Chapter 3
3
E mily’s apartment above Doug’s Hardware Store was small but cozy, filled with mismatched furniture and a few treasured knick-knacks. The smell of cinnamon and vanilla lingered in the air, a reminder of the candle she’d burned last night in a failed attempt to relax. Even a marathon of cheesy rom-coms hadn’t been enough to erase the memory of her spat with Noah Winslow.
She tossed and turned all night, replaying their sharp exchange over and over. By 3 a.m., she found herself staring at the ceiling, sighing dramatically. “What was I thinking?” she muttered. “Bees and honey? I sounded like a second-rate fortune cookie—or worse, my grandmother.”
The thought of her grandmother made Emily groan. Growing up, Grandma Betty’s wisdom had come in the form of endless sayings about hard work and patience. “And yet,” Emily muttered, pulling a blanket over her head, “even with all that advice, I can’t stop thinking about him.”
She peeked out from under the blanket to glare at the ceiling. Noah Winslow wasn’t just frustrating. He was stubborn and critical and entirely too composed, even when he was obviously irritated. It was maddening.
“Get it together, Emily,” she told herself, kicking off the blanket. “He’s just another grumpy customer. Nothing special.”
But even as she said it, a tiny, annoying voice in the back of her head whispered, Sure he is.
By the time Emily made her way downstairs to the hardware store, the morning rush was already in full swing. Grace was ringing up a customer, her cheery voice cutting through the low hum of activity.
“Morning, boss!” she called over her shoulder as Emily slipped behind the counter .
“Morning,” Emily replied, stifling a yawn. “What’s on the agenda today?”
Grace handed a receipt to the customer, flashing her trademark grin. “Same as always—saving the world one bolt and bucket of paint at a time.”
Emily snorted. “Sounds heroic.”
“It is,” Grace replied solemnly. Then she leaned in, lowering her voice. “Oh, and your favorite contractor called.”
Emily groaned, rubbing her temples. “Let me guess. Mr. Winslow had a few more constructive criticisms to share?”
“Not exactly.” Grace wiggled her eyebrows. “He said he’ll be back this afternoon for another order. Something about needing extra supplies for Cedar Ridge.”
“Fantastic,” Emily muttered. “Just when I thought my day couldn’t get any better.”
Grace shrugged, unbothered. “You’re welcome.”
The day passed in fits and starts, a mix of customer questions and inventory checks. Emily was elbow-deep in a box of screws when the bell above the door jingled, signaling another arrival.
“Be right there!” she called, brushing her hands on her jeans. But as she stepped around the counter, she froze.
Noah Winslow stood by the front display, clipboard in hand and a faintly expectant expression on his face.
“Back so soon?” Emily asked, schooling her features into a polite smile.
“Turns out I need more supplies,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact.
“Of course you do,” she replied, moving toward the counter. “Wouldn’t want to disrupt the breakneck pace of progress out at Cedar Ridge.”
Noah’s lips twitched, but he didn’t rise to her bait. “Lumber, more nails, and…” He glanced down at his clipboard. “Another batch of concrete mix. Can you have it delivered by tomorrow morning?”
Emily tapped the information into the store’s aging computer system, pretending not to notice the way Noah’s presence seemed to fill the room.
“Looks like we’ve got everything you need,” she said, glancing up. “And yes, we can have it delivered by tomorrow. Anything else? ”
He hesitated, which surprised her. “Actually, there is something.”
Emily raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I could use a recommendation,” he said slowly, as if the words were foreign to him.
“For what?”
Noah gestured vaguely toward the aisle behind him. “Paint. One of the homes is being staged, and apparently the walls need to be something… neutral. Or soothing. Or whatever it is buyers like.”
Emily blinked. “You’re asking me for advice on paint colors?”
“Is that a problem?”
She suppressed a grin. “Not at all. But you might have to clarify what you mean by ‘soothing.’ Are we talking soft beige or a ‘let’s meditate under a waterfall’ kind of soothing?”
Noah sighed, looking faintly exasperated. “Something that doesn’t give people headaches. That’s about as specific as I can get.”
“Well,” Emily said, stepping out from behind the counter, “lucky for you, I’m a paint expert. Come on.”
She led him toward the wall of swatches, pulling down a few samples with practiced efficiency .
“This,” she said, holding up a pale gray, “is called ‘Silver Whisper.’ It’s sophisticated without being cold. Or,” she added, grabbing another card, “you could go with this. ‘Morning Fog.’ It’s a little softer, good for spaces where you want light to bounce around.”
Noah studied the options with an intensity that made her bite back a laugh. “Do you take all your customers on guided tours?”
“Only the ones who look like they might paint a house neon green if left to their own devices,” she quipped.
That earned her a faint chuckle. “Noted. I’ll take the gray one.”
“Excellent choice,” Emily said, jotting it down on her clipboard. “Anything else you need?”
Noah shook his head. “No, that should do it.”
As Noah paid for his order, Emily couldn’t help but notice how quiet the store suddenly felt. Most of the morning crowd had thinned, leaving just the two of them in the space.
“You know,” she said, breaking the silence, “you’re not as bad at small-town charm as you think. Asking for paint advice was almost… human. ”
Noah looked up, startled, but his expression softened after a beat. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Trust me, I won’t,” Emily replied, sliding his receipt across the counter. “Your charm is as rare as a unicorn sighting.”
He actually smiled at that—just a little. “Thanks for the help.”
“Anytime,” she said, her tone lighter than she expected.
The bell jingled as he left, and Emily found herself staring at the door long after it had closed.
Later that night, Emily stared at the ceiling, the faint hum of the TV filling the quiet of her apartment. Her mind refused to settle, cycling through moments from the day. Grace’s teasing, the endless stream of customers, and, of course, Noah Winslow.
She groaned and rolled onto her side, glaring at the flickering light of the TV. “Get a grip, Emily,” she muttered. “He’s just a customer. A frustrating, infuriating customer with stupidly nice shoulders and—ugh. No. Not going there.”
She sat up abruptly, reaching for the remote to switch off the TV. The room plunged into silence, save for the ticking of the old clock on the wall.
“Maybe Grandma Betty was right,” she said aloud, her voice echoing softly in the empty space. “I do need to work on my patience. Or maybe just my taste in men.”
The thought made her laugh, though it was tinged with exasperation. She padded into the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of water and leaning against the counter as she sipped.
The smell of the cinnamon-vanilla candle lingered, calming her just enough to let her guard down. She found herself thinking about Noah again—about the way his expression softened when he picked the gray paint, or the flicker of humor in his eyes when she teased him.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she told herself, setting the glass down. “He’s just passing through. Probably won’t even remember my name by the time Cedar Ridge is finished.”
And yet, even as she tried to convince herself, a small, stubborn part of her wasn’t so sure.
Emily turned off the kitchen light and made her way to bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. Tomorrow was another day, full of the same routines and challenges she’d grown used to. But for the first time in a long time, she found herself wondering what—or who—might surprise her next.