Chapter 11
eleven
HOLDEN
By the time I pull into the drive of my family’s house, McKenna’s waiting for me on the porch with a mug of something and a hoodie. She sets the mug down as I approach and fists my sweatshirt in one hand.
I’ve barely rolled to a stop before she’s half climbing through my window. She’s like a little pixie full of moxie most of the time, the shortest in our family at a little over five feet. But she makes up for her height with her attitude.
“Trade you,” she says, shoving the garment into my chest.
I don’t know why she couldn’t wait until I got out, but I’ll beef with her in a minute. Her impossibly black curls—that she gets from our mother—poke me in the nostrils, tickle my cheeks, and would probably prod my eyeballs if it weren’t for my glasses.
“Kenna, what are you doing?”
“Getting the goods, of course,” she insists, swiping the bag of kolaches I bought from the bakery.
It’s tough to process this odd exchange when I can barely breathe without inhaling a strand of her hair. Bag in hand, she backs her way through the window and steps off the running board.
“You could ask. I could hand them to you,” I say, glaring at her. “Avoid all of that.”
“And miss my dramatic entrance? Never.” She’s unfazed as she paws through the bag. “You deserve it. You didn’t even bring a pumpkin one?”
“You could always come by the bakery and snag some before they sell out.”
“It’s my day off. Why would I do that?”
I sigh because I don’t have the energy for Kenna today.
Her dark eyes lift to mine. “You’d lose your head if it weren’t attached. I’m glad you’ve got Laila to help keep it straight.”
I contemplate staying in the truck. She’s poking for information, and I’m only here out of sheer obligation.
“Laila isn’t my secretary.”
I’ve got a distinct feeling that she’s seen or heard something, since it feels like she’s fishing for information. It could’ve been anywhere: the phone tree, the gnomes, or Hollow Hub, the town's social media app. There’s never a quiet moment around here.
I’ve barely had time to breathe, now that Laila is home. My family’s always teased me about how hard I work, but I didn’t realize how spot on they were until now. Especially now that I’m carving out time for someone who isn’t family, someone just as busy as I am.
Not that Laila has had much free time either. If she’s not working on Holly’s wedding with Ella, she’s off doing who knows what with her social media businesses. I never imagined it would be this hard to juggle.
“No,” McKenna says, popping a piece of strawberry kolache into her mouth. “You’re right. But she’s the only person you’ve ever let close enough to be part of your daily life, business included. You don’t even let me handle the things she does.”
If I didn’t know Kenna almost as well as I know myself, I’d think she was hurt. But she’s just being honest. I’ve definitely let Laila past a lot of the lines I draw for most people. Maybe it’s because they never existed with her to begin with.
“You think she keeps my head on straight?”
She says it like a tease, but there’s something tender under it—like she’s been waiting years to see me happy again.
She chuckles and walks toward the quieter space of the fields, away from the house.
“I do. But I think you might do the same for her. You kind of weirdly balance each other out. How is she doing?”
I pause, watching the sun dip behind the trees. “She’s tired. Trying to help Ella. Trying to navigate the minefield that is her mother.”
“That makes sense,” she nods. “Last night she looked like she’d gone twelve rounds with emotional exhaustion.”
I don’t mention that there was an unfortunate incident with a cold front, the town fountain, and Ella.
It’s not my story to share, but it shook Laila up pretty good.
The stakes keep rising, and now there’s a magical edge that didn’t seem to exist before.
That’s something the Jacksons seem to want to keep to themselves for now.
“That’s an accurate observation,” I mumble. “She feels responsible for the whole world.”
“But who’s responsible for her?”
When I say nothing, Kenna blows out a breath.
Understanding dawns in her eyes, and she takes another bite.
Then, just as quietly, we walk again. For a few beats, the scuff of our boots on dirt joins the music of the cicadas in the trees.
It’s late in the season for them, but Enchanted Hollow rarely follows seasonal rules.
I don’t think Enchanted Hollow follows any rules but its own.
My family likes to embellish stories, so without doing the research, I’m not entirely sure what the truth is about how we all came to be here.
Supposedly, Mom’s ancestors came to Texas in the late 1800s, missing the Civil War and joining already established families in South Central Texas.
We’ve got farmland, like a lot of people, but it’s nothing like what the Jacksons have.
