Chapter 8
Eight
The mist rose off Maple Lake in slow curls, catching the early light and turning everything soft at the edges.
Livvie dipped her paddle into the water, matching her aunt’s rhythm, and watched the shoreline slide past—gold and bronze and deep rust red accents among green, the trees beginning to put on their autumn show.
“So let me get this straight,” Aunt Lila said from the bow of the canoe, her voice carrying easily across the still water. “You showed up at his door with stolen soup.”
“Liberated soup. There’s a difference.”
“And he let you in?”
“Eventually.”
“Livvie Fox, you’re a menace.” Lila’s paddle cut through the water. “I’m so proud.”
The morning bordered on painfully beautiful—the kind of September morning that made you understand why people wrote poems about New England, even though this sat squarely in Minnesota.
They had the water almost to themselves, just them and the mist and the slow drift of leaves falling from the maples along the shore.
“So what’s your plan for today?” Aunt Lila asked. “More soup theft?”
“I’m thinking bribery.” Livvie steered them around a fallen log, half submerged in the shallows. “Edie’s cinnamon rolls. I’m going to stop by Maple Sweets this morning.”
“Smart. Edie’s cinnamon rolls could convince a monk to break his vows.”
“That’s what I’m counting on.” She adjusted her grip on the paddle. “Also, I’m going to clean his kitchen. You should see it, Aunt Lila. A complete disaster. Dishes everywhere, take-out containers—”
“Some people create better in chaos.”
“Not this one. This one needs an intervention.”
She glanced toward the shore—toward the green Craftsman house visible through the trees—and stopped paddling.
A figure emerged from the dock at the Rivers property. He carried a kayak, bringing it to the water.
Nate.
Even from this distance, she could see the breadth of his shoulders, the way his arms moved beneath his shirt.
The morning light caught his profile as he turned, and something fluttered low in her stomach.
He looked different out here. Less haunted.
More alive. Like the lake offered the one place he could still breathe.
“He kayaks every morning,” Lila said. “Only time he leaves the house voluntarily.”
“I remember.” The words came out before she could stop them.
Lila’s paddle stilled. “Do you now?”
“I mean—well, from that summer. He always went out on the water at dawn.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“It’s not—I don’t—”
“You’re staring, dear.”
Across the lake, Nate had slid into his kayak and paddled out onto the water with the sleek movements of a man who knew how to handle himself.
“He does have magnificent shoulders,” Aunt Lila said quietly.
Livvie glanced back at Aunt Lila. And then laughed. “I see what’s going on here.”
“What? I canoe every morning. The scenery is breathtaking.” Her aunt winked.
Nate’s kayak disappeared around the point, swallowed by the mist. Livvie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Yes, it is.”
By the time they returned and Livvie had changed clothes, grabbed her supplies, and made the short walk to the Rivers’ house, the morning had warmed enough to burn off the mist. The lake glittered through the trees, and the white bakery bag from Maple Sweets swung from her hand as she climbed the porch steps.
She tried the door. Open, and Huck and Finn materialized instantly, tails wagging, noses bumping against her hands. She crouched to greet them, arms wide, and they nearly knocked her over with their welcome.
“Hey, guys. Miss me? It’s been twelve whole hours. I know, I know, basically an eternity—”
“You’re talking to my dogs.”
She looked up.
Nate stood in the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in hand, one eyebrow raised. Jeans worn soft at the knees. A flannel shirt over a gray T-shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair still hung damp from the lake, curling slightly at his temples.
Her mouth went dry.
Stop.
“I’m building rapport,” she said, straightening. “Dogs are excellent judges of character. If they like me, you should trust their instincts.”
“They like everyone. They liked the UPS guy so much he had to file a complaint.”
“Details.” She held up the bakery bag. “I brought reinforcements. Edie’s cinnamon rolls. But—” She pulled the bag back as he reached for it. “There’s a condition.”
“Of course there is.”
“You go to your office. You write something. Words on a page, that’s all I ask. And when you emerge with proof of productivity, you get pastry.”
He stared at her. “You’re bribing me with baked goods.”
“I’m incentivizing you with baked goods. There’s a difference.”
“There really isn’t.”
“Is it working?”
A pause. His jaw worked like he fought something—annoyance, maybe, or the ghost of amusement trying to surface through three years of grief.
“Fine,” he said finally. “But if I write something and it’s terrible, you don’t get to complain.”
“I would never.”
“You would absolutely.”
