Chapter 15
Snow
After changing three times and second-guessing every choice, I finally settled on a soft, marigold-yellow sundress Preston had hated on sight. Wearing it today feels like a small, personal victory.
The frantic fluttering in my stomach is a foreign sensation.
I stand before the mirror, analyzing it with a detached curiosity.
This isn’t the familiar, cold dread that used to precede a Darlington society event, that icy anxiety born from the fear of saying the wrong thing, wearing the wrong dress, using the wrong fork.
This is different. It’s a warm, hopeful, terrifying flutter.
It’s the nervousness of possibility, not of judgment.
And that, more than anything, is what scares me.
It’s not like we haven’t spent time together these past three weeks.
We have. Coffee twice at the Seventh Street Café, where we talked until the barista started wiping down tables around us.
A small gallery opening in Huntington, where Wyatt knew the photographer.
Lunch at a hole-in-the-wall Thai place he swore by.
A movie on a rainy Wednesday afternoon, where we shared popcorn and he didn’t try to hold my hand even though I kind of wanted him to.
And we text. Every single day. Good morning messages that make me smile over my tea.
Photos of things that remind him of me. Late-night conversations that range from the profound to the ridiculous.
Wyatt: What’s your most unpopular opinion?
I think pineapple on pizza is a crime against humanity. Yours?
Wyatt: Books are better than their movie adaptations. Always. No exceptions.
Even The Princess Bride?
Wyatt: … okay, ONE exception.
Wyatt: Honest question - do you think a hot dog is a sandwich?
It’s 11 PM, and you’re thinking about sandwich taxonomy?
Wyatt: Can’t sleep. This is important.
Wyatt: What are you most afraid of?
That I’m making the same mistake twice.
Wyatt: What’s the last thing that made you feel brave?
Texting you back.
But this feels different. More intentional. Like we’ve been circling something, and today we’re finally going to step into it.
A wave of doubt washes over me, the familiar urge to cancel, to retreat back into the safety of solitude. I snap a quick, nervous selfie, the angle all wrong, my smile a little too wide. I texted it to Nico.
Is this okay for a farmers' market? Feeling 16 again.
Her reply is instantaneous, a little ping of validation that lands right in my heart.
He is going to lose his actual mind. That dress is everything. GO! HAVE FUN! Report back with details. And I mean ALL the details.
Her confidence is intoxicating. I take one last deep breath, the air tasting of freedom and lavender, and grab my keys.
The Northport Farmers Market is a vibrant, chaotic symphony of life.
The air is thick with a hundred competing, wonderful smells: the sweet perfume of ripe peaches, the sharp, earthy scent of fresh basil, the yeasty promise of baking bread.
A local musician with an acoustic guitar is playing a cheerful, folksy melody that weaves through the happy chatter of the crowd.
It’s loud and messy and unapologetically alive. I love it immediately.
Wyatt is waiting for me near the entrance, just as he promised.
He’s not scrolling on his phone, his attention lost in a digital world.
He’s watching the crowd, a small, observant smile on his face, his gaze taking in the details of the scene around him.
He’s wearing a simple gray Henley that stretches across his broad shoulders and a pair of worn-in jeans that fit him in a way that makes my mouth go a little dry.
When his eyes land on me, his smile widens into something breathtakingly genuine, a crinkling at the corners of his deep blue eyes that feels like it’s just for me.
The warmth in that look travels across the space between us and extinguishes the last of my nervous flutters.
“Wow,” he says, his voice a low, appreciative rumble as I approach. “That dress. You look like sunshine.”
The compliment is direct and genuine, and it makes my cheeks burn.
With Preston, compliments were always transactions, public declarations designed to reflect well on him.
“My wife has such impeccable taste,” he’d say, his hand a heavy weight on my back.
Wyatt’s words feel different. They feel like a gift, freely given.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling a shy smile of my own. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
The conversation is effortless as we wander from stall to stall. He asks me what my favorite vegetable is, a question so simple it makes me laugh.
“Heirloom tomatoes,” I tell him. “They’re weird-shaped and imperfect and a hundred times more interesting than the perfectly round ones you find in the supermarket.”
