Chapter 22
ALLY
The last jar of lavender honey slipped from Ally’s fingers.
She caught it an inch above the display table, but barely—her hands had gone numb at the sight of him in the inn’s doorway, afternoon light framing his shoulders.
Colton.
He looked different. Not thinner exactly, but worn in a way she’d never seen, as if the city had sanded down some essential part of him.
His dark hair was longer than she remembered, curling at his collar, and there was a hesitance in the way he scanned the crowded room that she’d never witnessed in all their time together.
A commotion at the door behind him—nails scrabbling on hardwood, a familiar bark.
Daisy came barreling through the entrance with Angus right behind her, both dogs having apparently spotted him from outside.
The retriever’s tail went wild, her whole body wiggling, a soft whine building in her throat as she launched herself at Colton.
He dropped to his knees right there in the doorway, catching her, burying his face in her fur.
“Hey, girl. Hey. I missed you too.” His voice cracked on the words, muffled against her coat.
Daisy’s tongue found his face, his ears, anywhere she could reach, her tail thumping so hard her whole body shook with it.
Ally watched from across the room, her throat tight. She’d taken care of Daisy ever since he’d left—fed her, walked her, let her sleep at the foot of her bed on the nights the dog seemed particularly lost. But this was where Daisy belonged. With him.
Colton finally looked up, one hand still buried in Daisy’s fur, and found Ally across the room. His blue eyes were red-rimmed, his face open in a way she’d never seen in all their time together.
“Thank you,” he said. “For taking care of her.”
Ally couldn’t find words. She nodded instead.
He rose slowly, Daisy pressed against his legs like she’d never let him out of her sight again, and crossed the room toward her. Angus trotted along behind them, tail wagging, apparently delighted to have his friend back.
“She looks good,” he said when he reached her, his voice still rough. “Healthy, happy.” He swallowed. “Will told me you’ve been out to the house every week checking on it when you took care of the horses.”
“Someone had to.” She kept her voice even, busying herself with straightening jars that didn’t need straightening. “Thunder gets anxious when his routine changes.”
“He’s always been that way.” Colton’s hand found Daisy’s head, scratching behind her ears. This close, Ally caught cedar and coffee beneath the staleness of airplane air not quite washed away. “You didn’t have to do any of it. The horses, Daisy—”
“She’s a good dog. She didn’t deserve to be abandoned just because her owner was having an identity crisis in Manhattan.” The words came out sharper than she’d intended. Colton flinched, but he didn’t argue.
“You’re right.” He met her eyes. “I missed everything, Ally. The mountains. The way the air smells in the mornings.” His jaw tightened. “You. I missed you so much I couldn’t think straight sometimes.”
Around them, the inn’s opening continued—guests admiring Sam’s artwork on the walls, her mother at the cider station, the low murmur of conversation. But Ally’s pulse was too loud in her ears to catch any of it.
She stepped back from the table, needing space between them. “You made that choice. The cameras and contracts—”
“I know.”
She caught him dragging the back of his hand across his eyes before shoving it in his pocket. “I know I did. And after a few weeks, I realized I’d made the worst decision of my life.”
Daisy pressed warm against his legs, refusing to leave his side. Through the window, the mountains rose green against the September sky, with just the faintest hints of gold and red starting to appear at the highest elevations.
“What changed?” She crossed her arms. “Did the modeling contracts dry up? Did Frank find someone younger?”
“I’m still under contract, signed three new deals.
” He said it flatly, without the old pride.
“Been doing the shoots, the endorsements. Keeping busy.” He shrugged, a tired gesture.
“But I can consolidate everything—fly in a few times a year, knock it all out at once. The rest of the time, I want to be here.”
“Doing what?”
“I don’t know yet. That’s the honest answer.” He met her eyes. “But I know this is where I want to figure it out.”
Ally remembered standing in that Manhattan hotel room, watching him waver. The memory still stung, a bruise that hadn’t faded. But the man in front of her carried something different in his face now—a quiet uncertainty where restlessness used to live.
“I’m not asking you to decide anything,” he said. “I’m not asking for anything you’re not ready to give. I’m just asking if you might give me a chance?”
Through the glass, Will and Ryan moved an old farm table near Patty’s Garden, where late-season roses bloomed beside the bronze plaque. Her mother was laughing at something James said. The scent of apple cider drifted from somewhere behind her, warm and spiced.
“The display’s running low.” Ally heard herself talking, gesturing at her table with its mix of honey jars, small bouquets of dried flowers, and baskets of late-season produce from her garden.
“I need to restock, but I’ve got orders to package for tomorrow’s market, and Mom wants help with dinner service—”
“Tell me what to do.”
