Chapter 9
nine
HOLDEN
I’m used to the busyness of what Laila refers to as the ‘-ber months’.
Between the food I supply for Ever After Farm and the traffic that comes in for Autumn Enchantment, the annual fall festival there, I usually only get a few hours of sleep a night.
Then I got dragged into the chili cook-off tasting, and I genuinely feel half-zombie.
Now? I’m getting even less.
But it’s a trade-off I’m willing to make, because we’ve passed our usual three-day limit, and we’ve officially spent more time together in the last week than we have in twelve years.
It’s putting the life I’ve always wanted with her front and center under a spotlight, and it’s all I can think about. Every late night, every half-finished cookie tray, feels like leaving a breadcrumb back to the life I’ve always wanted—a simple, steady one with her in it.
She’s perched on my bakery counter, her hair tossed up in a clip while she chews on one of my pumpkin gingerbread men.
The exhaustion she showed up with a week ago hangs looser on her now.
Instead of heaviness, she’s simply tired from being on the go all the time.
Now and then, she’ll pause mid-scroll and jot a note in the little notebook that’s beside her on the counter.
Ever since the text she sent Saturday morning, she’s been living up to its words.
Feeling inspired.
When she showed up again last night, I finally asked why she’s bothering with a room at the bed-and-breakfast. She joked she needed a “second star to the right” of her own—somewhere to sleep that wasn’t too close, but not too far either.
I didn’t tell her she’s already got one.
She somehow finds her way to me every night, and even if we sleep in separate rooms, I’m convinced we both sleep better this way.
She was so tired that I tucked her under a blanket on the couch and turned on a movie, then moved to the kitchen to warm some pumpkin bisque. By the time I was done, she was softly snoring, and I didn’t have the heart to disturb her.
Sam texted to check on her, so I think we’re all noticing that she’s pushing extra hard. I’m sure that planning a wedding for someone like Holly Everheart isn’t a walk in the park—there’s a strain on everyone involved. We’ve catered many weddings, and our part is plenty stressful.
But I’m half convinced she’s trying to offset the frayed nerves where her mother is concerned by working so hard on her side project.
Charlotte is on a terror streak a mile wide—I only know because I see the notifications light up her phone like Morse code.
There’s a steady rhythm that doesn’t stop—like a warning.
Out the front window, new banners hang around the square—“Congratulations, Holly fear makes her backpedal.
“What are you talking about?” I ask gently. “I appreciate everything you’re throwing at me, honey. But you’re tossing a lot at me I need to process, so my silence isn’t a bad thing. I’m just trying to imagine everything you’re saying.”
“That’s just it, Holden. You’ve already got your hands full.”
“I do. But I have McKenna. And this sounds like something we could advertise on the farm. I think it would do great at The Storybook Cafe.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “You don’t have to say that.”
“When have you ever known me to say something just to make you feel better?”
“You’re always trying to make me feel better.” She sighs. “But you’re always honest with me.”
I used to think love was supposed to feel like adrenaline—fast, burning red. With her now, it feels slow. Golden. Steady.
“Where did you get this idea? Have you seen it somewhere before?”
Her face changes then, softening with happiness. “We really need to get you on more social media. Lots of bakeries do them. Emma does them.”
“She does?”
This instantly piques my interest.
Our weekend last December in Sweetheart Springs was memorable for a lot of reasons, but getting to meet my favorite “celebrity chef” was definitely in my top five. Laila bought me a signed cookbook as a Christmas present, and it’s one of my most prized possessions.
Not that Laila would ever give me bad advice, but Emma selling them from her own bakery on Dreamy Pines Farm only substantiates her point. She could’ve just started with that.
Laila shifts her iPad to one hand and raises her other hand to cup my cheek.
“You sweet man. I’m pretty sure you’ve got heart eyes now. You’re adorably oblivious sometimes about these things.”
“Adorable enough to kiss?” I tip forward.
She giggles. “Is that sanitary? That feels like a code violation.”
“Hold on.” With a few steps, I’ve herded us back toward the hall that leads up to the apartment. “Now you’re not technically in the kitchen anymore.”
She lets out a small gasp. “Oh! What if you did boxes of perní?ky? I know they only use a simple glaze—”
“Honey, I’m not really interested in talking about cookies right now, but you being so informed about our Christmas cookie speciality is really attractive.”
The whole kitchen smells like cinnamon and sugar again—our kind of compass. If home had a scent, it’d be this.
She’s backed against the doorway, and I press a hand above her head so I’ve got her boxed in. Technically, she could duck under my arm and play hard to get, but I don’t think she wants that any more than I do. A smile plays around her lips knowingly.
“Is it?”
“You know it is. I didn’t know you paid that much attention.”
Her tongue darts out to wet her lips before she presses them together. “I’m always paying attention when it comes to you,” she whispers.
I don’t know why, but this admission feels like something I should frame and hang on my wall. She’s never this honest with me.
“What else do you notice?” I ask.
Her eyelashes flutter as she gazes up at me. “You love those little gingerbread pigs—what are they called?”
My breath shudders. “Those are called Marranitos and they’re actually Mexican desserts.”
She tips her head up, inviting me closer. “They’re really cute. You always keep them in a tin on top of your fridge toward the back, like they’re supposed to be a secret.”
“I’m not sure my mom would approve.”
“I won’t tell.” She smiles. “I love all your tasty treats, but your gingerdoodles are my favorite.”
“Then I’ll make you a whole pan,” I murmur.
The first time I kissed Laila was in the middle of the Jacksons’ corn maze. I doubt it was anything impressive, considering our ages, but I’ve never forgotten the way she looked in the setting sun, the golden light framing her head like she was an angel or something.
I’d never seen anything so beautiful.
And I wanted to kiss her.
I still think about that kiss, and how two fumbling teenagers grew up to still reach for each other as adults.
She’s as beautiful as she was then, even pressed against a doorway with messy strands of blonde hair framing her face.
Her eyes have gained a little spark in them, like she knows what I’m thinking.
It surprises me a little when she grips my shirt and tugs me down to her.
More still when a hum of appreciation sounds in her throat as our lips meet.
I shift a little closer to her and wince when her iPad digs into my rib.
With a gentle tug, I pull it out of her hand and blindly feel for the rack I know is behind me.
Once it’s set down, and I can close the distance, Laila fully relaxes into me.
Her fingers graze my jaw, across the tender skin below my ear.
And she whispers, “I’ve missed you,” against my lips.
“I always miss you,” I say, wishing with my entire heart that moments like this could be our forever.
Something is shifting here, and it’s going to be hard to let her lead the way when I can see the whole path ahead.
I want to charge ahead and race right for the life I know we could have together.
But that’s fear talking, the kind that mistakes waiting for weakness.
Love, I think, is patience dressed up as faith.
I don’t want to scare her away. So for now, I’ll let her set the pace, and quietly believe we’re finally heading somewhere real.