“I would do it very supportively.” She opened the bag. “You get one for the road.”
“Your kindness is overwhelming.”
But there it was, that ghost of a smile.
He reached into the bag and pulled out a gooey cinnamon roll. “I might have to take a nap on the sofa after this.”
“You do that at your own peril.” She closed the bag. “Now go. Create. I’ll be here when you’re done.”
He disappeared down the hall. A door closed.
Livvie stood in the entryway, heart doing something inconvenient in her chest.
Although she’d cleaned up some last night, the evidence of three years of barely functional living remained in the grime that covered the cupboards.
Time for a deep clean.
She rolled up her sleeves and got to work.
This lived in her comfort zone—making herself indispensable, fixing problems, being the person who showed up and made things better. Even if those things amounted to dirty dishes and cluttered counters.
Huck and Finn watched from the doorway, tails wagging hopefully. She found a bag of treats in the pantry and gave them each one.
“Don’t tell your dad,” she whispered. “This stays between us.”
By the time the kitchen gleamed, an hour had passed. She could hear the faint sound of typing from down the hall—erratic, but there. Bursts of keys, then silence, then more bursts. The rhythm of someone fighting their way through something difficult.
Good. The cinnamon roll had worked.
She made a fresh pot of coffee, poured two mugs, and carried them toward the office. On her way through the living room, a photograph on the mantel caught her eye, and she stopped.
She’d noticed it yesterday, but she hadn’t let herself really look. Now she did.
Three people on a dock, squinting into the summer sun.
Emma in the middle, arms thrown around both of them, that wild grin she always wore.
Livvie on the left, younger, softer, her hair longer than she wore it now.
And Nate on the right, looking at Emma with an expression that made Livvie’s chest ache.
The summer she’d lost her heart. Gotten it back broken into so many pieces.
She made herself look away. Made herself keep walking.
The office door stayed closed. The typing had stopped.
She knocked. “Nate? I made coffee.”
Nothing.
“I’m coming in. I have caffeine and good intentions.”
She pushed open the door—and stopped.
Following him into this office yesterday, she’d been just as awestruck, but she hadn’t paused to take it all in.
Now she allowed herself a moment to really look.
Maps covered every wall—hand drawn, intricate and dense, labeled in an ancient-looking script.
Bookshelves overflowed with notebooks, folders, loose papers covered in cramped handwriting.
A corkboard bristled with index cards connected by colored string, an elaborate conspiracy-theory-style outline that would take hours to decode.
This didn’t belong to someone who couldn’t create. This showed obsession. This showed love. This showed years of world-building, layer upon painstaking layer.
And there, on the leather sofa beneath the window, lay Nate Rivers. Staring at the ceiling. The cinnamon roll sat on his desk, half eaten. His flannel shirt hung unbuttoned now, the gray T-shirt rumpled.
“What are you doing?”
“Thinking.”
“We talked about this.”
“I’m not napping. This is part of the process.”
She crossed to his desk and set down the coffee. The laptop screen glowed—a document open, a few sentences visible, then nothing. The cursor blinked at the end of deleted text, patient but accusing.
“I heard you typing earlier. What happened?”
“It came out wrong.”
“So you deleted it?”
“It came out wrong.” He said it like she’d suggested he leave a typo in a final draft.
She took a breath. Counted to three. Reminded herself that strangling the author would not help her career.
“Okay.” She grabbed the desk chair and rolled it over to the sofa. Sat down. “Not a problem. I came prepared.”
He turned his head slightly. “Prepared.”
“I may have done some research. At two in the morning. While questioning all my life choices.” She pulled out her phone, opened her notes. “I have seventeen techniques for breaking through creative blocks and a dangerously optimistic attitude.”
“Fantastic.”
“Your enthusiasm overwhelms me.” She scrolled through her list. “First, tell me about”—she gestured at the walls—“all of this. The maps, the notes, the—” She squinted at a sheet of paper covered in symbols. “Is that the Valdorian alphabet on the wall?”
“You can’t have a believable culture without a language system.” He said it like this should be obvious. “And I kept mixing up some of the symbols. If it’s on the wall, I can’t lose it.”
She got up, drawn toward the maps despite herself. The closest one showed a sprawling continent—mountain ranges in careful detail, rivers snaking through forests, cities marked with tiny symbols.
“This is incredible.”
“It’s Emma’s world.”
“No.” She turned to look at him. “This level of detail? This isn’t just story crafting. This is architecture. World-building. This belongs to you.”