She studied his face—the familiar jaw, the blue eyes that had kept her awake for months, the new lines around his mouth. He looked tired. He looked real.
“There are boxes in my trunk. More honey, plus the dahlia bundles and the last of the heirloom tomatoes. The blue folder has the price list—make sure the bouquets are displayed with stems in water or they’ll wilt before dinner.”
He was moving toward the door before she finished, Daisy trotting at his heels. “Stems in water. Got it. Anything else?”
“Don’t let anyone buy more than three honey jars at a time. Mrs. Patterson tried to take the entire lavender batch this morning.”
The corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile. “Her biscuit obsession.”
“She claims it’s the secret ingredient.”
“She’s not wrong.” He held her gaze, and something fragile stretched between them before he turned. “Be right back.”
She watched them cross to the parking area—Colton’s familiar stride, Daisy pressed against his leg like she was afraid he’d disappear again. Ally’s chest ached with things she wasn’t ready to name.
When he returned with two boxes balanced in his arms and Daisy supervising, she directed him to the display table, showing him where to arrange the dahlia bundles, adjusting his placement of the tomatoes, their shoulders bumping as they worked.
The old rhythms came back faster than she’d expected.
He anticipated her needs, she finished his sentences.
When Mrs. Patterson inevitably appeared with designs on the wildflower honey, they presented a united front that sent her away with three jars, a bouquet of dried lavender, and a promise of more next week.
“She’s persistent,” Colton said as Mrs. Patterson retreated.
“She’s not the only one.”
He looked at her then, and she felt the weight of everything unsaid. The hurt. The hope. The terrifying possibility that he meant what he was saying.
“Ally.” His voice dropped low enough that only she could hear.
“I know I have to earn this. Earn you.” He swallowed.
“I don’t want to be Colton Matthews, celebrity.
I want to be Colton Matthews, Ally’s boyfriend—if you’ll ever let me be that again.
New York was empty without you. The apartment, the parties, all of it.
None of it meant anything because you weren’t there. ”
Before she could answer, her mother appeared, eyes bright with successful-opening chaos.
“Honey, the cider’s running low, and I can’t find where Will stored the backup jugs.” Tara glanced between them, clearly registering Colton’s presence. “Oh! I didn’t know you were coming. Welcome back.”
“Thank you, Tara.” He caught himself on her name. “The inn looks incredible.”
“We’re getting there.” Tara was already steering Ally toward the kitchen. “Come find me later—I want to hear everything.”
Ally looked back over her shoulder. Colton stood by the display with Daisy pressed against his leg, watching her go.
She didn’t know what came next. She wasn’t ready to trust it yet. But when she emerged twenty minutes later with fresh cider jugs, she found him talking to Ryan about some video game while Daisy and Angus sprawled together under the display table, tails occasionally thumping against the floor.
He caught her eye and smiled—not the practiced camera smile or the charm he’d deployed at Manhattan parties, but something smaller. Uncertain. Real.
She had products to sell and a mother to help and a hundred reasons to keep her guard up. But she crossed the room anyway, taking her place behind the display, close enough that their elbows touched when she reached for jars.
“So, what’s the plan?” She kept her voice carefully even, rearranging a basket of cherry tomatoes. “Long-term, I mean. You can’t just hide out at your lake house forever.”
“Why not?” He handed a customer their change, his movements easy. “I’ve got the horses. Got the house. Maybe I’ll finally finish that dock I started building last spring.”
“You’d go crazy inside a month.”
“Probably.” He was quiet for a moment, watching the crowd. “I keep thinking about the kids at the community center. The ones who want to play ball but can’t afford equipment, can’t get to practices. There might be something I could do there. Coaching, maybe. Or just showing up.”
It was the first thing he’d said that sounded like the Colton she remembered—the one who’d spent hours teaching Will’s nephew how to throw a curveball, who’d donated anonymously to the little league fund last Christmas.
“That sounds like something worth doing.”
“Yeah.” He turned to look at her, and something in his expression made her breath catch. “I’m trying to figure out what’s worth doing. What actually matters.” His hand brushed hers as they both reached for the same jar. “Turns out, most of what I was chasing in New York wasn’t it.”
The afternoon light was shifting, slanting gold through the windows, catching the mountains in that particular September glow. Another hour and they’d need to start breaking down for dinner service.
“Hand me the wildflower.” She reached across him for a jar a guest was eyeing. “And help me pack up the tomatoes—we need to clear the table before Mom starts bringing out the appetizers.”
They worked in easy silence, boxing up unsold produce, consolidating honey jars, Daisy and Angus weaving between their legs. When their hands touched over a bundle of dried lavender, neither of them pulled away.
It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t a promise. But it was something—a door cracked open instead of slammed shut.
For now, that was enough.