.”
Something in me snaps at that—sharp, protective, wanting all at once. “Don’t joke about that.”
She looks at me then, and I swear the whole town falls away. It’s just her, here in my arms, pupils wide, lips parted. She’s waiting for me to decide what to do, isn’t she?
I should let go. I should stand us up, put space between us where there is none. But the heat of her body pressed into mine feels like gravity, like inevitability, and when her chin tips up that single impossible inch—
I kiss her.
It’s a hungry, claiming sort of kiss, and her lips are warm and sweet. It makes me forget all about the snow, the trust, the weight of anything that isn’t this.
She tastes like cinnamon and winter air, and she makes the smallest sound in her throat that has me wanting to sink to my knees in the middle of the town green. To worship her right fucking here.
I never got to taste her properly. I wish I had taken my time, shown her all the things I dreamed up before that night.
Before I can move again, she jerks back, eyes wide, lips kiss swollen. If I were a worse man, I’d grab hold of her and beg her not to go.
“I thought we were still pretending,” she whispers. “That it never happened.”
My chest heaves. I cup her jaw, thumb brushing the edge of her mouth. I can’t stop staring at it. “No. I said you could pretend if you needed to.”
She blinks, slack-jawed. “So, you’ve just been—what—waiting?”
“Following your lead,” I say, low.
She puffs out a breath. “Then we’ve been following each other. Around in circles.”
It hits me—we’ve both been orbiting what’s right in front of us. If I want her to stop doubting, to stop thinking she’s only reacting to me, I need to be unequivocal.
“Elsie, make no mistake. If you’re trying to convince yourself this isn’t real, then hear me now: I want you. In every way a person can want another. I’ve wanted you since you looked at me like I was both the problem and the solution. Despite every reason I shouldn’t, I still do.”
Her gasp trembles against my throat, and I don’t know if I’ll survive what comes next. Consequences be damned, I kiss her again.
Her lips part, and I take, tongue sliding against hers. She makes that startled little sound, and I cradle the back of her neck, thumb grazing the soft heat at her pulse. She tilts up, deepening it. It’s teeth, breath, hunger. Messy and perfect.
When we break, it’s only for air, gasps fogging between us, before I dive back in.
Twice isn’t close to enough.
“Well, well,” a voice drawls through the snowfall. “If this is what passes for committee prep, I’ve been doing it wrong.”
Elsie jerks back. I laugh, though I’d cheerfully throttle Bobby with his own scarf right about now.
He tips his cap. “Hope you two get all the kissing done before tonight’s meeting. I don’t mind, but the doctor might.”
I snort. “Alma would take notes.”
“You’d be shocked what Dr. Torres got up to in her heyday.”
“Bobby.” Elsie winces.
He winks and ducks back into Brindle & Sons. The bell jingles, door shuts, and the moment scatters like snow.
Elsie flushes. “God, I hope the mayor can keep some things to himself.”
I lift a brow. “Why? You embarrassed of me, sugarplum?”
“Not at all. It’s just . . . complicated.”
She doesn’t elaborate, but I don’t need her to. I see it all over her face—that tight little furrow between her brows, the way she shifts like she’s already bracing for judgment.
If the whole town found out, they’d have a field day. She’s the girl who came back and stirred up trouble. The one who might still leave. If we were seen kissing in a window, she wouldn’t just be walking away from a house—she’d be casting off the town, casting off me.
Whatever’s growing between us feels fragile enough as it is. Add too many eyes and it might split right down the middle.
“I get it,” I say—because I do. It’s complicated, imperfect, confusing. But wanting her isn’t. That part’s simple.
She turns toward the shop window. “I should’ve bought more pastries for the meeting. I forgot it was even happening tonight.”
I smirk. “You don’t want to serve your world-class scones again?”
She smacks my arm. “Shut up.”
And just like that, we’re walking again—snow crunching, shoulders brushing, headed back toward Haven & Hearth. It’s easy—too easy—to slip from teasing to heat, from friction to wanting and back again. I don’t know what to do with that kind of gravity.
Maybe that kiss will melt like everything else in this town, gone without a trace. The problem is, I’ve never wanted something to stay so badly.
The parlor is exceptionally clean tonight. Fire steady in the hearth, chairs pulled into a neat circle, coffee steaming in mismatched mugs.
Alma’s already got her stack of folders arranged in order from historical documentation to legal appendices.
Bobby’s poured half the thermos into his mug and is still eyeing the other half like he means to finish it before we adjourn. Jack’s slouched near the window, one boot braced on the rung of his chair, the picture of a man who’d rather be anywhere else.
