Chapter 19 Sloane
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sloane
I need a break.
Not a “take a walk” or “have a glass of wine” break. A “disappear into the mountains and become a hermit” kind of break.
But not these mountains. These mountains are the ones I want to escape from.
Between Roman’s frustrating charm, Ezra’s quiet intensity, and Creed’s ability to make me want to throw something every time he opens his mouth, I’m about one emotional catastrophe away from combusting.
So, I escape.
Coyote Glen’s Fall Market is in full swing when I get there.
It smells of cinnamon and wood smoke, and someone’s blasting “All I Want for Christmas Is You,” which feels aggressive considering it’s still November.
The whole town looks like a Hallmark movie exploded: garlands, twinkle lights, and at least three different Santa hats within a five-foot radius.
I find Ivy first. Or rather, I hear her, wrangling craziness as if it’s an Olympic sport.
“Max, put that down! No, Lucy, that’s not your hat. Mia, stop licking the candy cane!”
She’s got the triplets bundled in identical navy puffer coats, Penny trailing behind her like a too-cool Gen Alpha, and Pickle trotting along in a sweater that says Bite Me (Festively).
“Hey, you made it!” Ivy grins when she spots me, balancing a cup of cider in one hand and what appears to be a craft project in the other. “You look like you’ve survived a natural disaster.”
“Emotionally? Kinda have,” I say, accepting the cider she thrusts at me. “Is there a version of this that comes in extra strength?”
“Already spiked it,” she says with a wink.
Bless her.
Olivia joins us a second later, glowing in that “pregnant and somehow serene” way that makes me both proud and mildly jealous. She’s wrapped in a cream coat, one hand resting over her baby bump like she’s posing for a magazine cover.
“Hey,” she says, smiling. “You, okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Totally fine. Just… you know. Men. Feelings. Regrettable life choices.”
“Ah,” Olivia says knowingly. “So, all of the above.”
Ivy loops her arm through mine and starts guiding me through the market before I can escape. “Come on. We’re looking for teacher gifts for Penny and something shiny enough to distract the gremlins.”
“The gremlins,” otherwise known as her triplets, are already arguing over who gets to hold Pickle’s leash. Penny rolls her eyes, the picture of tween resignation.
We weave through the stalls: candles, wreaths, local honey, and handmade ornaments. The world hums with chatter and laughter, and finally, my shoulders start to relax.
“You’ve got that look again,” Ivy says, holding up a crocheted snowman.
“What look?”
“The one where you’re overthinking. It’s scary. Stop it.”
I take a sip of cider. “If you had Creed Hunter breathing down your neck every day, you’d be thinking too.”
Olivia snorts. “Oh, so it’s Creed now. Not Roman or Ezra?”
I glare at her. “Don’t you start.”
“Sweetheart,” Ivy says, her grin wicked. “You’re walking around like someone who’s been emotionally mugged by a drummer.”
“That’s… specific.”
“And accurate.”
“Nothing’s happening,” I insist.
“Sure,” Ivy says. “And I don’t have four kids, a dog, and a caffeine addiction.”
I roll my eyes, pretending to examine a display of handmade soaps to avoid their smug faces. “I’m just here for Christmas gifts, that’s all.”
We’re halfway down the main row when Ivy suddenly waves like she’s spotting old friends at a high school reunion.
“Oh, there’s the Claymores. Come on, you have to meet them.”
“Do I?” I mumble, but she’s already dragging me toward a stall bursting with poinsettias, holly, and mistletoe. It looks like Christmas threw up on it. Tastefully, but still.
An older woman in a green cardigan beams at us as we approach. “Ivy Fletcher! And Olivia Quinn! My goodness, look at you, dear.” She pats Olivia’s arm fondly, eyes twinkling as they drop to her belly. “You’re absolutely glowing.”
Olivia smiles politely, used to this by now. “Thank you, Joanne.”
“And this must be…?” Joanne’s gaze lands on me.
“Sloane,” Ivy says, before I can decide if I want to give my name. “She’s been staying up at the retreat. Helping out with the band.”
“Oh!” Joanne’s smile widens. “We’ve heard about that lot. Loud boys with heartbreak in their eyes.”
I blink. “That’s… not inaccurate.”
Her husband glances up from trimming stems, muttering, “Used to play guitar myself. Could’ve gone pro, if I hadn’t had the farm.”
Joanne huffs. “You played one county fair and sprained your wrist, Terry.”
He doesn’t even look up. “Still counts.”
Ivy leans toward me, whispering, “They’ve been married fifty years and still argue about that.”
Behind them, a girl of about thirteen is stacking jars of dried flowers. Combat boots, a floral skirt, and a streak of pink in her hair. She glances up and grins.
“You’ve got weird energy,” she says to me.
