13. Chasity
CHASITY
Morning arrives painted in shades of amber and gold.
Main Street, usually a sleepy stretch of asphalt, pulses with life.
Strings of fat orange bulbs crisscross between lampposts, casting a warm glow over booths that overflow with wares.
The air is rich with the competing scents of cinnamon-dusted cider, melting sugar, and the crisp, earthy smell of stacked pumpkins.
I spend the first hour with Rosa at a folding table near the town square, my fingers growing sticky as I tear off raffle tickets.
“One for the handmade quilt, three for the basket of jams,” I recite, my voice finding a rhythm in the cheerful chaos.
Before I’m finished sorting the stubs, a woman with a cloud of white hair and a no-nonsense expression plucks my sleeve.
“You’re the runaway, right? Rosa, I’m borrowing her.”
And just like that, I’m passed from the raffle tickets to a booth laden with jarringly bright knitted scarves, then to another selling beeswax candles shaped like tiny bears.
I give up trying to explain my temporary status.
It feels easier to just nod and scoop popcorn into paper bags or tie ribbons around little jars of honey.
By noon, the thin veil of my "just visiting" excuse has evaporated completely. Dottie, the woman who commandeered me from Rosa’s table, shoves a clipboard into my hands.
“You’re judging the pie contest. You’ve got honest eyes. Don’t let Mabel sweet-talk you; she always puts too much nutmeg in her apple.”
I’m halfway through a slice of shockingly good cherry pie when Lachlan appears, leaning against the table with an easy grin. “Break time’s over, Princess. We’re down a man at the hot chocolate booth and you look bored.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, just steers me toward the inn’s stall.
For the next hour, I stir a giant pot of molten chocolate and try not to get distracted by the way the steam dampens the dark curls at his hairline.
A group of kids from the local baseball team, still in their uniforms, buy caramel apples from the next booth over and then just…
linger. They trail me when I take a moment to stretch, their whispered debate loud in the festive air.
“She’s here to stay now, right?” one asks, his mouth full of sticky apple.
“Nah, my mom says she’s just stuck here ‘til her car’s fixed,” another argues.
“Coach Taven said she’s staying.”
The first one nods with authority. “See? Coach knows.”
Someone a few feet away calls my name, asking if I’ll be around to help with the town’s haunted hayride next month.
A strange, sharp feeling—part warmth, part sheer panic—tangles itself beneath my ribs.
It’s the same feeling I get every time someone here speaks of the future like it’s a given that I’ll be in it.
Lachlan’s arm drapes across my shoulders, his weight both casual and deliberate as he pulls me into his orbit.
“See that gazebo? Legend says if you kiss someone there during the Harvest Moon Festival, you’re stuck with ‘em for at least a year.” He leans in, his voice a low murmur against my ear while he points it out to a cluster of wide-eyed tourists.
“So be careful who you stand under it with tonight, Princess.”
His laughter brushes my skin, sending a shiver down my spine that is unrelated to the creeping afternoon chill.
I try to roll my eyes, to muster a sarcastic retort, but the words catch in my throat.
He spends the next hour as my shadow, stealing a piece of the funnel cake I bought despite his loud protests that he “doesn’t even like sweets,” his fingers brushing mine as he plucks a sticky piece from the paper plate.
Every time he catches my eye, his smile is a slow, knowing curve that makes heat bloom in my chest, a stubborn warmth that defies the autumn air.
But where Lachlan’s attention is a bright, crackling bonfire, Ben’s is a low, steady ember.
It’s an attention so quiet I almost miss it until I realize how much I depend on it.
One moment I’m shivering, hugging my arms around myself, and the next, a steaming paper cup is in my hands.
I look up, and there he is, a half-smile on his face before he melts back into the crowd.
He reappears later when my head starts to ache from the sugar and the noise, swapping the empty cider cup in my hand with a bottle of water, his knuckles grazing mine in the transfer.
When the throng of people near the pumpkin-carving contest thickens, pressing in on all sides, a large, calloused hand finds my back, gently guiding me toward a quieter space near the covered bridge.
I don’t even have to look to know it’s him.
