A Fiery Fall Love (The Autumn Ridge #1)

Chapter 1

I should have called ahead.

The thought loops through my mind as I navigate another winding curve, my Honda Civic’s engine humming steadily against the mountain silence.

But every time I’d picked up my phone over the past three days of driving, I’d set it back down.

What would I even say? “Hi, Mom. Surprise! Your successful daughter just got spectacularly fired and dumped, so I’m coming home to lick my wounds. ”?

My chest tightens. No, that conversation is better had in person. If I have it at all.

The Vermont state line appeared an hour ago, and already everything feels different.

The air seems cleaner somehow. Crisper. It carries the scent of wood smoke and something else—something I’d forgotten existed after eight years in Los Angeles.

Autumn. Real autumn, with leaves that actually change colors instead of just growing dusty before falling onto concrete.

A sigh departs from my lips as I gaze at the scenery, my elbow resting against the windowsill. I knew something was wrong when Derek started sniping at me at work, criticizing everything I did, almost as if he were looking for a reason to…

I saw all the signs, the ones that pointed at something more terrible. I held on anyway, too stubborn to admit defeat, not wanting to see the truth. But how many times could I come home and wash the same lipstick stain off the collar of his shirt?

The road crests a hill, and suddenly, Autumn Ridge spreads below me like a painting.

My heart does something complicated in my chest—a mixture of relief and terror and something dangerously close to longing.

I left this place with a broken heart eight years ago, swearing I’d never come back.

And here I am, returning with my heart shattered all over again.

Some patterns are too stubborn to break.

The town sits nestled in its valley, surrounded by mountains that glow purple in the evening light.

It’s so small. After LA’s endless sprawl, Autumn Ridge looks like a toy village, complete with the white church steeple rising above the maple trees and the gazebo on the Town Green where they’ll hold the Harvest Festival in a few weeks.

I drive slowly down Main Street, taking in the familiar storefronts.

Henderson’s General Store still has that hand-painted sign.

Murphy’s Pharmacy still promises old-fashioned sodas and cookies for a reason I never truly understood.

There’s a new bakery where the hardware store used to be—light spills from its windows onto the sidewalk where someone has arranged pumpkins and corn stalks.

Everything is exactly the same and completely different. There are new buildings, some old ones freshly painted.

I turn onto Elm Street, my palms suddenly damp against the steering wheel. The tree-lined road stretches ahead, maple branches forming a cathedral arch overhead. Mrs. Patterson’s garden is as meticulously maintained as ever. The Donnelly house still has that ridiculous plastic flamingo.

And there, at the end of the street, sits home.

The two-story colonial looks exactly as I left it—white clapboard, dark green shutters, Mom’s herb garden in terracotta pots on the wraparound porch. Golden light streams from the windows, and I can see movement inside. Shadows crossing back and forth. The sound of laughter drifts across the yard.

They sound happy. Content.

I’ve spent my entire childhood here, never hesitated before crossing the threshold of this house before.

For the first time, I feel like a stranger here.

I left because I had to, because I knew if I stayed, the price would be too many hurting hearts.

So I chose to walk away. My parents didn’t understand why I distanced myself, why I was always too busy for a weekly call.

They didn’t understand why I walked away from the man who had claimed to love me.

But they didn’t push; they waited, they were patient.

And now I’m here.

I pull into the driveway but don’t cut the engine. What if this is a mistake? What if my arrival disrupts their perfect happy lives? What if—

The front door opens.

Dad steps onto the porch, garbage bag in hand, probably heading to the bins. He’s wearing that old red and black flannel shirt Mom’s always trying to throw away. His hair is grayer than I remember, more lines around his eyes, but his posture is still straight and strong.

He stops when he sees my car. Then his gaze finds me through the windshield.

We stare at each other for a heartbeat—father and daughter, separated by glass and too many missed phone calls. His face cycles through confusion, recognition, disbelief.

Then pure joy.

The garbage bag hits the porch as Dad breaks into a run. I fumble with the door handle, my hands shaking, and then I’m stumbling out of the car just as he reaches me.

His arms come around me like a fortress, crushing me against his chest. He smells like aftershave and coffee and home, and suddenly I’m eight years old again, running to him after skinning my knee.