I blink. “I’m sorry?”
“Not bad weird. Just… complicated.” She flips a tarot card off a tiny deck. “Queen of Cups. Emotional overload. You should probably nap.”
“Wow,” I say slowly. “Do you come with a refund policy?”
Joanne waves her off. “Ignore Maggie. She thinks she’s a psychic.”
“I am a psychic,” Maggie says.
Terry chuckles. “You said it was going to snow in July.”
“It could’ve,” she mutters.
Ivy’s already laughing, and even Olivia hides a smile behind her mitten.
We move on, but not before Joanne insists on giving me a free lavender bundle.
“For calming nerves,” she says kindly. “You look like you could use some.”
She’s not wrong.
A few stalls down, Ivy spots another familiar face and waves again. “Boone! Silas! Caleb! Hey!”
I glance at Olivia. “Do you know everyone in this town?”
She grins. “Pretty much.”
Three men stand near a table of leather goods, each in a different flavor of rugged.
The first one, tall with broad shoulders and a “don’t mess with me” expression, nods politely. The second one, leaner and smirking, tips an invisible hat like he’s in a cowboy movie. The third, younger, softer around the edges, is crouched down helping one of Ivy’s triplets tie a shoelace.
“Ivy Fletcher,” the smirking one drawls. “And company. You bringing city folk into our mess now?”
“This is Sloane,” Ivy says. “She’s new in town.”
He grins at me, blue eyes full of trouble. “Silas Grant. Professional charmer, occasional ranch hand, full-time disappointment.”
“Charming,” I say dryly.
“See? She gets it.”
The tall one beside him lets out a low sigh.
“Boone Taylor,” he says, offering a brief nod. “Don’t mind him. He’s been like this since birth.”
“Since conception,” Silas corrects.
Boone gives him a look that could level a building.
The third man straightens, dusting off his hands.
“Caleb Westbrook,” he says with a shy smile. “Silas’s stepbrother. Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” I say, and I mean it. There’s something quietly grounding about him, he’s the human version of a deep breath.
“You the chef staying up at the retreat?” Boone asks, not unkindly but definitely curious.
I nod. “Yeah. Temporarily.”
He studies me for a beat too long. “You must have the patience of a saint.”
“Hardly,” I say. “Mostly just noise-cancelling headphones and caffeine.”
Silas laughs. “I like her already.”
Boone mutters, “That’s your problem. You like everyone with a pulse.”
Olivia leans toward me.
“Boone owns a ranch outside town,” she whispers. “Single dad. Grumpy but solid.”
“Good to know,” I whisper back. “He’s got the brooding cowboy aesthetic down.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Silas says, clearly overhearing. “His ego can’t take it.”
Caleb chuckles softly. “He’ll deny it, but he secretly enjoys the attention.”
Boone groans. “Can we not do this right now?”
Silas smirks. “Sure thing, sunshine.”
Ivy’s triplets start tugging on her sleeve, and Penny is begging for fudge. Ivy gives me a helpless look, and before long, the havoc moves on again, kids, dog, and all.
I linger behind for a moment, pretending to admire a display of hand-knit scarves while I fish my phone out of my pocket. It’s buzzing with notifications, which is strange, because I’ve barely used it since moving to Coyote Glen.
A headline flashes across the screen:
“Wild Reverie on the Rocks: Inside the Implosion of Rock’s Favorite Fallen Angels.”
My stomach drops.
I tap the article, already bracing myself.
Photos of Roman, Creed, and Ezra at the retreat. Blurry, obviously taken from a distance, are splashed across the page. One shows Roman mid-argument with someone who’s been cropped out. Another shows Creed storming away.
The caption reads, “Creative tensions boil over as the band’s future remains uncertain.”
The writer doesn’t even try to hide their bias. It’s all a melodramatic spin: “sources close to the group,” “insiders suggest,” “creative burnout.” It’s the kind of lazy, speculative journalism I used to despise… back when I still had the right to call myself a journalist.
They even mention the retreat. Call it a “last-ditch attempt to salvage relevance.”
My jaw tightens.
It’s not that I’m surprised people are talking; Wild Reverie disappearing off the map for years was bound to attract attention, but seeing it laid out in this way, in that smug, gossipy tone, hits somewhere deep in my chest.
Seeing it happen when I’m here makes it way worse.
Roman’s smirk in one of the older promo photos stares back at me, cocky and untouchable. But I know better now. I’ve seen the cracks under that confidence, the doubt, the guilt, the pressure.
And Ezra… he’ll read this and fold in on himself. He already doubts every word he writes. This will only make it worse.
Creed will be furious. Not just at the press, but at himself, at the world. That’s what he does, turns pain into anger and pushes everyone away before they can see he’s hurting.
A knot forms in my throat.
This doesn’t feel good at all.