Chapter 5
Festival Flames
The Welcome Summer Festival transforms Angel's Peak from a quaint mountain town into a fairytale setting.
Colorful banners stretch between lampposts, food vendors line the streets, and music drifts from a stage floating on Alpine Lake.
I wander through the cheerful chaos, notebook in hand, occasionally stopping to snap photos with my phone.
Professional distance. That's my mantra today. I'm here for research, not to moon over Noah Morgan like some lovesick teenager. The article is what matters—my promotion, my career, the life I've built far from here.
So why do I keep scanning the crowd for him?
The morning passes in a blur of interviews and observations.
I speak with artisans selling handcrafted goods, sample locally distilled spirits at a tasting booth, and collect business cards for follow-up questions.
My notebook fills with details about community engagement, tourism strategies, and economic impact statistics.
No sign of Noah.
Not that I'm looking.
"Riley Bennett. Still chasing stories, I see."
I turn to find Sheriff James Donovan approaching, his familiar face now adorned with a neatly trimmed beard that doesn't quite disguise his boyish dimples. In high school, he was Noah's best friend and partner in occasional mischief. Now he wears the authority of his office with comfortable ease.
"Sheriff Donovan." I extend my hand, which he bypasses for a friendly hug.
"It's still just James to you." He releases me with a grin. "Unless you've got something to confess?"
"Not recently." I return his smile, genuinely pleased to see him. James was always kind, even after I broke his best friend's heart. "How's law enforcement treating you?"
"Can't complain. Low crime, decent funding since the tourism boost." He adjusts his hat against the bright sunlight. "Though I spend more time rescuing lost hikers than catching bad guys."
"Still a hero's work."
"Speaking of heroes..." His expression turns sly. "Heard you had some excitement at Mabel's yesterday, and that our fire chief was quick to respond."
Heat creeps up my neck. Of course, everyone knows about that already. "Just a small fire."
"Mmhmm." James rocks back on his heels. "Noah mentioned you're covering the festival for your article."
"Among other things. The community engagement angle is compelling."
"You should check out the paddle boat races at two. Great photo op. Locals versus tourists in head-to-head competition." He checks his watch. "Actually, I'm heading there now. Got roped into judging."
He starts to leave, then glances back. "Good to see you, Riley." A pause. "Didn't expect to say that, to be honest."
"Meaning?" That lands hard.
James shrugs, easy on the surface—but his eyes hold steady. Sharp. "Just... Noah's been different. Ever since word got around that you were coming back."
I wait, bracing.
He doesn't soften.
"Some of the edge he's carried around the last few years—it's not as sharp lately. That's all." Then his expression tightens slightly. “Whatever you're here for... Do your article. Get what you need and go. Don't mess with him, Riley. Not again."
And with that, he disappears into the crowd, leaving the warning in his wake like a lit match dropped at my feet.
I stand frozen, his words echoing in my mind. Is it possible Noah still...? No. Ten years is a lifetime. People change. Move on. I certainly have.
Haven't I?
As I approach the waterfront, Alpine Lake sparkles under the midday sun. A wooden stage floats twenty yards offshore, accessible by a narrow dock, where a band sets up equipment. Along the shore, colorful paddle boats shaped like swans and dragons await the upcoming race.
The crowd thickens as spectators gather along the shoreline. I stake out a spot near the judges' table, tugging out my camera and raising the lens like a shield between me and the rising tension in my chest.
Through the viewfinder, I find him.
Noah stands at the end of the dock, deep in conversation with two members of the safety crew in red shirts.
His posture is relaxed, but there's no mistaking who's in charge.
He's swapped his turnout gear for khaki shorts and a dark navy t-shirt that clings to his shoulders and biceps like it was stitched in place.
The cotton hugs his back when he gestures, drawing my gaze to muscles I don't remember being quite that... defined.
He's all grown up. Broader. Rougher. Hotter.
It should be illegal for a man to look that good in full sunlight, wind teasing through his dark hair, sunglasses pushed up into his hairline as he grins at something one of the crew says.
That grin—God help me—it was once mine.
Maybe it's the heat. Or the crowd. Or the fact that I haven't stopped thinking about the way he looked last night, storming into that kitchen like the world was ending, voice tight with worry, looking at me like I was the most reckless and precious thing he'd ever pulled out of a fire.
