Chapter Thirty-Five
Sienna
The problem with sleeping in a guest cottage—especially one not your own—is that everything feels slightly off, like living inside a rental cabin that insists you pretend you’re on vacation even when you’re absolutely not.
I woke up tangled in sheets the color of washed linen, staring at a ceiling knot that resembled a judgmental eye watching me from above.
Technically, this cottage was one of the nicer ones on the Honey Leaf property with big windows, good natural light, solid Wi-Fi, and a tiny kitchenette that barely fit a stove, but it wasn’t mine. I wasn’t used to the space yet.
My real apartment in town, the one I actually made payments on, was currently unlivable due to a chaotic decision to repaint the kitchen after a small adventure with the stove that I refused to elaborate on.
Not to mention a bit of drywall had to be replaced.
Anyway, I’d picked a bold boho teal for the walls, and once the painter got to that stage, I’d be able to move back in within four days.
So I’d been temporarily displaced to Cottage Seven at Honey Leaf, living out of two duffels and a laundry basket of clothes.
Which meant my bedroom here didn’t look like me yet.
And that was a problem.
I sat up slowly, stretching my arms overhead until my spine popped.
My usual bedroom vibe was a cheerful explosion of color—warm oranges, saturated pinks, woven tapestries, busy-patterned throw pillows, plants that thrived on neglect, eclectic thrift-store finds that made no sense but looked whimsical in groups.
Every corner of my usual space felt alive, vibrant, and rooted.
This room… did not.
It was clean. Simple. Tasteful.
It looked like a picture in a rental catalog titled “Lakefront Retreat: Interior by Beige.”
A beige I was apparently trapped in.
I sighed and flopped back down. “No wonder I feel like running.”
Running wasn’t new for me. It was muscle memory by now. Emotional overwhelm? Lace up. Uncertainty? Pack a bag. Feelings? Get on a plane. It wasn’t that I wanted to avoid commitment; I just excelled at it by sheer accidental talent.
But this spring? I had committed.
To the lodge.
To guiding season.
To staying put.
Because that was the whole point of this year, wasn’t it?
To see whether staying somewhere, really staying, meant something.
My family had teased me for years about being a flight risk, always pawing at maps and planning the next trip, leaving before roots had the nerve to form. And for the first time since I was nineteen, I wasn’t actively planning an escape.
Mostly.
Except… Carson Reed had arrived.
Tall, quiet, stoic Carson.
Carson with a voice that slid under my skin.
Carson, whose beard somehow over-performed in the category of things I think about at midnight.
Carson, whose body is in that tent—
Nope. Absolutely not. Illegal thought.
I shoved my face into the pillow and groaned.
That night with him had put my brain in a compression chamber. I’d broken all my own rules and then proceeded to feel things I didn’t have a manual for. Now every time I saw him, an entire flock of butterflies migrated violently in my ribcage.
And we had to work together.
Regularly.
For months.
“Great idea, Sienna,” I muttered aloud. “Flirt with the new guide. Sleep with the new guide. Have an early-season meltdown about the new guide. Very professional.”
I kicked free of the covers, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and stared at the beige wall accusingly.
I needed my space to feel like mine again. Something familiar. Something grounding. Some reminder that I had a place to land when my brain started doing escape math.
Which is how, thirty minutes later, I ended up in my Subaru with burned coffee in hand, driving down the road toward Buttercup Lake’s little downtown—not to escape, I told myself firmly, but to decorate.
Today was my day off.
And I was going to use it constructively.
Like a stable adult.
The antique shop sat on the corner between the florist and the used bookstore, its windows filled with stained glass, mismatched teacups, and a mannequin wearing a vintage wedding dress that had either been cursed or waiting for its moment to shine.
The bell over the door jingled cheerfully as I stepped inside.
“Mornin,’ dear!” Grace called from behind the counter. She was a few years older than me and a member of the Sunshine Breakfast Club. Buttercup Lake’s town gossip coalition disguised as a book club.
“Hi,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Just browsing.”
She narrowed her eyes in the way small-town busy bodies did when they knew too much.
“Browsing, hm? Looking for something special?”
“Maybe a throw pillow. Or a lamp. Something for my temporary place at the lodge.”
“I heard your apartment is being painted.”
I froze mid-step. “How—”
She tapped her temple. “I have a gift.”
A gift called Abby from the coffee shop, Wanda from the diner, and Millie from the Sunshine Breakfast Club.
“Riiight,” I said slowly, pretending not to panic.
“Lovely boy, that new guide,” she added without looking up, as if commenting on the weather.
I dropped a ceramic mug I’d been inspecting. I caught it midair and pretended it was intentional.
