Chapter 19
Kelly
I arrive at Jake’s workshop right on time, my heart already racing a little before I even step through the door. This is for work, I remind myself, squaring my shoulders.
The door swings open with a creak, and the smell of sawdust and metal machinery fills the air. Inside, the workshop hums with activity. I spot Jake immediately, bent over a piece of plywood, focused and completely in his element.
The sight of him—shirt rolled up, dark hair falling into his eyes as he works—sends an unexpected wave of nostalgia washing over me. I remember this version of him so well, the man whose skilled hands could make anything.
“Hey.” My voice is steadier than I feel as I approach.
“Right on time.” He glances up, wiping his hands on a nearby rag before a faint smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Of course you are. Always the punctual one.”
“Someone has to keep things on schedule. Are you ready to show me what you’ve got so far?”
Jake straightens up, rolling up his sleeves in that maddeningly deliberate way of his, the corded muscles in his forearms flexing. His lips quirk into a slow, knowing smile. “I’ll show you anything you want, Kelly. You only have to ask.”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I curse my body’s reaction to him—my stomach fluttering and my pulse skipping like I’m still that teenager sneaking kisses with him behind the lighthouse. I can’t wipe the smile off my face. “We said professional, remember?”
“Of course.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh. “How could I forget? Kelly all-work-and-no-play Charleston.”
I give him a playful nudge and roll my eyes. “Some of us have grown up. You might want to try it sometime. We can’t all run around like teenagers flirting and carrying on.”
He leans back against the workbench, gaze searing. “Oh, I’m grown up, believe me. But it’s hard to take you seriously when you’re rolling your eyes like a teenager. Trust me, I know the look—I’ve got one at home.”
The words hit like a bucket of ice water, snapping me back to reality. Right. Adele. His daughter. I clear my throat, slipping into serious mode. “You’re right. Let’s get on with it. I’m sure we’ve both got other things to do today.”
Something shifts in his expression—his smile falters, just for a second, like my words hit harder than I intended. And for some absurd reason, guilt flickers through me. How is it that I’m the one feeling bad here? He’s the one who left me all those years ago.
The words are out before I can stop them, along with an insane desire to see that smile back on his soft mouth. “I’ll save the eye rolls for personal time.”
His face lights up, a flash of that boyish charm that used to make my heart race. “Good to know you’re not completely immune to me.”
We share a brief smile and then he shifts gears seamlessly. “Alright, let me show you what I’ve got so far.” He gestures toward a series of installations scattered around the workshop. “Everything’s coming along. Still some small details to finish, but we’re 99% there with the initial work. We just need your stamp of approval before we shift construction to site.”
We continue through the workshop as Jake leads me from one installation to the next. “This is one of the centerpiece structures,” he says, gesturing toward a beautifully crafted wooden archway. “It’ll go at the entrance of the festival, near the lighthouse.”
I run my fingers along the smooth surface. “It’s gorgeous. The detail work is incredible.” I don’t want to be so impressed, but I can’t help it. The craftsmanship is far beyond what I expected.
Jake flashes me a crooked smile. “Yeah, well, the team’s been putting in extra hours to make sure we’re ahead of schedule. I know how important it is to you to not fall behind.”
He turns to introduce me to a couple of his guys, who give me nods of acknowledgment before diving back into their work. Jake waves his hand at the pieces they’re working on. “These are the structural elements for the eco-friendly art displays you wanted.”
I take in the towering wooden framework they’ve been piecing together from upcycled wood. The beams are sturdy yet elegant. “It’s perfect,” I say. “I wasn’t sure if the vision I pitched would translate, but you’ve nailed it.”
Jake shrugs modestly, leading me to another installation in several large pieces—a circular pavilion with open sides, designed for the local handicraft gallery. The roof has slats that are adjustable to let sunlight filter through, or they can be closed if there’s snow or rain. “This one’s modular,” he says. “We can move the panels around to create different spaces inside, depending on how you want to lay out the exhibits. And everything can be stored and reused for next year’s festival, of course.”
I study it, imagining how it’ll look with crafts made by local artisans inside. “It’s even better than I imagined. You and your team have done an amazing job.” I glance at Jake. His hands are shoved into his pockets, that familiar look of quiet pride on his face.
“We’ve been trying to keep everything as sustainable as possible, like you wanted.” He indicates to a large pile of reclaimed wood stacked neatly in the corner. “Even the benches we’re building are made from recycled materials. And some of these benches will become permanent fixtures at the site so it can be used year round for community events, as we discussed.”
A mix of gratitude, of feeling understood and supported, washes through me. “You really listened,” I say. “Thank you.” The moment stretches just a bit too long before I quickly look away, focusing on the largest piece they’re working on, a stage that’ll host the festival’s performances.
Before Jake can say anything else, a loud clanking noise makes me jump, and I turn just in time to see one end of a heavy piece of metal slip from one of the machines, landing with a violent clang. There’s a groaning, grinding sound, and sparks fly as the machine begins to seize, gears screeching as they try to turn. Instinctively, I step back, my heart pounding, but Jake doesn’t hesitate.
“Everyone, back up!” Jake says, moving forward. He reaches for the machine’s emergency switch, yanking it off. The grinding noise halts abruptly, but the air is thick with tension, the metallic tang of burnt oil lingering.
“What happened?” someone asks, eyes wide, and worry flashes through the small group gathered around.
Jake’s expression is focused, unruffled. “Just give me a minute.” Without missing a beat, he crouches beside the machine, reaching carefully into the small space. His fingers work quickly, examining the parts, brow furrowed with concentration. He mutters under his breath, adjusting the bolts, his hand steady as he loosens a gear to ease the part back in place.