Throughout the day, I find my eyes scanning the sea of faces, searching for sandy brown hair, for broad shoulders in a worn flannel shirt.
I anchor myself to his quiet presence without even realizing I am adrift.
Taven seems to see everything. My gaze drifts past Ben’s shoulder and finds him across the square, leaning against a carved wooden post near the bandstand.
He watches me, his arms crossed over a dark flannel shirt, his expression unreadable in the deepening twilight.
The boisterous folk music that fills the air seems to stop just short of him, leaving him in a pocket of stillness.
While Lachlan’s hand rests warm and proprietary on my waist, and Ben’s attention is a quiet, constant current I can feel without looking, Taven’s is something else entirely.
It’s a sharp, assessing look, the kind that slices through the easy festival charm and lands somewhere raw and unsettled inside me.
It feels like he’s watching something important slip away.
A fiddle begins a quick, jaunty tune, and Lachlan tightens his hold, pulling me a step closer.
“Come on, Possum Princess. I bet you’re a surprisingly good dancer.”
I look from Lachlan’s confident grin, to where Ben now stands talking with Rosa, his eyes finding mine for a split second over her shoulder, a silent check-in.
And then my focus lands back on Taven, who hasn’t moved.
He just watches, his jaw tight, his posture a solid line of resistance against the joyful chaos around him.
The full weight of it all hits me. A breath I didn't know I was holding leaves me in a rush. Lachlan’s easy charm, Ben’s steady care, Taven’s guarded intensity—they are three distinct forces, and I am standing in the exact centre of their pull.
A thick, impossible knot twists low in my stomach.
Just hours ago, this was fun. This was a novelty.
Now, it feels dangerous. The possibility of leaving a wake of hurt in this small, kind town feels terrifyingly real.
I came here to escape the damage I caused, not to create a new, more complicated mess.
And the thought of one day driving away from here doesn't feel like freedom. It feels like another kind of running.
The last of the music fades, leaving behind the murmur of departing families and the crackle of a distant bonfire.
Lachlan gets cornered by a supplier near the hot chocolate booth, and Ben is swept up in helping break down the raffle tables.
I’m left adrift in the centre of the square, the festival’s cheerful energy draining away into the chilly night.
The weight of the day—of the last few weeks—settles back onto my shoulders.
“Time to go, Robinson.”
Taven’s voice cuts through the haze. He stands beside me, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, the silver at his temples catching the string lights overhead. He doesn’t wait for my answer, just nods his head toward the street leading away from the square.
I fall into step beside him. The town is quiet now, the streets painted in pools of yellow from the old-fashioned lamps. The cold air bites at my cheeks. Our footsteps are the only sound, a steady rhythm on the asphalt. His shoulder brushes against mine, a brief, solid warmth in the darkness.
“You almost started a war back there,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Mabel was ready to throw down over that nutmeg critique.”
A small laugh escapes me, startling me with its sound. “Dottie told me to be honest.”
“Dottie lives for the drama.” He glances at me, his face half in shadow. “You went quiet after that. Everything okay?”
His directness is a physical thing. It pins me in place. “Just… tired. It was a long day.”
“That’s not it.” He stops under a flickering streetlight just a few yards from the inn’s porch.
The silence between us stretches, thick and heavy with everything I’m not saying.
He doesn’t push, just watches me, his green eyes searching my face.
It’s that look again, the one that sees straight through the polite smiles and the easy excuses.
“It’s complicated,” I finally admit, the words feeling thin and insufficient.
“Everything worth a damn usually is.”
He’s so close I can feel the warmth radiating from his body, a distinct change from the cold air nipping at my skin.
The scent of woodsmoke and something uniquely him—clean, sharp, like mountain air after a storm—fills my senses.
The space between us shrinks until it’s barely there.
His gaze flickers down, a brief, intense drop to my mouth.
A current sparks through me, sharp and sudden.
My breath hitches. My entire body freezes, waiting.
Then, he blinks. He takes a deliberate step back, breaking the spell. The distance he creates feels like a chasm.
“Get some sleep, Chasity.”
He turns and walks away without another word, his back a rigid line in the darkness, leaving me breathless on the cold stone steps of the inn.