“I like corn,” he says. “Reminds me of home. Texas summers always smelled like freshly cut grass and corn on the grill.”
We make small decisions together — choosing sourdough, sampling honey, buying sharp cheddar. It feels surprisingly intimate, like we’re stocking the kitchen of a life we could share.
We pass a flower stall overflowing with a riot of color — zinnias and cosmos and snapdragons. My eyes land on a tall metal bucket filled with sunflowers, their bright, open faces turned toward the sun. I stop, my breath catching in my throat. They are so unapologetically joyful.
“Those are my favorites,” I say, the words coming out in a whisper.
I don’t know why, but I feel compelled to tell him more.
“I have a tattoo of one.” I hold out my hand, palm up, showing him the small, delicate black-and-white sunflower on the inside of my wrist. “I used to cover it with a watch or bracelet.” I pause, looking at the small flower, which I no longer hide.
“My mom says they’re a reminder to always turn toward the light, no matter how dark it gets. ”
Wyatt doesn’t say anything. He just looks from the tattoo on my wrist to my face, his expression soft and unreadable. Then he turns to the vendor, a cheerful woman in a wide-brimmed hat. “We’ll take all of them,” he says.
“All of them?” I ask, my voice a squeak of surprise.
“All of them,” he confirms, pulling out his wallet. He pays the woman and then presses the enormous, sunny bouquet into my arms. The flowers are heavy, their faces bigger than my hands, and they smell of earth and sun and summer.
“Everyone deserves to have something or someone who helps them face the light,” he says quietly, his deep blue eyes holding mine.
My heart does a painful, hopeful flip. Preston gave expensive gifts he never chose himself, impersonal things meant to be seen, not loved.
But Wyatt listened. He saw a hidden piece of me, a secret I’d just shared, and he honored it.
I feel a crack form in the wall around my heart, letting in a sliver of brilliant, terrifying light.
We find a quiet stretch of sand on the nearby beach, away from the crowds.
The late afternoon sun is a warm blanket on our skin, and the sky is beginning to bleed into soft shades of orange and pink.
The only sound is the gentle, rhythmic shush of the waves against the shore, a sound that feels like the world breathing a long, slow sigh.
Wyatt spreads out an old, faded quilt he keeps in the back of his truck, and we lay out our picnic.
The easy market chatter deepens into something more substantial as we eat.
“So, you’re starting your own business,” he says, turning to face me. “Tell me more about it.”
I find myself telling him everything. “I’m so tired of corporate greenwashing,” I explain, the frustration bubbling up.
“Huge companies slap a green leaf on a plastic bottle and call it sustainable. I want to find the small brands that are actually doing the work, the ones with ethical supply chains, and give them a fighting chance.”
He nods slowly, his gaze thoughtful. “So how do you cut through that? How do you prove to customers that your clients are the real deal and not just telling a better story?”
The question is so smart, so direct. “Vetting,” I say, feeling a surge of energy. “Deep dives. It’s about finding the companies that are a good story, not just the ones that can afford to tell one.”
“Okay,” he says, leaning in slightly. “So once you find them, what’s their biggest hurdle? Is it the budget for marketing, or just getting heard above all the noise?”
He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t offer a single piece of unsolicited advice. He just listens, asking questions that show he’s not just hearing my words — he’s understanding my passion. With every question, I feel more and more like the most interesting woman in the world.
The ease of sharing surprises me. I haven’t talked about my business like this with anyone except Nico. But with Wyatt, it feels natural. Safe. And now I’m hungry to see more of what drives him. “Can I see more?” I ask, my voice softer than I intend. “Your personal work.”
A small smile touches his lips as he pulls out his phone. These are different from what I saw in the gallery. More raw. Color photos of quiet, everyday moments that are full of story and soul.
There’s a close-up of a baker’s hands, caked in flour, lovingly kneading a mound of dough.
There’s a shot of a lone dog waiting patiently by a grocery store entrance, its leash tied to a parking meter, its gaze fixed on the door.