Standing there now, laughing in the sun, Noah Morgan looks like sin and salvation wrapped in a body built to ruin good intentions.
I lower the camera, my pulse kicking hard.
Professional. Distance, Riley. Keep your distance.
I repeat the words like a mantra... but they're already unraveling.
"Excuse me?" A harried-looking woman with a clipboard approaches. "Are you Riley Bennett? From the magazine?"
I lower my camera. "That's me."
"Oh, thank goodness." Relief floods her expression. "I'm Hannah Lewis, event coordinator. We've had a last-minute drop-out in the paddle boat race, and we need someone to fill in for the local team. James suggested you might be willing? For your article?"
My instinct is to decline. I'm here to observe, not participate. But Hannah's pleading expression and the journalistic opportunity to experience the event firsthand sway me.
"I haven't been in a paddle boat in years," I warn.
Hannah beams. "It's like riding a bike. Only wetter and more embarrassing when you fall." She hands me a life vest. "We launch in fifteen minutes."
Before I can reconsider, I'm being shepherded toward a purple dragon-shaped boat. Hannah chatters about the race rules—a simple circuit around the floating stage and back to shore—while helping me adjust my life vest.
"The tourist team is favored to win," she confides. "They're both kayak instructors from Colorado."
"Great." I eye our competition—a fit-looking couple already seated in a green swan boat. "No pressure."
"Just have fun with it. The real competition is tomorrow—this is the exhibition match. You're up next.” Hannah thrusts a life vest into my arms.
I blink at her. "Wait—I thought you were my partner."
She laughs, already backing away toward the dock. "Changed plans. They needed someone in Boat Three, and you were the last one to sign up. Don't worry, he's... capable."
My stomach dips. "He?"
But she's gone, slipping into a motorboat with James, waving cheerfully over her shoulder as I climb down toward the dock where a purple dragon boat bobs in place.
I freeze.
Noah Morgan is seated in the back of the boat, arms resting across the paddles, life vest snug over that shirt that clings to his broad shoulders and chest like sin incarnate. His sunglasses hide his expression, but when he turns his head and sees me?
He jolts. Just slightly. But I see it.
A flicker of surprise. Irritation. Something that might've been heat. Then his lips twist into something that's not quite a smile.
"You've got to be kidding me," he mutters.
"I thought I was with Hannah." I hesitate at the edge, awkward and flustered.
"So did I," he says dryly. "But apparently, the universe has a twisted sense of humor." A beat, then he sighs. "Get in, Bennett. Let's get this over with."
I climb in carefully, trying not to wobble the boat or look too obviously like I'm checking him out—which is hard because, good God, the man fills out a T-shirt better than any firefighter has a right to. And the casual shorts emphasize how stupidly fit he is, every muscle coiled and efficient.
We push off toward the starting line. I grip the side of the boat, trying not to notice how close his knee is to mine.
"Just follow my lead," he says, eyes forward.
"You always did like giving orders."
His lips twitch—but there's no humor behind it. "You used to enjoy following them."
The words land hard and sharp with something darker threaded beneath them—anger, regret, a flicker of something that hasn't burned out despite ten years and an ocean of silence between us.
My paddle dips awkwardly into the water. "People change."
Noah's jaw flexes. He doesn't look at me, but I feel his attention like a heat lamp trained on my skin. "Did you clean the kitchen?"
I blink, caught off guard. "Excuse me?"
"After the fire," he says flatly. "Did you?"
"Yes." A flush creeps up my neck.
"Alone?” His voice drops lower. “Or did you rope Mabel into helping you?"
"I did it myself."
His gaze slices to mine, intense, unreadable, and then something shifts. The hard line of his mouth softens, just barely, and he gives me a single nod.
"That's my girl.” The words are low, rough velvet, and they detonate in my chest.
My lungs stop working. My thighs clench instinctively. Because that voice? That quiet, private tone? That's the one he used to save just for me. When we were alone. When the rest of the world fell away, and it was just us—two people who understood each other without having to explain.
My fingers tighten around the paddle, the water forgotten.
His eyes linger on mine just long enough for me to wonder if he remembers. The late nights. The long drives. How I used to come undone for him with nothing more than a look and a whispered word. But then he shifts forward in the seat, turning away to scan the lake ahead.
