Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Noah spun his axe in his palm, a practiced movement that was totally badass and sexy all at once. His jaw tightened. “Ladies first?”
“That’s something a gentleman would do. And since we’ve already established you’re not a gentleman, you go first, hotshot.” I stepped back from the line.
Noah smirked, then took his position. The axe spun once in his grip before he brought it up in a fluid arc. It rotated perfectly through the air, embedding itself in the red ring with a satisfying thunk, just a blade’s width from the bullseye. A three-point throw.
“Not bad,” I conceded, lining up my throw. I mimicked his stance, pretending I was Scarlett Johansen in one of her action movies.
Deep breath. Focus. Release.
The axe flew straight and true, sticking in the target just a few inches outside of his. It wasn’t as good as Noah’s throw, but it was way better than anybody expected from me, judging by the surprised murmurs from the gathering crowd.
Noah frowned. “Where’d you learn to throw like that?”
“YouTube.” I winked.
We traded another series of throws; the crowd grew with each solid hit. Noah edged ahead in the first round with a bullseye on his last throw, but the margin was razor thin.
For round two, I stepped up first. As I forced myself to relax, my throws felt stronger, more controlled. The axe became an extension of my arm rather than an awkward weight. Still, Noah matched me point for point.
The crowd pressed closer as I took my last throw. The axe spun beautifully, striking just a hair’s breadth from dead center. Bullseye. A collective “ooh” rose from the onlookers, along with scattered applause.
But Noah was well ahead, so he just needed to hit the target anywhere to win. He took his stance. Muscles tensed beneath his flannel shirt. The axe left his hand in a perfect arc … and sailed completely wide of the target, clattering against the backdrop.
The crowd erupted in cheers. I threw my arms up in victory as Noah bowed his head in defeat.
“What happened there, mountain man?” I nudged his shoulder. “Performance anxiety?”
“Must’ve been distracted.” He shook his head, but I caught a hint of a smile. “Something tells me you’ve done this before.”
I grinned. “Funny you should mention that. Urban Axe House in LA is one of my sponsors.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. They’ve got an amazing setup: exposed brick walls, craft beer on tap, and vintage logging equipment everywhere.
It’s like a hipster lumberjack paradise.
They even have league nights where tech bros compete in flannel shirts with team names on them.
” Before I could stop myself, I added, “We should go sometime.” But when I saw Noah’s smile drop, I quickly added, “I mean, you know, if you ever find yourself in Los Angeles. Not that you ever would.”
Noah ran a hand through his hair, then mercifully changed the subject. “You know, your having an ax-throwing sponsorship feels like cheating. I mean, you’re basically a professional.”
“A deal’s a deal.” I poked his chest. “Besides, you let me win. It was obvious.”
“It was?”
“That last throw? Please.” I crossed my arms. “You just wanted to know what I’d pick.”
Noah’s lips twitched. “So what’ll it be?”
“Well, obviously ...” I drew out the moment, enjoying the anticipation on his face. “Muffins.”
His face broke into another smile, the kind that made my tummy feel like it was pumped full of butterflies. “Muffins, huh?” He glanced at the setting sun, its golden light casting long shadows across the festival grounds. “I know just the spot.”
Noah’s hand bumped mine as we navigated through the thickening festival crowd, the accidental brush sending zaps of lightning up my arm and a whirlwind of butterflies in my tummy. In the distance, the band struck up a slower tune, fiddle notes hanging in the air.
Noah steered me toward another line of tents at the far edge of the square, where a rustic wooden table had a hand-painted sign reading “Coffee.” The rich aroma of freshly ground beans hit me as Brie leaned over and waved, smiling ear to ear.
“Brie’s here? At the festival?”
“She sets up shop every weekend while one of her other baristas covers the airport location. A lot more foot traffic here.”
“So I get muffins and coffee!” I clapped my hands like I had just won the grand prize on a game show.
“Well, well, well,” said Brie as we approached. Her gaze alternated between us with undisguised interest. “If it isn’t my big brother and the big-city influencer. Together. Without visible injuries.”
“We’ve called a temporary truce,” I said.
“Only for the sake of authentic Colorado content,” Noah added.
“I’m just glad he doesn’t still hate me,” I said, hoping it was true.
“I never hated you,” said Noah. “I just disliked you. Strongly.”
I was afraid to ask my next question, but asked it anyway. “Do you still dislike me strongly?”
“Actually, you’re kind of growing on me. Like a foot fungus after hiking all day in wet boots.”
