Chapter 2 – Scott
I stride out of the Thornwood Community Center, my jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts. The evening air hits my face, crisp and cool, a welcome relief from the stuffy meeting room where I spent the last hour trying not to stare at Abigail Robinson.
Trying, and failing miserably.
Pulling my jacket tighter, I cut across Acorn Circle. The ancient oak at the center stands sentinel, its branches now half-bare, leaves scattered across cobblestones like nature's confetti. In just a few weeks, if Abigail gets her way, this place will be transformed.
And yet...
I pause, glancing back at the Community Center.
Through the window, I can see her still talking with Meredith, her hands animated, burgundy dress hugging curves that I have no business noticing.
The color makes her fiery curls look like they’ve caught the last of the sunset, haloed in gold and copper.
Even across the glass, I notice the confident click of her boots on the wood floor, her whole presence autumn wrapped in one woman. The woman radiates energy, like she's lit from within.
That's the problem. She's too damn convincing.
With a frustrated grunt, I turn and head toward Foxglove Lane. The streetlamps flicker to life as I walk, casting long shadows across the brick-paved sidewalks. My boots crunch through fallen leaves.
Whitetail Falls has been my home for all thirty-four years of my life. I know every crack in these sidewalks, every family behind each door, every tradition that's kept this town together through good times and bad. My construction company has renovated half the buildings on this street.
When the Millers' roof collapsed during last winter's blizzard, I was there at midnight with tarps and lumber. When the elementary school needed a new playground, I donated materials and labor.
This place matters to me. Its traditions matter. So why does Abigail Robinson's vision for change keep replaying in my head like a song I can't shake?
"Evening, Scott!" Mrs. Winters calls from her porch as I pass. She's rocking in her chair, a quilt across her lap despite the evening being merely cool, not cold. "Heard about the meeting. That new girl's got some fine ideas, doesn't she?"
I manage a noncommittal grunt that makes Mrs. Winters chuckle.
"Don't be such a grouch. Change isn't always bad, you know."
Easy for her to say. She hasn't seen what happens when small towns lose their identity chasing tourist dollars. I've watched it happen in Millfield and Rosedale, both overrun with chain stores and weekend warriors who leave their trash behind when they go.
Still, the memory of Abigail's smile when she talked about her vision nags at me. The way her eyes lit up, how prepared she was for every question. Most newcomers would have wilted under my scrutiny. She stood taller.
I push open the door to Whispering Pines Hardware, the bell jingling overhead. Walt Bramble looks up from behind the counter, his white mustache twitching with a smile.
"There he is. Mr. Dissenting Vote." Walt chuckles, leaning on the scarred wooden counter that's been in this shop longer than I've been alive.
"Nothing travels faster than a word," I mutter, heading for the electrical aisle.
"Small town." Walt shrugs. "Plus, Jenny was there taking minutes. Called me right after."
I grab a package of heavy-duty outdoor extension cords and a box of weatherproof outlet covers.
"That Robinson woman stopped by earlier," Walt continues, ringing up my purchases. "Buying supplies for some kind of demonstration tomorrow. Seems like half the town's volunteered to help her already."
I look up sharply. "What demonstration?"
"Setting up a mock version of her lantern display in the plaza. Wants to show the council how it'll look." Walt hands me my change. "Smart move. You know what they say: seeing is believing."
"Or seeing is revealing all the problems with the plan," I counter, but there's less conviction in my voice than I'd like.
Walt's eyes crinkle. "She asked about you, you know."
Something warm and unwelcome curls in my chest. "What about me?"
"Wanted to know if you were always so..." He pauses, clearly enjoying this. "What was the word? Thorough. Wanted to know if you were always so thorough in your concerns."
Thorough. Not stubborn. Not difficult. Not a pain in the ass.
Thorough .
"Just doing my job," I mutter, grabbing my bag.
"Thought you might like to know she's setting up now," Walt calls as I reach the door. "In case you wanted to be thorough about inspecting her work."
I shoot him a look that would wither most men, but Walt just laughs. Meddling old coot.
Fifteen minutes later, I'm standing at the edge of Harvest Moon Plaza, watching Abigail direct a small crew of volunteers. Already, hay bales form the beginnings of what must be her planned maze, and metal poles have been driven into the ground, awaiting the lanterns she described.
She hasn’t noticed me yet. She’s changed out of her dress into dark jeans tucked into leather boots, a rust-colored cardigan snug against her curves, and a mustard-yellow scarf knotted at her throat.
She thanks each volunteer by name, her laughter carrying across the plaza. The autumn wind catches her hair, red curls dancing around her face as she gestures toward the ancient oak that anchors the space. I hang back, taking her in—jeans hugging her curves, the scarf at her throat like a banner.
Against my will, I find myself admiring more than her organizational skills.
She turns suddenly, as if sensing my presence, and our eyes meet across the plaza. For a moment, neither of us moves. Then she smiles.
I force my feet forward.
"Mr. Martin," she says as I approach, her tone light but with an edge of challenge. "Come to register more concerns?"
"Scott," I correct her. If she gets to be Abigail, I'm not going to be Mr. Martin. "And yes. Someone needs to make sure you're not creating a hazard zone."
She puts her hands on her hips, and I try very hard not to notice how the gesture accentuates her curves. Her cardigan pulls just enough to hint at the shape beneath, the kind of detail that sticks in a man’s head whether he wants it to or not. "Well then, by all means, inspect away."
