Chapter Six
Wade
The familiar smell of sawdust and machine oil greeted me as I entered the high school woodshop early Wednesday morning.
Summer vacation might be in full swing, but I still had work to do before the new school year began in September.
Principal Garrison had finally approved my budget request for new safety equipment in the wood shop, and I needed to inventory what we had and what we needed to order.
I ran my fingers along the surface of the demonstration workbench, feeling the smooth finish and familiar nicks and gouges from years of student projects.
This space had always been my sanctuary—a place where problems had solutions, where broken things could be fixed with enough patience and the right tools.
Unlike relationships, wood was predictable; it responded to care and attention in consistent ways.
After leaving Lark's last night, sleep had been impossible.
I'd replayed that kiss over and over in my mind—the softness of her lips, the way she'd leaned into me before suddenly pulling away.
The confusion and vulnerability in her eyes had been unmistakable.
She was fighting the same attraction I was, trying to maintain the boundaries we'd set for our arrangement.
But pretending had become harder with each passing hour. Our fake relationship was developing real roots, whether either of us wanted to admit it or not.
I busied myself with the inventory, clipboard in hand, checking off items we already had: chisels, hand planes, calipers, safety goggles.
The methodical work usually calmed my mind, but today my thoughts kept circling back to Lark.
To the way she'd tilted her head when considering my pasta recipe, to how she'd run her fingers reverently over the dining table I'd crafted, to her slight intake of breath when our hands accidentally touched.
"Hello Wade. I thought that was your truck outside."
The voice—painfully familiar despite eighteen months of silence—sent an uncomfortable jolt through me. I turned slowly, bracing myself.
Vanessa Mitchell stood in the doorway, looking exactly as I remembered yet somehow different.
Her dark hair fell in the same perfect silky curtain down her back, but was several inches longer than when I’d seen her last. Her lips were fuller than I remembered—clearly enhanced—and her eyelashes impossibly long.
Her skin had the flawless bronze sheen that came from expensive salon treatments rather than honest time in the sun.
She wore tight skinny jeans that probably cost more than my monthly truck payment and a silk blouse that seemed ridiculously impractical for Wintervale's casual lifestyle.
"Vanessa," I managed, keeping my tone neutral. "Didn't know you were back in town."
She stepped into the workshop, her designer heels clicking against the concrete floor. "Just got in last week. Needed some time to... regroup."
I returned to my inventory, determined not to show how her sudden appearance affected me. "Regroup from what?"
"Bradley and I are over," she said, her voice taking on that soft lilt I'd once found impossible to resist. "The divorce was finalized last month."
I looked up, meeting her eyes directly. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Are you?" She tilted her head, studying me. "I figured you'd be pleased, considering how things ended between us."
"I don't take pleasure in anyone's pain, Vanessa. Not even yours." I moved to the supply cabinet, counting safety glasses and making a note of how many we needed to replace. "So what brings you back to Wintervale? I thought you found it too provincial for your tastes."
She sighed dramatically, perching herself on the edge of a workbench.
"Bradley wasn't who I thought he was. All that talk about developing luxury properties across the Midwest, and it turns out he was leveraged to the hilt.
When the market shifted, everything fell apart.
" She glanced around the workshop. "Wintervale may be small, but it's home.
Sometimes you don't appreciate what you have until it's gone. "
The irony of her statement wasn't lost on me. When she'd left, her goodbye note had been brutally clear: I need more than small-town Montana can offer. More than you can offer. I’m sorry.
"Seems like you're doing fine," I said, nodding toward her designer outfit and the diamond studs still sparkling in her ears—remnants of her life with Bradley, no doubt.
"I'm managing." She smoothed her hair with a manicured hand. "Still doing my digital marketing work remotely. But enough about me." Her smile turned coy. "I've been seeing your name all over Wintervale Whispers. You're becoming quite the celebrity."
I groaned inwardly. Of course she'd seen Zoe's blog. "Don't believe everything you read."
"So you're not dating the beautiful Chicago lawyer?" She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "The photos look pretty convincing."
"It's... complicated." I wasn't about to explain our arrangement to Vanessa of all people.