“So what can I get you two?” Brie asked, still smiling.
“Two of your special light roasts,” said Noah. “The one you roasted last week.”
“Coming right up.” Brie was still grinning.
“And Noah promised me muffins,” I said, getting straight down to business. “However, while I’m sure your muffins are wonderful, Brie, I highly doubt they taste better than Noah’s.”
Brie laughed so hard she almost choked. “Where do you think I get all my muffins from?”
“Wait, what?” I turned to Noah. “You make muffins for your sister’s coffee shop?”
“Noah’s baked goods are the reason our morning rush is insane,” said Brie. “Between the airport location and the festivals, I can’t keep them in stock.”
“Oh no, you’re out?”
“Well ...” She held up one finger, then disappeared beneath the table. She popped back up with a small, misshapen mound. “This is the only one I have left.”
She peeled back the layer of plastic wrap, revealing a mushed-up muffin spotted with smears of purple. “I accidentally sat on it while I was setting up shop this morning. Figured it was too ugly to sell.”
“I don’t care what it looks like, as long as it tastes like the one Noah made for our hike.”
“Wait.” Brie looked confused, her gaze bouncing between Noah and me. “My brother made you muffins for a hike?”
“Yes,” I said, breaking off a piece of the mashed muffin and popping it into my mouth. The flavor hit exactly the same complex notes as before, that perfect balance that spoke of someone who truly understood baking as both art and science. “He made us a breakfast picnic on top of the mountain.”
“My brother made you a picnic?” Brie looked like I’d just told her that her brother could walk on water. And levitate. And fly.
“Maya’s orders,” said Noah, but his deflection sounded of surrender.
“Mmm-hmm. Just following orders. Because you’re such a rule follower, Noah.” Brie’s grin only widened.
Noah’s face was now the color of the setting sun in the Colorado sky, reddish-pink, which seemed to delight Brie even more.
“Let me grab those coffees so you can wash down your muffin.” When Brie returned, she poured two steaming mugs.
The coffee smelled like heaven condensed into liquid form.
“This is my Sunrise Blend,” Brie explained.
“Costa Rican beans I get directly from a little family farm in the mountains, then slow-roasted to bring out the natural chocolate notes.”
I took a cautious sip, making extra sure it wasn’t too hot first. Hints of dark chocolate, a whisper of berries, and something nutty and complex that lingered after I swallowed.
“Holy caffeine gods,” I spent the next two minutes gluttonously devouring nibbles of muffin and slurps of perfectly roasted coffee. “This is why you sell out so fast,” I mumbled, crumbs rolling down my chin. “You must clean up at these festivals.”
Brie nodded, wiping crumbs off her counter while Noah gently brushed them off me. “All the local vendors do. It’s what keeps us in business.” She gestured around the square. “We’re all out here every week. Well, except next week.” Brie’s expression fell; her usual cheerfulness dimmed.
“What’s going on next week?” Noah asked, tensing at his sister’s shift in mood.
“Food festival over in Denver,” said Brie. “All the food trucks from here to Boulder will be over there, so the town council nixed ours. Said Aster Park can’t exactly have a festival without feeding people.”
We stayed to talk with Brie a bit longer, then helped her close up shop when the sun dipped behind the mountaintops.
She joined us as we returned to Main Street, the strings of lights overhead transforming the town square into something magical.
The festival had shifted from its daytime energy to an evening buzz.
“They’ve got the Wayward Sons playing tonight,” Brie said, linking her arm through mine like we were old friends. “Local favorites. They do an amazing cover of ‘Sweet Home Colorado’ that gets everyone dancing.”
Noah rolled his eyes. “That’s because half the town is related to someone in the band.”
Music drifted through the cooling air, a mix of guitar, fiddle, and something that might have been a banjo. We followed the sound to the town square, where couples spun and twirled on a makeshift dance floor.
“You going to play …” Brie started to ask.
“No,” Noah cut her off before she could finish. “I’m sure Sam is eager to get back. It’s been a long day.”
“Actually, I’d like to stay a little longer,” I said, pulling out my phone again. “This is nothing like the nightlife in Los Angeles.” I took a video of a grey-haired couple gliding past. The woman’s skirt swished as her partner spun her around, both of them grinning like teenagers.
“Better or worse?” asked Brie.
The band shifted into a slower song, the fiddle drawing out long, sweet notes that seemed to echo off the mountains. Fairy lights twinkled in the trees around the square, catching the sparkle in people’s eyes.