I glance around, noting the electrical cables running along the ground. "These need to be secured and covered." I point to where one crosses a pathway. "Trip hazard."
"Already ordered the cable protectors," she counters smoothly. "They'll be here tomorrow."
I move to the metal poles. "Wind load calculations?"
"Can handle gusts up to forty miles per hour. The specs are in the folder I gave you." Her eyebrow arches slightly. "Did you read it?"
I had, actually. But I'm not about to admit it. "Parts of it."
"Which parts?"
"The important ones."
She laughs, the sound rich and warm, stirring something deep in my chest. "Of course. Only the important ones."
I continue my inspection, moving toward the hay bale maze. She follows, her boots crunching leaves alongside mine. The scent of her perfume, something with vanilla and spice, mingles with the earthy autumn air.
"These bales will need fire retardant," I say, running a hand along the rough straw.
"Already arranged with the fire department. The chief is bringing the spray tomorrow." She steps closer, challenging me with her proximity. "Any other concerns, Scott?"
The way she says my name, slightly emphasizing the hard consonants, shouldn't affect me.
But it does.
"The cobblestones get icy when the temperature drops," I say, turning to avoid looking directly at her. "One good frost and your visitors will be sliding instead of walking."
"That's why we've ordered eco-friendly ice melt, to be applied before each evening event." She steps into my line of sight, making it impossible not to look at her. "I grew up in Portland, I know about ice."
I frown. "You've really thought of everything, haven't you?"
"I try." Her smile softens, becoming less challenging and more... something else. Something that makes my chest tighten. "I know you think I'm just some city girl trying to change your town, but I genuinely care about doing this right. Whitetail Falls already feels like home to me."
The sincerity in her voice catches me off guard. For a moment, neither of us speaks, and I'm aware of how close we're standing, of the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, of how the twilight softens her features.
"I never said you were 'just some city girl,'" I finally manage.
"You didn't have to." Her gaze is steady on mine. "It was written all over your face in that meeting."
Fair enough. I rub the back of my neck, suddenly uncomfortable with my own assumptions. "Look, I just don't want to see this town turned into a tourist trap where locals can't afford to live anymore. I've seen it happen."
She nods slowly. "I understand that. But bringing in some seasonal business doesn't have to change the character of Whitetail Falls. It could strengthen it!"
There's something in the passionate way she says it that makes me want to believe her. Before I can respond, she turns and walks toward a ladder propped against one of the metal poles.
"Want to see what the lanterns will look like?" she asks, grabbing a battery-powered prototype from a nearby table.
"Should you be climbing that?" The words come out more concerned than I intended.
She grins over her shoulder. "Worried about me, Scott?"
Yes, actually, but not in the way she means. That ladder looks flimsy, and the ground beneath it uneven.
"Just being thorough," I say, echoing Walt's words back at her.
She laughs and starts climbing, the prototype lantern in one hand. I move closer, not liking how the ladder shifts slightly with each step she takes.
"We'll have proper rigging for the actual installation," she explains, reaching the top. "This is just to demonstrate the effect."
She stretches to hook the lantern onto an extended arm at the top of the pole, and the ladder wobbles dangerously. My heart leaps into my throat as I lunge forward, grabbing the sides of the ladder to steady it.
"Careful!" The word comes out more like a growl than I intended.
She freezes, looking down at me with surprise, then finishes hanging the lantern with deliberate slowness before starting her descent. The ladder still feels unsteady under my hands, and I keep my grip firm until her feet touch the ground.
She lands just inches from me, our bodies close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her. Time seems to stretch, neither of us stepping back immediately. Her cheeks are flushed.
"Thank you," she says softly, her breath visible in the cooling air between us.
"You should have waited for help," I manage, my voice gruffer than intended.
"I'm not very good at waiting." Her eyes hold mine, and there's that pull again, that inexplicable magnetism that's been throwing me off balance since the meeting.
I should step back. I should maintain professional distance. Instead, I find myself noticing the freckle just below her left eye, the way her lips part slightly as she inhales.
The sound of approaching voices breaks the moment. Reluctantly, I step away, clearing my throat.
"Just... be more careful," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. "The last thing this festival needs is the organizer with a broken ankle."
Her smile returns, knowing and warm. "I'll take that as you caring whether the festival succeeds or not."
"I care about safety," I correct her, but the protest sounds weak even to my own ears.
She reaches past me to switch on the lantern, and soft golden light spills down, creating a perfect circle of warmth on the cobblestones. Despite myself, I have to admit the effect is beautiful, magical, even.
"What do you think?" she asks quietly. In the gentle glow, Abigail's face is illuminated, her eyes reflecting the light like stars.
I'm not sure if she means the lantern or something else entirely. Either way, I'm in trouble.
"It's..." I search for a word that won't give too much away. "Effective."
She laughs, the sound threading through the autumn night like music. "High praise from Scott Martin. I'll take it."
As volunteers begin returning with more supplies, I step back, suddenly needing distance from her and the uncomfortable truths her presence forces me to confront.
I've built my life around protecting this town, around knowing what's best for it.
Abigail Robinson, with her city ideas and disarming smile, challenges everything I thought I knew.
"I should go," I say abruptly.
She nods, disappointment flickering briefly across her face. "Tomorrow, then? For the vote?"
"Tomorrow," I agree, already knowing my night will be spent thinking about her proposal.
And about her.
As I walk away, the glow of that single lantern seems to follow me, like Abigail herself—bright, unexpected, and impossible to ignore.