Chapter 16
Mateo’s house feels like a sanctuary after the intensity of the town hall.
Isabel and Dean brought wine. Jess and Macy picked up food on the way. Within minutes, we’re gathered in the living room, glasses filled, laughter replacing the tension.
“To Sadie Pierce,” Jess says, raising her glass of water. I narrow my eyes at her, but she just grins and winks. “Who didn’t run.”
“To Sadie,” everyone echoes.
“To not letting the bastards win,” Dean says quietly.
“To romance novels,” Macy chimes in. “And the badass women who write them.”
“To my brother,” Isabel says, grinning at Mateo. “Who finally told Sadie he loves her.”
Everyone laughs. Mateo shakes his head, but he’s smiling.
“To tesoro,“ Mateo finishes, his eyes on me.
We drink. Well, everyone except Jess drinks. I’m watching her. She’s been nursing that water all night. And she wouldn’t take wine at Sips & Stars either. The woman who did tequila shots with me every Tuesday for a year. She catches me staring and raises her eyebrows in challenge, daring me to ask.
I don’t. Whatever’s going on, she’ll tell me when she’s ready.
The celebration continues. Stories. Laughter. Macy is doing a dramatic reenactment of Judith’s face at the end of the meeting. Isabel is talking about mural ideas. Dean is quietly supportive, adding dry commentary that makes everyone laugh.
Around midnight, everyone leaves with long hugs and promises to meet for coffee in the morning.
And then it’s just us.
Mateo and me.
The house feels quiet and still after all the noise and celebration. I pull out my phone and open my Sienna Saguaro accounts. The draft from two weeks ago is still there, waiting.
To the readers who found Sunset Ridge and recognized a real place in its pages: you’re right. Sierra Rose Ridge is my home. It’s the town that saved me, and Wildfire Summer is my love letter to it. I’m not sorry I wrote it. I’m proud.
I hit post.
It’s a small thing. A few sentences. But it’s mine, and it’s honest, and it’s out there now.
Mateo pulls me to the couch, and we collapse together, exhausted. I curl into his side, my head on his chest, his arm around my shoulders. His heartbeat is steady under my ear. Slow and sure, like the rhythm of his hammer on the anvil. Like he’s never been uncertain about anything in his life.
I know that’s not true.
He was hesitant to say the words and spent five years convinced I’d never see him as more than a friend. But his heart doesn’t sound scared. It sounds like home.
“Stop thinking so loud,” he murmurs against my hair.
“I’m not thinking.”
“Liar. I can feel you overthinking.” His hand traces lazy circles on my arm. “What is it?”
I’m quiet for a moment. The wine glasses are empty on the coffee table. The candles Macy lit before she left are burning low.
“I want to write about you,” I say.
His hand pauses. “What?”
I smile against his chest. “My next book. The hero. I want him to be a blacksmith.”
“You already wrote about a carpenter who’s secretly in love with a bookshop owner. People are going to notice a pattern.”
“Let them.” I smile. He laughs, low and warm. The vibration moves through me. “I’ll make her something other than a bookshop owner. Maybe a chocolatier.”
“A chocolatier in the desert?”
“I’ll make it work.”
“What would you write about me?” he asks. There’s genuine curiosity in his voice. Not ego. Not fishing for flattery or looking for ammunition.
“I’ll write a man who shows up,” I say quietly.
“Every time, without being asked. Who makes coffee with honey because he pays attention, and calls someone his treasure for five years and means it every single time.” I trace a line down his chest with my finger.
“A man who stops a kiss because he wants the woman to be sure, even when it’s killing him. ”
His arm tightens around me.
“That’s not a character,” he says, voice rough. “That’s just what you do when you love someone.”
“That’s exactly why it makes a good book.”
He tips my chin up and kisses me slowly. No urgency, no leading anywhere. Just a kiss that says I’m here and I’m not letting you go.
When he pulls back, his thumb traces my jaw.
“Write whatever you want about me, tesoro. Just make sure the ending is happy.”
“It will be.” I settle back against his chest.
“Yeah?” His lips press against my temple. “How does it end?”
“The blacksmith and the chocolatier stop pretending they’re just friends.
He tells her he’s been in love with her for five years.
She tells him she’s an idiot for not seeing it sooner.
” I pause. “And she stays. Not because she’s running from something, but because she finally found the place she was running to. ”
I feel his chest rise and hold under my cheek.
“I like that ending,” he says quietly.
“Me too.”
We stay like that. Quiet. Still.
Tomorrow I’ll start planning the shop rebuild. Tomorrow I’ll call my insurance company, order new inventory, and figure out how to reopen Wildflower Books stronger than before.
Tomorrow I’ll check my sales numbers and start thinking more about book two.
But tonight, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
I’m home.