Chapter 7 #2
"Ah." He sips his beer, watching me over the rim with those blue eyes that see too much. "Getting the full story, I hope?"
There's something in his tone that raises my hackles. "That's generally the goal of journalism, yes."
"Is it? I thought the goal was whatever narrative sells the most magazines."
Ruth wisely retreats to the other end of the bar, leaving us in precarious privacy.
"What's that supposed to mean?" I keep my voice low, aware of the attention we're already attracting.
Noah turns to face me fully, one arm resting on the bar. “I’m curious if your article will include how this town pulled itself up after people like you left it for dead.”
The unfairness of this stings. "I didn't leave Angel's Peak for dead. I left to pursue my career."
"Right." His beer hits the bar with a dull thunk. "The career that mattered more than anything—or anyone—else."
And there it is. The real conversation hiding beneath the polite one. This was never about the town.
"You know why I left." Guilt claws at my chest, sharp and familiar.
"I know what you said at Lookout Point." His voice drops low. "I know we were young, and we got in over our heads. That I pushed too hard, too fast, because I was obsessed with what we had. Because the rush of having you was so complete that everything else blurred. I know that now."
The pain in his voice slices through me.
"But that knowledge doesn't erase what it felt like. Waking up after graduation, expecting to see you at our spot—and realizing you were gone."
"I couldn't breathe anymore." My words come fast, too sharp.
"You wanted more than I knew how to give.
You were already calling all the shots in and out of bed, pushing things further every day.
I was eighteen and still figuring out who I was, and you were already so sure of what you wanted from me. "
"And you loved it." His eyes flash, hurt and heat mingling. "Don't pretend you didn't crave it. Don't pretend I made you do something you didn't want."
"I'm not pretending." My voice cracks. "God, I wanted it. That was the problem. I wanted it all—you, the intensity, the way you burned yourself into my skin. But I wanted my career, too. I couldn't figure out how to want both and still be me."
Noah's silence is brutal. Heavy.
"You still should've told me," he says at last. "We should've had the damn conversation. Instead, you left me standing in the parking lot like a fool, waiting to hear from the girl who swore she'd always be honest with me."
I flinch. Because he's right.
"I thought if I stayed long enough to say goodbye, I'd never actually go. All you'd have to do was look at me, and I'd forget every reason I had for leaving..."
"Jesus, Riley." His expression fractures then—grief crawling over the strong lines of his face. “You make me sound like a predator.”
"I was scared." The admission slips out raw. "Not of you. Of how much I wanted what you were offering. Of how easy it would've been to forget every dream that didn't involve you."
His hand drags over his mouth, the motion familiar and tired. "I was angry for a long time. I told you that. I've forgiven myself for the parts I got wrong, but that doesn't mean it stopped hurting."
"I know." I lower my voice.
“Why did you wait ten years to come back?" His voice is hoarse now. "Why did you let me think you never cared?"
"I cared." My throat tightens. "I cared so much I couldn't breathe."
"And yet, you never called.” He looks at me like he's drowning all over again.
"Because I didn't know how to be yours and mine at the same time."
He closes his eyes briefly, and when they open again, the fire has dimmed—but it hasn't gone out.
"I'm not trying to beat this to death." His tone is quieter. "I just want you to know it wasn't a clean break for me. I lived in the wreckage of what we were for a long time."
"I'm sorry for that." The ache in my chest expands, hollow and aching. "If it helps, so did I."
Silence pulses between us.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Darlene from Maggie's Diner leaning conspicuously closer at her nearby table, pretending to stir a drink she hasn't touched in ten minutes.
"This isn't professional," I mutter, gathering my bag.
"Right. Let's be professional," he says with a bitter smile.
"That's not fair."
"None of this is fair." His expression softens, just slightly. "Life rarely is."
"I'll see you at eight." I stand, breath shaky, heart unspooling in my chest.
"Will we finish this?" He nods slowly, unreadable. "Or will you run again when it gets too real?"
I pause.
I don't answer.
But then...
"I'll be here at eight, like I promised."
The emotional ambush of the conversation has left me raw, exposed in ways I haven't allowed myself to be in years. Noah's accusations hit too close to home. Did I run when things got real? Yes. Is that what I'm still doing, hiding behind professionalism and career goals?
I don’t know.
I walk aimlessly down Main Street, needing movement to process the overwhelming swirl of emotions. I find myself at Margie's Bakery, drawn by the promise of comfort food and the normalcy of everyday commerce.
The bell jingles cheerfully as I enter. The sweet, buttery scent envelops me like a hug, momentarily soothing my agitation.
"Riley, dear." The voice that greets me isn't Margie's, but Eleanor Morgan's. Noah's grandmother sits at a corner table, a cup of tea and a half-eaten scone before her. "What perfect timing. Join me, won't you?"
It feels like a setup, but refusing would be rude and conspicuous. I smile and slide into the chair across from her, ordering coffee when Margie approaches with raised eyebrows and poorly concealed curiosity.
"Lovely festival yesterday, wasn't it?" Eleanor stirs her tea with deliberate precision. "I heard you participated quite enthusiastically in the boat race."
Heat creeps up my neck. "Not my finest athletic moment."