He scrolls to one more: two elderly men playing chess in a park, completely absorbed, while the rest of the world rushes by in a blur around them.
Each image is a complete story in a single frame.
“Is it very different?” I ask, nodding at the camera bag he’d grabbed from his truck before we ate. “Using that instead of a phone?”
“It’s a different language,” he says, pulling the camera from its bag. “With a phone, you’re taking a picture of what you see. With this, you’re painting with light.”
Before I can protest, he’s pressing the camera into my hands.
His fingers guide mine to the right buttons, warm against my skin.
He’s so close I can smell the faint scent of his soap.
Bergamot and cedar. He explains aperture and shutter speed, his voice a low murmur close to my ear.
I’m trying to focus on his words, but, for a second, all I can think about is how close he is, how warm his hands are on mine.
After I steady myself, I lift the camera to my eye, focus on the setting sun, and press the shutter. The photo is blurry, the horizon crooked, but I love it because it’s mine.
The intimacy of the moment, the easy sharing of dreams, makes me brave.
A small, bitter stone of a memory I’ve been carrying for years rises to the surface, and before I can stop it, I’m speaking it out loud.
“Preston hated it when I baked,” I say, my voice quiet.
“He said the smell of yeast was common and the flour made a mess in his perfect kitchen.”
Wyatt doesn’t offer pity or platitudes. He just meets my gaze, his own eyes full of understanding. “Well, that’s his loss,” he says simply. “I bet you make a killer chocolate chip cookie.”
A laugh escapes me, genuine and light. It feels foreign.
“You have no idea,” I say, a spark of the old me — the confident, playful woman I was before Preston — flaring to life.
I arch an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing on my lips.
“And if you behave yourself, you might just get to try one someday.”
“So I’m really supposed to believe you make killer chocolate chip cookies?” he asks, a teasing note in his voice. “That’s a bold claim, Snow.”
“Are you doubting my baking skills?”
“I’m saying I might need proof.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “You know, for verification purposes.”
“Is that so?” I feel a smile tugging at my lips. “And what exactly would earn you that verification?”
“Well, I did just buy you every sunflower at the market.” He pretends to consider. “I’d say that’s worth at least a cookie. Maybe two.”
“Maybe,” I concede, laughing as we drift toward the water’s edge. The cool, damp sand squishes between our toes. Behind us, the sun has dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky painted in bruised purples and soft gold.
The easy conversation lulls into a comfortable, charged silence. He turns to face me, his silhouette dark against the fading light. He reaches out, his fingertips grazing my jaw, tilting my face up toward his. His eyes search mine, asking without words. My heart pounds as I nod.
He leans in slowly, giving me every opportunity to pull away, to retreat back behind my walls.
I don’t. I meet him halfway, rising on my toes, my hands finding their way to his chest. The kiss is not the hungry, performative passion of a romance cover.
It’s soft. It’s tender. It’s a question, a discovery, a promise.
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against mine, his breath warm on my skin.
It’s a gesture of such profound, gentle intimacy it almost brings tears to my eyes.
“Wow,” he breathes out.
A slow smile spreads across my face. “Wow indeed,” I say back, my voice a little shaky. “So… that was… wow.”
He lets out a soft chuckle, a warm, rumbling sound in his chest. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing a line along my jaw. “That was definitely a wow.”
We stand there for a moment longer, neither of us wanting to break the spell.
“I should probably get you home,” he says finally, his voice reluctant. “As much as I’d love to stay right here, I don’t think I can top that as an ending to a date.”
I laugh, a light, giddy sound that surprises me. “That’s setting the bar pretty high for next time.”
“Next time?” His smile widens. “I like the sound of that.”
He insists on following me home in his truck to make sure I get there safely, which is both old-fashioned and impossibly sweet. Inside my car, I can’t stop smiling, checking my rearview mirror to see his headlights behind me. The whole drive feels charged with the memory of his kiss.
When I pull into my driveway, he’s right behind me. He walks me to the door of my cottage, carrying the heavy bouquet of sunflowers as if they were treasure, and then waits while I close and lock the door. Such a gentleman. Just like the men from the romance books he poses for. Swoon.