“Hazel-nut.” His voice cracks on my name. “My little girl.”

The childhood nickname I haven’t heard in years pierces my heart. The tears I’ve been holding back for weeks finally break free, the knots tightening in my stomach finally relaxing at the sight and touch of my father. “Dad, I’m home.”

“You’re home,” he whispers against my hair, and I feel his own tears. “You’re home.”

The front door flies open again. Mom appears on the porch, dish towel in her hands, her face cycling through the same emotions Dad’s did. When she sees me in his arms, the towel drops.

“Hazel?”

The crack in her voice tells me I made the right decision and then she’s running too, her arms wrapping around both of us in a tangle of limbs and sobs and fierce love. She smells like vanilla and cinnamon, like every good memory I’ve been too busy to miss.

“I should have called,” I manage through my tears.

“This is your home,” Dad murmurs, pulling back just enough to cup my face in his calloused hands. His blue eyes shine with unshed tears. “You never have to call before coming. This will always be your home, Hazel.”

Mom’s hands smooth over my long brown hair, and I see her taking inventory—the shadows under my eyes, the weight I’ve lost, the exhaustion I can’t hide.

“Come inside,” she says softly. “Everything else can wait.”

As I gaze at them, for the first time in weeks, surrounded by their love and the scent of home, I feel like I can finally breathe again.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, I find myself at the familiar kitchen table, watching Mom move around with determined purpose.

Her eyes are still red-rimmed, and she keeps sniffling as she works, but her hands are steady as she heats milk on the stove.

The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg fills the air, mixing with something rich and earthy that makes my mouth water.

“Pumpkin spice hot chocolate,” she says without turning around, as if reading my mind. “With real pumpkin puree, not that artificial stuff.”

Dad settles into the chair beside me, his calloused hand briefly covering mine on the scarred wooden table. “So, sweetheart,” he says gently, “how have you been?”

The question hangs in the air like a loaded gun. I stare down at my hands, trying to find the words. How do I tell them that everything fell apart? That I lost my job, my relationship, my condo—basically my entire life in the span of two weeks? That I’m here because I have nowhere else to go?

We talk maybe three times a year—Christmas, their anniversary, my birthday if I remember.

It was easier that way, easier for me to hide my homesickness.

They know I was dating Derek. I told them two years ago.

But they don’t know about the late nights and the projects that consumed my life, about how I worked twenty-hour days, barely sleeping.

They think I’m successful, happy, living the dream.

“I’m...” The words stick in my throat. “I broke up with my boyfriend.” I take a shaky breath. “So I thought I’d take some vacation time. Come home for a visit.”

Mom turns from the stove, a mug of steaming hot chocolate in her hands. Whipped cream swirls on top, dusted with cinnamon, and I can see chunks of real pumpkin clinging to the sides of the mug. She sets it in front of me with gentle care, but I can see the questions forming in her eyes.

“What happened, honey?” she asks softly. “With Derek?”

I wrap my hands around the heated mug, using it as an anchor. “I don’t want to talk about it.” My voice comes out smaller than I intended. “I just... I wanted to come home.”

Mom and Dad exchange a look over my head—one of those wordless conversations that married couples have perfected over decades. Dad reaches across and squeezes my shoulder.

“How long are you staying for?” Mom asks instead, settling into the chair across from me.

Dad gets up while I try to figure out the answer, and I watch him rummage through the fridge, till he emerges with a foil-covered plate.

He peels back the covering to reveal a perfect pumpkin pie, golden and glossy, with a lattice crust that could win awards.

“Made this yesterday,” he says, cutting a generous slice. “Good timing.”

The first sip of hot chocolate is like a hug from the inside out. Rich, creamy, with just enough spice to make my eyes sting—or maybe that’s the tears threatening to spill again.

“A month,” I hear myself say. “Maybe... maybe a month.”

Mom’s face lights up like Christmas morning. “A whole month?” She claps her hands together, flour still dusting her palms. “Oh, Hazel, that’s wonderful!”

Their excitement thaws another chunk of ice within me. I take another sip, letting the heat settle in my chest.

“How’s Brennen’s Brew doing?” I ask. The coffee shop has been a staple of Main Street for as long as I can remember—Mom and Dad opened it before I was even born, and it’s been the heart of the community ever since.