"Nonsense. You provided the most entertainment that event has seen in years." Her smile is sly. "My grandson certainly seemed to enjoy the rescue operation."
I take a fortifying sip of the coffee Margie delivers with suspicious speed. "Mrs. Morgan—"
"Eleanor, please. Or Gram, as most call me."
"Eleanor." I try again. "I appreciate your friendliness, but if you're here to defend Noah—"
"Defend him?" She laughs, a surprisingly rich sound from such a diminutive woman. "Good heavens, no. That boy can fight his own battles. Always could."
"Then...?"
"I simply thought you might like to hear some stories that wouldn't make it into your official interviews." She pats my hand. "About the real Noah. The one behind the uniform and the titles."
Against my better judgment, I'm intrigued. "What kind of stories?"
Eleanor's eyes twinkle. "Did you know he turned down the Colorado Wilderness Rescue Team three years ago? Most prestigious mountain rescue unit in the Rockies. Doubled salary, career advancement, the works."
"Why would he do that?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
"They wanted him to run their training program.
Design their protocols." Pride suffuses her voice.
"But it would have meant leaving Angel's Peak at a crucial time.
It was before Lucas Reid returned and took back The Haven from the resort corporation managing it.
They were threatening to pull out, and businesses were struggling. "
She leans forward, voice dropping conspiratorially. "So instead, he started our own mountain rescue certification program. Got state and federal recognition. Now, other departments send their people here to train with him."
As she speaks, Eleanor paints a picture of a man I'm only beginning to understand—one who channels his considerable talents into building something lasting, who sees potential where others see limitations, and who chooses commitment over convenience time and again.
"He never does anything halfway," she continues. "Gets that from his grandfather. Whether it's installing my new water heater or designing the county's emergency response system—full heart, full effort."
The unspoken implication hangs between us: including loving me, all those years ago.
My phone buzzes, mercifully interrupting the increasingly uncomfortable conversation. My editor's name flashes on the screen.
"I'm sorry, I need to take this." I stand, genuinely relieved for the escape. "Thank you for the company, Eleanor."
"Anytime, dear." Her smile suggests she knows exactly the effect her words have had. "I have a feeling we'll be seeing more of each other."
I step outside to take the call, leaning against the bakery's outer wall. "Lisa, hi."
"Riley! How's mountain life treating you?" My editor's voice crackles with her usual energy. "Got your preliminary notes this morning."
"And?"
"Good bones. Great economic angle, solid understanding of the tourism strategy." She pauses. "But it's missing a heart. The human element. Who are these people beyond their business titles? What drives them to stay and rebuild rather than leave for easier opportunities?"
The irony of this feedback, given my conversations with Noah and Eleanor, is not lost on me.
"I'm still gathering personal stories."
"Good. Because right now it reads like an economic impact report with scenic descriptions. I need the emotional core—what makes Angel's Peak special enough that people fight for it."
"I understand." I press my fingers against the beginning of a tension headache. "I'll dig deeper."
After finishing the call, I wander back toward Mabel's Guest House, my mind churning with all I've learned today. Noah planning to follow me to Chicago. Turning down prestigious positions to stay in Angel's Peak. The dedication Eleanor described with such pride.
None of it fits neatly into the narrative I've constructed over the years—that we were young, that our paths naturally diverged, that leaving was the only sensible choice. If Noah had been willing to follow me, if he had those applications ready...
The implications are too destabilizing to consider fully.
Mabel greets me at the guest house door, a knowing look in her eyes that suggests news of my argument with Noah has already made the rounds. Small towns and their infernal gossip networks.
"Package came for you, dear." She hands me a small paper bag with the Margie's Bakery logo. "Hand delivered, no less."
Inside, I find a cinnamon roll—the miniature version, not the massive ones Margie usually serves—and a folded note in a strong, familiar handwriting:
Riley,
I'm sorry about earlier. Ten years of unfinished business doesn't make for great bar conversation, and after that kiss…
Let me make it up to you—no arguments, no accusations, just a guide showing you the Angel's Peak most visitors never see. The real heart of this place, if you're still looking for it.
Tomorrow, 6 AM. Dress warm, wear hiking boots. I'll bring breakfast that isn't just sugar and caffeine.
Peace offering?
- Noah
P.S. The mini cinnamon roll is symbolic. See? I can compromise.
Despite everything—the argument, the confusion, the professional complications—I find myself smiling at the note. The postscript especially feels like the Noah I knew before, the one who could defuse my worst moods with unexpected humor.
I sink onto the window seat, staring at the note while evening shadows lengthen across the room. The rational choice would be to decline and maintain professional distance after today's emotional minefield. I need to focus solely on gathering the material for my article and nothing more.
Instead, I find myself reaching for my phone, typing a response before I can overthink it: 6 AM is uncivilized, but I'll be ready. This better be worth sacrificing sleep.
His reply comes almost immediately: Some things are worth losing sleep over.
Butterflies erupt in my stomach, a sensation I haven't felt in years. I press a hand against my abdomen, as if I might physically contain them.
This is dangerous territory. Noah Morgan has always been dangerous territory for my heart. But as I set my alarm for the ungodly hour of 5:30 AM, I can't deny the anticipation curling through me at the thought of tomorrow.
Professional complications, be damned.