Chapter 6 Brenna
Chapter six
Brenna
Ipause halfway across the meadow as I head down to my car, filling my lungs with a deep breath of the crisp morning air.
The breeze catches my hair, sending it dancing around my shoulders as I close my eyes and raise my face to the slim rays of sunlight peeking through the clouds.
Pine, wood smoke, damp earth, and the sweet smell of fallen leaves all reassure me I’m where I’m meant to be.
The mountains are what I’ve craved my entire life.
Not the perfectly climate-controlled air of our Manhattan penthouse or the recycled atmosphere of charity galas, but this wild, honest wind and a breathtaking view.
One I couldn’t see last night, but that now stretches before me.
Endless peaks are blanketed in fall colors, the morning mist clings to valleys, and a sky is so vast it makes my problems feel insignificant in the best possible way.
For the first time in twenty-two years, I can breathe.
Twenty minutes later, the Range Rover’s leather seat reminds me with every shift that I’m not the same woman who drove up this mountain yesterday.
A delicious ache between my thighs sends heat spiraling through me as I navigate the winding road back down to Wildwood.
Every bump in the dirt road is a reminder of Graham’s powerful hands, his warm mouth, his skilled tongue, and the way he claimed me beside the fire.
I press my lips together, tasting the ghost of his kiss, and grip the steering wheel tighter. The steaming pot of coffee and the mug he set out for me proved he’s thoughtful. But the fact he was gone when I woke? That stings more than I want to admit.
Plus, he restored power to the rental cabin. I tested the lock before hitting the road. I mean, sure, he strikes me as the kind of man who follows through. And he did say he’d fix it today, but does it mean he wants me gone from his place?
My fingers drum against the wheel as I replay last night in my mind.
The way Graham wiped me gently with a warm, moist washcloth, even after he was clearly shocked—and furious—I was a virgin.
The way his arms wrapped around me as if he’d never let me go.
How I drifted off to sleep against his chest while his fingers traced lazy patterns on my skin.
I still feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my cheek.
But then this morning—nothing. Just hot coffee and an empty cabin.
Maybe, I was na?ve to think one night could mean something to a man like him. A man who’s been with women who have experience. Women who actually know what they’re doing in bed.
The thought stings, but I shake it off. I didn’t come to Vermont for Graham Hughes, no matter how perfectly I fit against him or how his gray eyes go storm-dark when he looks at me. I came here for answers. For my father.
Though I make a mental note to ask Eric if he knows Graham. In a town this small, surely their paths have crossed.
Eric Truett. The name tastes foreign on my tongue, though I’ve practiced it for years. Will I have his eyes? Do I get my stubborn streak from him? Will he take one look at me and see the disappointment my mother always claimed he’d find?
The Sugar Plum Cafe sits at the edge of Wildwood’s tiny main street like something from a postcard, complete with gingham curtains and a chalkboard advertising fresh apple cider donuts. My stomach growls, but I’m too nervous to eat.
I park between a rusted pickup and a Subaru covered in hiking stickers, suddenly aware of how out-of-place my brand new, top-of-the-line SUV looks. Like I must look. City girl playing dress-up in designer hiking boots.
At least, the storm has passed. The skies are still heavy with clouds, but they don’t have the ominous weight that promises rain. Small mercies.
The cafe’s bell chimes as I push through the door, and conversations pause long enough for curious glances to sweep over me.
Small town radar. I square my shoulders and approach the counter where a young woman with warm blue eyes and a red-and-white checkered headband is taking an order.
She’s only a few years older than me, with a flour-dusted apron that suggests she’s been baking since dawn.
“What can I get you, honey?” she asks, shooting me a kind smile as I slide onto the edge of a red leather-covered stool.
I pause then plunge ahead, eyeing her nametag. “Actually, Mia, I’m looking for someone. Eric Truett? I heard he lives here in town.”
Her eyebrows lift with interest, and I catch the way her gaze lingers on my face with quiet curiosity. “Eric? Sure, everyone knows Eric. He’s the kind of man who’ll carry your groceries to your car without being asked.”
Really? That doesn’t sound like a man who’d act the way my mother said he did. But it was a long time ago.
Mia continues, “This time of year, he’s running the tour guide business out of a counter at the outfitters just down Main Street, past Wildwood Brewing.”
That makes sense. My mother said he was a ski instructor somewhere around here during the winter. Or at least, he was when she met him.
“Thank you.” I move to stand then hesitate before adding, “What about Graham Hughes? Do you know him?”
The surprise that crosses her face is even more pronounced.
She glances toward the window as if looking up toward the mountain.
“Graham? Well, sure. He’s…” She pauses, studying my face with renewed curiosity.
“Let’s just say that when an ice storm knocked out power for a week last winter, Graham made sure every elderly resident in town had firewood. ”
That squares based on my read of him. Solid. Dependable. I’m glad to know my instincts were right.
“Keeps to himself mostly, but—” Mia stops, pressing her lips together as if she’s caught herself about to say something she shouldn’t.
“But what?” I prompt.
She shakes her head with a small smile, busying herself wiping down the already clean counter. “Nothing, honey. Just… Well, small towns, you know? Everyone’s connected somehow.” She looks up at me again, that curious expression returning. “You know both of them?”
My cheeks warm. “I do, or at least, I hope to…soon.”
“Well, you tell them both Mia says hi.”
I nod, sliding off the stool, and heading out the door.
Just down Main Street. It’s not far, but I’m grateful for the walk.
For the crisp fall air. I pass Wildwood Brewing with its rustic wooden sign.
Past a small bookstore and a vintage clothing shop that looks as if it hasn’t changed since the seventies.
The walk gives me time to rehearse what I’ll say, though I’ve waited for this moment for years.
The outfitters shop sits at the corner, its windows filled with camping gear and hiking boots. Through the glass, I spot a small counter near the registers where a man in a red flannel shirt sits hunched, cleaning a fishing reel.
A man with dark hair and broad shoulders.
Time stops. My chest constricts so tightly I can barely draw breath, and tears I didn’t expect blur my vision.
Every childhood birthday wish, every unanswered question, every fight with my stepfather—it all led to this moment.
My hands shake as I reach for the door, twenty-two years of longing and hope colliding in my throat.
I squeeze the metal bar and pull open the door, bells jingling overhead as I enter. The man at the counter looks up, and familiar green eyes widen with something that goes far deeper than recognition.
He knows. Somehow, he knows exactly who I am.
“Can I help you?” His rumbling baritone is cautious, uncertain as he slowly rises.
My stomach rolls, but I manage to sound calm. “My name is Brenna Buchanan. I think you knew my mother, Caroline?”
The color drains from his face, and his jaw tightens. Then his expression shifts, cycling from regret to something that looks like wonder.
“Hell,” he breathes, running a hand through his thick hair. “Twenty-two years. You have her same innocence, but those eyes…” His voice catches. “Those are mine.”
Tears sting the backs of my eyes, but I blink them away. I’m finally face to face with the man whose absence shaped my entire childhood. The man whose existence my mother treated like a shameful secret, though I always sensed there was more to the story.
And despite everything—the nerves, the uncertainty, the way my heart feels as if it might shatter—my shoulders drop, and I smile.