It’s not used for tourism. It’s just home.
Most Czech families chose cotton or corn as a cash crop, and then grew whatever else they needed out of necessity. Mom’s family hose corn. We also grow vegetables and have a few colonies of bees, so we have easy access to honey. It’s a secret—or not so secret—staple in a lot of our recipes.
She and Dad met at one of the many events Enchanted Hollow likes to throw, and that was it. The Czech woman fell in love with the Texas farmer. We’re a blend of both cultures, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s why I love her—the mix of old and new, roots and adventure. Laila’s the wild bloom that grew where no one expected it, and somehow, she still feels like part of the same soil.
It’s the only life I’ve ever known.
I gaze over the cornfields and wonder if Laila could ever actually be happy in one place. My mom and sister are excellent gardeners. We try to grow as much as we need ourselves. But that’s not Laila’s thing.
Would she fit here?
Absolutely.
But would she ever stay? That’s the question that keeps me up at night.
Laila fills my imagination, her face tilted up toward the sun, spinning through the giant stalks.
Her voice soothes me as she spouts off facts about corn and our family history, because it’s what she does.
I can almost hear the hum of bees in the distance and smell cinnamon on her skin, like she’s already woven herself into this place.
There’s a pride in sharing about people, especially families, that most people don’t even know exists.
Laila’s got a quiet zest for life that matches everyone in my family. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her back down from a challenge. Which is exactly why she’s running on empty, she should back down from a couple.
“So…how’s it going having her back? For more than a weekend.”
I don’t know how to explain it without it sounding exactly like what it is.
“The ticking clock still exists because of the wedding, but I’m not sure how serious she is about it. She’s cooking sometimes, baking, falling asleep on the couch in the middle of a movie…”
“It feels like a life,” McKenna supplies for me. “Like real life.”
“It does.” I sigh.
She hums as she takes another bite. “I always wondered what would happen if you two got more than a weekend.”
“I think you’re watching it play out.”
She tips her head away from me. “Kolaches aren’t a bad snack for this movie time.”
“We’ll figure it out. I think we’ve managed pretty well so far.”
Her laugh floats in the air, and she playfully smacks me in the arm. “Except that you’re both running yourselves into the dirt. Please tell me you’ve got a spa day planned for her when this is all over?”
I reach up and rub my neck. I haven’t let myself think about what comes after the wedding. My focus has been on the present, with occasional peeks into the distant future.
“Holden.” She stops to face me. “You said she feels responsible for everyone, right?”
I nod, preparing for a lecture.
She folds her arms, watching me the way only a sister can, with equal parts love and exasperation.
“Then be that person for her. You’ve got your work cut out for you while she unlearns that—and believe me—I think you’re the perfect man for the job. But you need to think big on this one.”
Be her home base, Holden. The one she can always find, even when she loses the trail.
“I’m not trying to fix her, Kenna—”
“I know you’re not. But don’t let her wear herself out before she realizes she’s home. Be her soft spot to land, Holden.”
“I thought you were mad about the pumpkin kolaches.”
“I was,” she says with a lift of her shoulder. “But clearly I need to cut you a little slack.”
I chuckle. “Thanks.”
She chews her lip quietly. McKenna never says things just to say them, so whatever she’s considering holds some weight. Selfishly, I hope she’s not going to try to discourage me from seeing Laila.
“Keep showing up, Holden. She’s lucky to have you. I need to meet her, though. Make sure she’s who you think she is.”
“Kenna, don’t you—”
“Come on—let’s go get in the house before Mom yells at us.”
Right on cue, Mom’s voice bellows across the land, calling us in to wash our hands. It reminds me of our childhood, when we’d be out in the fields planting crops or pulling corn—covered in dirt head to toe—and we’d race to get back to the house. The loser always had to do extra the next day.
As if she’s walking the same memory road, she glances at me, then gets a head start as she bolts toward the house.
“You’re going to owe me big, loser!”
“Not a chance,” I call, racing after her.
Dirt flies under our boots, laughter fills the air, and for a moment, everything feels exactly right.
The sun sinks low, casting the fields in that soft golden light Laila loves so much.
For one heartbeat, it’s easy to believe we’ll stay caught in this moment, before the world starts spinning again.