"She's gorgeous," Vanessa admitted, though her tone suggested she was evaluating a competitor. "Very polished. Not the type I pictured for you."
"And what type is that exactly?" I asked, unable to keep the edge from my voice.
"Oh, you know. Outdoorsy. Down-to-earth." She waved a hand dismissively. "Someone who appreciates the simple life you enjoy so much."
The way she said "simple" made it sound like a limitation rather than a choice. It was the same subtle condescension that had gradually revealed itself during our relationship—her growing disdain for what I valued most.
"Lark appreciates plenty of things about Wintervale," I found myself saying, surprising myself with the immediate defensiveness I felt. "She's just getting to know the place."
Vanessa's eyes widened slightly at my tone. "Seems like you're quite taken with her."
I turned away, returning to my inventory. "We're enjoying each other's company."
"Be careful, Wade." Her voice softened with false concern. "She's just using you, you know. Probably using the good publicity to snag more legal clients and rake in the money. That's what lawyers do—they're hungry for blood, always looking for the next big payday."
Anger flared hot and unexpected. "You don't know her at all," I said, my voice low but firm. "She's not like that."
"Really?" Vanessa looked genuinely surprised by my vehemence.
"You're defending her like she's more than just a summer fling.
What happens when she goes back to Chicago?
It's not like someone like her would ever stay in this boring town.
" She gestured around us. "I only came back to regroup until I figure out my next move. "
Her words hit uncomfortably close to my own fears, but hearing them from her mouth made me want to dispute them. "Maybe you're projecting, Vanessa. Not everyone measures success by how quickly they can leave Wintervale behind."
She slid off the workbench, moving closer to me.
"I'm just looking out for you. We have history, Wade.
I know how deeply you feel things, how much you invest in relationships.
" Her hand came to rest on my forearm, perfectly manicured nails gleaming against my skin.
"When this lawyer leaves—and she will leave—I'll still be here. For a while, anyway."
I stepped back, breaking the contact. "I appreciate your concern, but it's misplaced. I'm doing just fine."
Hurt flashed across her face, quickly masked by a tight smile. "Clearly. Well, I should get going. I have a virtual meeting in an hour." She headed for the door, then paused, looking back over her shoulder. "For what it's worth, I did miss you, Wade. More than I expected to."
After she left, I stood motionless in the center of the workshop, her expensive perfume lingering in the air. Eighteen months ago, I would have given almost anything to hear those words from her. Now they felt hollow, manipulative even.
What unsettled me most wasn't Vanessa's unexpected return—it was how quickly and instinctively I'd defended Lark. In that moment, it hadn't felt like part of our charade. It had felt real, vital, necessary.
I checked my watch. The Artisan Market would be opening soon, and I'd promised to meet Lark there at eleven. Our first public appearance since the kiss that had complicated everything.
As I locked up the workshop and headed to my truck, I couldn't shake the realization that somewhere along the way, my feelings for Lark had crossed the line from pretend to genuine. The question now was whether I had the courage to admit it to her—and whether she'd run even faster once I did.
***
The Artisan Market transformed Wintervale's town square into a vibrant showcase of local creativity.
White canvas tents lined the perimeter, each displaying handmade treasures from artisans across Montana: hand-carved wooden bowls with grain patterns that told stories of the ancient trees they came from, blown glass ornaments catching the sunlight in prisms of blue and green, quilts stitched with patterns passed down through generations, jewelry fashioned from local stones, artisanal soaps scented with wild Montana sage, and much more.
The scent of freshly baked bread and pastries from Greta Hoffman's bakery tent mingled with the earthy aroma of pottery from Clay Creations.
I spotted Lark immediately. She stood near the central fountain, wearing a sundress the color of ripe peaches, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders. Even from a distance, I could see the tension in her posture as she checked her phone, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
Last night's kiss hung between us like an unspoken question as I approached. Her eyes met mine, and for a moment neither of us spoke.
"Hi," she finally said, tucking her phone into her small purse.
"Hi yourself," I replied, shoving my hands into my pockets to keep from reaching for her. "You look nice."