“What?”
“Carson, isn’t it? Tall. Handsome. Quiet like a man who has deeper thoughts but doesn’t share them until chapter ten.”
“He’s fine,” I said too quickly.
She smiled like a wolf circling her prey. “Mm-hmm.”
I tried to redirect. “So, uh—pillows?”
She nodded toward the back. “Boho section’s over there. New arrivals this morning.”
I wandered deeper into the shop, weaving between aisles overloaded with carved wooden bowls, wicker baskets, embroidered tapestries, and lamps shaped like everything from pinecones to flamingos. The air smelled like old cedar and lavender sachets.
I found a rack of handwoven throw pillows in warm mustard, sunset pink, and ocean teal. Exactly my vibe. I hugged one to my chest before I could stop myself.
It already made the cottage feel closer to mine.
I was still holding it when footsteps clicked behind me.
Grace’s voice floated over. “The Sunshine Breakfast Club was having a lively discussion this morning.”
Oh no.
“About spring book releases?” I tried hopefully.
“No, dear. About you.”
I swallowed. “Fantastic.”
“And,” she continued casually, “your handsome coworker.”
I pressed the pillow to my face. “No. Stop. I’m not emotionally prepared.”
She leaned on the cart like someone settling into a story. “Well, you know how fast news moves in this town—”
“Slower. It moves slower, right?”
“No, dear. Faster than light. Wanda said she heard from her cousin’s daughter, who heard from the Butterfields online, that you and Carson were the dreamiest husband-and-wife guide team in the Great Lakes.”
I groaned into the pillow. “That is an exaggeration.”
“Millie said it reminded her of the Appalachian Trail romance she read last week.”
“I hate everything.” I couldn’t hide my smile.
“And my cousin in Oregon would like to know if the lodge is offering couples’ hikes now, given your… chemistry.” She eyed me.
I sank to a crouch, pillow over my entire head. “Please. Tell them no. Tell them all no. Tell them I tripped on the trail, fell into a river, and hit my head so hard I forgot what kissing is.”
Grace considered this. “So you did kiss.”
“NO!”
She raised an eyebrow.
“…yes,” I whispered.
She beamed. “I knew it. Millie owes me five dollars.”
“I’m leaving town,” I muttered. “Immediately.”
“Oh, no, you’re not.”
I looked up. “Why not?”
She tapped the pillow in my hands. “Because you are finally nesting.”
“I am not nesting.”
“You are decorating a temporary cottage.”
“That is not nesting.”
“It is very nesting.”
“I hate this town.”
“You love this town.”
“I do,” I admitted.
“And you like that boy.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “I do not.”
“Sienna Harper,” she said in a tone that suggested she knew more than I did, “you like him.”
I hugged the pillow tighter. “Fine. Maybe. A little.”
She grinned triumphantly. “I’ll inform the club.”
“No! Don’t inform the club! Didn’t we learn anything from what happened to you?”
“Yes, we did, and that was that the Sunshine Breakfast Club knows good books and even better potential husbands.”
I stared at her, horrified.
She waved a dismissive hand. “Well, they’re curious. They care about you. That’s all.”
“Then they need to care privately.”
“Impossible.”
I groaned. “I’m leaving.”
“Take the pillow,” she called after me.
“I was going to pay for it!”
She chuckled. “Of course you were, sweetheart.”
I marched to the register, slapped the pillow down, and handed her cash, but she held the bill with a thoughtful frown.
“You know,” she said lightly, “sometimes settling down doesn’t mean stopping. It means choosing a home base.”
The words struck deeper than she knew.
“Have a lovely day, dear,” she added, bagging my pillow.
I stepped outside into the spring sunlight, feeling unsettled, exposed, and far too seen. The pillow warmed against my chest as I walked toward my Subaru.
I wasn’t ready to run.
Not yet.
But staying?
Letting myself want something real with Carson?
Letting roots form?
That was its own kind of terrifying.
And as I climbed into my car, pillow beside me, engine humming, one truth settled uncomfortably but firmly in my chest.
I wanted to stay.
I wanted to see what this season could be.
With the lodge.
With my family.
With him.
Even if it scared me.
Maybe especially because it scared me.
I had just put the Subaru in reverse when someone tapped the driver’s side window.
I jumped so hard I smacked my elbow on the cup holder.
Carson stood there, hands in his pockets, looking too calm for someone who’d nearly given me cardiac arrest. His hair was a little messy, like he’d run a hand through it recently, and he wore that dark navy fleece shirt that made his shoulders look unfairly broad.
I rolled down the window an inch. “You can’t just materialize next to vehicles. People die like that.”