And Elsie—she’s across from me, clipboard balanced on her knee, hair tucked up under one of Elspeth’s old scarves. She looks collected, calm even, but I know that expression. It’s the one she wears when she’s trying to hold herself together.
“All right,” Alma starts. “We’ve gathered every last scrap we need.
Photographs, tax ledgers, oral histories, blueprints of the original build.
Jack managed to dig up that old survey map, and Bobby got the property deeds scanned.
” She smooths a hand down the top sheet like she’s tucking it into place.
“I’ve drafted the formal proposal, and it’ll be submitted to the county office Monday morning. ”
Bobby lets out a low whistle. “Never thought I’d see the day. Elspeth talked about this for years, but talk’s cheap. This here’s the real deal.”
“The county still has thirty days to review, approve, or deny,” Alma continues. “Typically, they’ll send a representative out for a site inspection, but given the evidence, I think we stand an excellent chance of conditional approval.”
“Good,” Jack mutters, scratching his jaw. “Be nice to have something settled around here.”
Elsie’s pen taps once against her board. She doesn’t look up, but I see the tell. She’s nervous about something, and the weight of it is starting to show.
Alma continues, brisk. “Now, before I send this off, does anyone have additions, amendments, or concerns?”
Silence settles, as heavy as the snow outside. Then, as if on cue, all three of them glance at Elsie.
She blinks, startled by the weight of their attention. “Oh—I don’t . . . I don’t have anything to add.”
Alma arches a brow. “Are you certain? This is the moment to raise any concerns or new conditions of use. Any owner stipulations we’d like to include prior to transfer. This is your last chance.”
“I’m okay,” Elsie says quickly. “There’s nothing else.”
She tucks a curl behind her ear, and the motion is so shaky and careful I want to cross the table and still her hand.
“Just so I’m clear—we’re all agreed?” Bobby asks. “Proposal goes Monday. Then we wait up to thirty days.”
“Correct,” Alma says.
“Hell of a milestone,” Bobby says. He clinks his mug against the armrest like a toast. “We’ve been jawin’ about this for the last year. Looks like all we needed was a Hart to get us back in line.”
Elsie smiles faintly.
The meeting carries on for another half hour of procedural chatter and polite speculation about the county board. Talk of signage, insurance clauses, and who’ll be here to greet the inspector if they show up unannounced.
Once we adjourn, the front door shuts on Bobby’s laughter, and the house settles into its hollow quiet. Elsie lingers by the table, pretending to sort her papers, though she hasn’t turned a page in two minutes.
I stay seated. If I move toward her too soon, I’ll spook her. If I stay silent too long, I’ll lose my nerve.
“You held your own tonight,” I say finally. “Feels good to have the proposal finished, doesn’t it?”
She huffs, not quite a laugh. “Feels like I’m supposed to be relieved. I’m not sure I am.”
“Relief can wait. It usually does.”
A beat passes. She stacks the folders, squares the edges until they’re perfect, then presses them flat with her palm like she can iron out whatever’s inside her, too.
“You didn’t say anything about us exploring the trust.”
Her shoulders tense. “I know. Sorry.”
“You don’t owe me an apology.”
She doesn’t look up. “I just . . . didn’t want to say anything if I wasn’t completely sure.”
“Fair,” I murmur. “I don’t judge you for that.”
Her head snaps up, honey eyes bright with something sharp. “That’s not true.”
I stand then—slow, careful. “What isn’t?”
“That you don’t judge me. You’d be so disappointed if I changed my mind.”
I pace one step closer, stopping at the opposite end of the table. “Elsie, I might have hopes. But I don’t have conditions. My disappointment would be with the outcome, not with you. I don’t take your choice to protect yourself as a moral failure.”
Her throat works around a swallow. “Why not? I’m one misstep away from ruining everything.”
“You aren’t,” I say. “Just think about what you want the most out of all this. That’s what matters.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it again. I watch her fingers clench around her pen as if she’d rather snap it in two than answer. “I don’t know,” she admits. Quiet. Raw. “I don’t know yet what I want the most.”
“Then that’s your answer. For now. And that’s allowed.” She looks at me like she doesn’t quite believe it, like she’s waiting for me to prove myself a liar. “Whenever you’re ready to talk, really talk . . . I’ll listen.”
She exhales shakily, gathers her things, and brushes past me toward the hallway. But when she reaches the threshold, she pauses, hand on the doorframe, head bowed.
“Wells?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For not making me choose tonight.”
I swallow. “We have time.”
She nods once, then slips down the hall and up the stairs until she’s gone.
I stand there in the empty parlor, the fire hissing low, and I understand with a clarity that hurts: She may not choose this house. She may not choose me. And still, I’ll want her anyway.