“Careful,” I whisper, pinching the back of my hand twice, then twice more, worry creeping in as I watch him work inches away from the machine’s sharp gears.
He glances up at me, offering a reassuring look. “It’s fine. Just a loose bracket—common enough with these older machines.” He turns back, twisting a bolt into place before tightening it with a quick snap of his wrist. He pulls back, testing the part with his hand, making sure it’s secure before giving the machine a firm pat.
“All right, let’s see if that did it,” he says, standing and wiping his hands on his jeans. Everyone around seems to hold their breath as he switches the machine back on. For a few seconds, nothing happens. Then, with a soft whir, it kicks to life, purring smoothly as though it never missed a beat.
“Good as new.” He glances around at the group. “But keep an eye on it, yeah?”
He looks at me across the workshop, and for just a second, our eyes lock. Heat expands between us. It’s impossible to ignore it. There’s something about the way Jake handles things under pressure, how nothing seems to faze him, that hits me deep inside.
He comes back to my side, and we finish inspecting the other pieces together. They’re all amazing—both beautiful and functional. Once I’ve signed off on all the installations, we walk back toward the workshop’s entrance side by side.
“How’s everything going on your end?” he asks, his tone shifting, more concerned than I expect. “You seem so busy. Handling all the pressure from the mayor, okay?”
“I’m fine. It’s a lot, but nothing I can’t handle.”
“You’re handling it all really well,” he says, his voice laced with a warmth that catches me off guard. “You’re pushing yourself to make this festival unforgettable, but just... don’t forget to take care of yourself too, alright?” He reaches out, briefly touching my arm, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.
My tongue darts out, wetting the plump of my lower lip, my mouth dry. “Of course.”
Jake looks at me for a moment, his expression so damn soft. “She wants it to be the biggest and the best, but the festival’s going to be great, even if it’s not perfectly brilliant and the best festival to ever grace the face of the planet.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “But I want it to be. For my own reasons.”
I can tell he’s not convinced. “Just don’t burn yourself out, okay?”
We stand there for a beat longer than necessary, the silence between us comfortable in a way that surprises me. We’re slipping back into something familiar, something good.
“Thanks,” I say, and I mean it. “It’s nice to know you’ve got my back.”
He pauses, his dark eyes drinking me in. “I’ve always got your back.” He catches my gaze, holds it, his expression open and unguarded. “And I’m not just talking about the festival. I’m here, for whatever you need. Anytime.”
I glance at the clock on the wall and clear my throat, fighting the urge to dig my fingers into the broad of his shoulders, to pull him into a kiss in front of everyone. “Look, I should get going.”
Jake is still smiling. “See you soon.”
“Yeah,” I say, grabbing my bag and heading for the door. “See you soon.”
As I step outside, the cool air blasts me, but it does nothing to stop the fire burning inside.
I head to my car, driving to Town Hall with a smile on my face, before throwing myself into work, focusing on spreadsheets and layouts. My brain buzzes, running on autopilot, but my thoughts keep returning to him.
How is it possible that the man who broke my heart so completely could be this focused, thoughtful man? This good person.
I take a short break, eating a salad I packed earlier. It’s simple—lettuce, cucumber, cherry tomatoes and ⒈／⒋ of an avocado, no dressing, and I eat it quickly, telling myself I’ll grab something more substantial later, before getting back to work. But the hours pass, the afternoon turns to evening, and suddenly I’m shutting down my computer, realizing later never came.
The bike ride past my old family home is colder than usual. When I pull up to the house, I lean my bike against the fence and stand there, staring at the darkened windows. It’s quiet, the kind of quiet that makes it seem as though you’re the only one in the world.
It’s been strangely comforting coming back here, to the old house, talking to her. Believing the answers I need might be hidden in the wind or in the shadows of the house.
After filling her in on the progress of the festival planning, I switch to what’s been on my mind all week. “Being around him again is surreal. I thought we’d just keep everything businesslike. But—” I shake my head. “He’s not the same. I actually like him. And there’s still this thing between us. I can’t explain it.”
“I want him.” I swallow hard. “And it’s messing with my head. I’m supposed to be focused on the festival, on doing this right, on making you proud. But he’s everywhere, and it’s good to be around him again. I don’t want to admit it, but it does.”
The wind shifts, carrying with it the sound of footsteps, and I snap my head up. An older woman who looks familiar stands a few feet away, watching me with a kind, knowing expression. My heart jolts, and I stumble back a step, completely caught off guard. How long has she been standing there?
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” she says. “I overheard you talking.”
I swallow hard, mortified, heat rising to my cheeks. I was talking to my dead mother, for God’s sake. I probably sound like a lunatic. “Oh, um it’s okay—”
“Kelly Charleston, right? I used to know your family,” she says, cutting me off. “Mrs. Fraser. Lived down the road for years. I saw you grow up in this house. It’s nice to see you back in town. I was sorry to hear about your mother.”
Now she’s said her name, I remember her. She and Mom used to chat about gardening sometimes on the weekend. She’s grayer than before, her face more lined. I force a smile, but it’s stiff and unnatural. “Thanks.”
She tilts her head, studying me for a moment, as if she can sense my discomfort. “Your mother was a lovely woman.”
My throat is so dry. The words are meant to be comforting, but they just remind me of everything I’ve lost.
Mrs. Fraser looks at me, but I can’t stand the weight of her gaze any longer. “I should get going,” I say quickly, glancing at my bike. “It was nice to see you again.”
She nods understandingly. “Take care, dear.”
I grab my bike, climb on, and push off down the road. My cheeks burn, and I pedal faster.