"Don't screw up this race, Bennett," he mutters, voice clipped. "I'm not diving in after you."
Too late. I'm already drowning.
The starting horn blares, and we launch forward—if you can call it that.
Our paddles slap the water at opposite times, jerking the boat sideways instead of forward. The dragon head wobbles as we lurch toward the starting buoy in a wide, embarrassing arc.
"Left, left—no, your left," Noah snaps.
"I know my left," I shoot back, jabbing my paddle deeper into the water. It only sends us spinning further off course.
We clip the edge of another team's boat, drawing a curse and a spray of water. The crowd's laughter carries across the lake, and I'm painfully aware of how ridiculous we look.
"Stop.” Noah grits his teeth. “Just stop paddling."
I freeze mid-stroke, my oar dripping lake water.
"Let me set the rhythm.” His voice is low but unmistakably firm. “Follow me. Got it?"
A dozen responses press against my lips, but only one makes it past the lump in my throat.
"As you wish."
His head jerks slightly—just enough for me to see the flicker in his expression. Shock. Recognition. Heat.
It's what I used to say. Always. Our private shorthand. The one that started as a joke after we watched “The Princess Bride” on his parents' couch junior year, his arm around me, my head on his shoulder, both of us pretending we weren't already in way over our heads.
He asked me to pass the popcorn. I said As you wish in my best dramatic impression, and he laughed so hard he nearly choked.
But then the laughter faded, and he looked at me. Really looked at me. And I realized the words meant something different when I said them to him. Not a movie quote. Not a joke.
A promise.
After that, it became ours. Our shorthand whispered across crowded rooms. Murmured in the dark. Scrawled in the margins of passed notes during chemistry class.
Three words that held everything we couldn't say out loud at eighteen.
“Stroke,” he says, hoarsely. “Stroke. Stroke.”
His voice drags over me, rough, stripped down to something that hits too deep, too fast. The paddle falters in his hands for half a second—just enough for the boat to rock, just enough to send a jolt straight through me.
“Stroke.”
God.
Heat slams into me, low and immediate, coiling tight as memory surges up without warning—his voice, younger but no less commanding, right at my ear, dark and certain and impossible to ignore.
Stroke…Yeah, just like that…Harder, Riley. Stroke me harder.
My grip slips.
Water splashes wide as I miss the rhythm completely, my breath catching hard in my throat as the past crashes into the present, blurring the edges until I can’t quite tell where I am.
The river.
The boat.
Or the way I used to lose myself in him—every word, every command pulling me under until there was nothing left but the sound of his voice and the need to follow it.
“Stroke.” He says it quieter now. Controlled. Too controlled.
I glance up, pulse pounding.
He’s not looking at me, but his shoulders are tight, tension drawn sharp across his back, his hand wrapped around the oar like he’s holding on to something more than balance. The rhythm he sets is deliberate, measured… like he’s forcing it to stay there.
Like he knows exactly what he just did.
A breath leaves me, shaky, heat flooding higher, sharper, because he remembers.
Ten years and it’s still right there, sitting between us, waiting for the smallest crack to push through.
I bite the inside of my cheek, dragging the paddle through the water again, forcing myself back into sync with him, matching his pace even as my body hums with something I can’t quite shut down.
“That’s it,” Noah mutters, voice lower now, rough around the edges. “Just like that.”
My stomach tightens. Because this time, there’s no mistaking it. He knows exactly how that sounds.
And he said it anyway.
We skim past the first buoy. His shoulders shift, and he glances back at me. It’s just a flicker, but in that half-second, I catch it. The ghost of a grin. A look that says there you are.
My stomach flips.
It's not just the race. It's the recognition. The way his whole body seems to exhale when we finally fall into sync, like some part of him has been holding its breath for a decade waiting for exactly this.
My grip tightens on the paddle. My chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with exertion.
I don't dare hold his gaze, afraid he'll see everything I'm feeling written all over my face.
But I don't have to look to know he feels it, too.
His strokes grow sharper. Steadier.
And suddenly, I don't care if we win this damn race. I just want to keep moving with him like this—finding our rhythm again, heat simmering just beneath the surface, something old and unfinished stirring back to life.