Chapter 24
Istayed for dinner, as planned. Dad walked over from the shelter to eat with us, and Mom met him at the door for a kiss—same as always. They have managed to make love look effortless my whole life. Together since middle school, my parents give credence to the idea of meant to be.
And they created in me an expectation for true love. It’s something I’ve yet to stop believing in.
Even when I stopped believing in myself.
I always wanted a Sunday kind of love—one of comfort and focused on the simple pleasures like someone to have coffee with in the mornings and a day spent doing nothing at all other than being together.
Kind of like a man who is content with only dessert at the end of your night, simply because it means seeing you. The thought comes on forcefully as I head for the quaint two-story brick building with a Monroe Books sign out front.
The light overhanging the shop’s front door glows against the twilight sky. But there’s a soft orange coming from around the side of the building as well.
I turn the corner, my Tupperware in hand, and feel a jolt of surprise when I come face to face with Jake.
I didn’t expect him to be outside waiting for me. But here he is. Sitting with his ankle resting on his knee at the black café table set on the concrete pad outside his door. He’s a dream in brown corduroy pants, that NYU sweatshirt, and his glasses set on the bridge of his nose.
He abandons his pen and looks up from a crossword puzzle. A charming smile hooks the corner of his mouth. “Hey, you.”
“Hi.” I drop down in the seat he pushes out for me.
“Luce?”
My pulse skips a little hearing him use that shortened name. He did it once before, but I was too focused on the panic rising in my chest in that corn maze, I couldn’t appreciate the familiarity of it.
“Yeah?”
Jake leans towards me. “Does that Tupperware container mean you made us dessert?”
I set it down between us and peel back the lid. “I did.”
His eyes widen as he takes in the array of sweets. A slice of pie and a cluster of maple cookies—all the most delicious fall flavors piled together.
“No one has ever baked for me before,” he murmurs.
A tender ache squeezes my heart as I ask, “What about your mom, or grandma, at holidays? Birthdays?”
“Grandma and Grandpa Carpenter live in Europe, I never saw them really growing up. My mom’s mom likes our family dinners catered.” He reaches for a fluffy soft drop pumpkin cookie. “May I?”
“Of course. But now I feel bad and have to tell you, I didn’t technically bake these for this occasion.”
“No?”
“My mom and I have a baking day together every October, it’s a tradition. And it just happened to be today.”
He takes a bite of the cookie, and a deeply alluring moan reverberates from his throat. I can’t look away as his twinkling gaze flashes to me. “But you did make this?”
“I did. And I made extra knowing I was bringing it to you, so I guess that might count?”
“It counts.”
“Try that one.” I point at the apple custard pie.
He lifts the slice and sinks his teeth into it. Another moan follows before he pops the rest of it in his mouth. “It’s nice… that you have this tradition. Are you close with your family?”
I reach for a maple cookie. “Very. It was just me and my parents growing up, and they gave me this amazing childhood with the animal shelter. I had responsibilities, sure. But I got to grow up playing with around ten dogs at any given time.” I laugh.
“And they’re so supportive. When I said I wanted to be a painter, they didn’t even hesitate to set me up with every supply I could ever need.
They never made me feel like they doubted my dreams. Because they never doubted me. ”
He frowns. “You say that like someone has doubted you.”
“I’m the one with doubts,” I admit softly.
Setting the pastry down, Jake pushes the container to the side and leans forward. The table wobbles as he sets his elbows atop it. “The painter’s block?” he guesses.
“I’m finding my footing again. But I just keep thinking, what if I don’t get them done in time? What if I stalled too long, you know?”
“What’s more important, meeting the gallery’s deadline or doing what you love?”
“What if one can’t exist without the other?”
He shrugs. “They might not have to. But I bet they can.”
I finish the cookie, letting his words turn over in my mind. “What about you?” I ask after a minute.
“What about me?”
Leaning forward on the table as well, I ask, “Are you doing what you love?”
Something flashes in his eyes. It looks a bit like regret, if I’m not mistaken.
Fiddling with the pen he had previously abandoned, Jake rolls it back and forth across his half-way completed crossword puzzle. I notice each box cleanly filled in, with no signs of mistakes marked over or turned into a different letter.
“I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately,” he finally admits.
“Lately?”
“Yeah, since I found myself on the opposite side of a property deal from a certain woman I can’t seem to get out of my head.”
Warmth unfurls in my chest like a slow mist weaving through my ribs and curling around my heart.
“You don’t say,” I manage through the smile tugging at my lips.
“She’s got this way of saying just enough to get me thinking. Especially when she does it with that little twinkle in her eyes.”
“Sounds like a smart woman.”
Jake reaches over and takes my hand in his. His fingers fiddle with mine playfully as our palms press together. “She’s brilliant, and absolutely gorgeous. It’s a dangerous combination.”
A laugh escapes me. “Dangerous?”
His fingers weave between mine and close around my hand. And he looks at me with the kind of intensity that makes my stomach flip.
“Dangerous. You’re wreaking havoc on me, Lucy Hart.”
“I’m very sorry about that.” I lick my lips and watch his eyes drop to them.
Kiss me, my heart screams. But my brain immediately reprimands it. He’s not the one I’m supposed to want. He’s the one I should be helping to run out of town.
I don’t want to be the bad guy in your story, Lucy.
He had worried about as much—that has to count for something. And I have to hope that there’s a way for us to end up on the same side of things.
“Don’t be sorry,” Jake tells me. “I can’t imagine a sweeter demise.”
It’s hard to get Lucy’s question out of my mind once she asks. Are you doing what you love?
Even if I didn’t answer her directly, the voice in my head was firmly shouting no. A voice I had long closed a door on before she blew it back open. I had deflected instead of admitting, and now that we’re walking side by side to her house, I feel like she deserves a direct answer.
Not that what I said was dishonest, it just was a side-step kind of truth. And I don’t want to side-step anything with Lucy, I’m learning.
Her hair tickles my arm when the breeze kicks it up, and I catch the subtle whiff of cinnamon. I wonder if it’s because of all the baking she did today or if it’s just her.
“I’m not doing what I love,” I blurt out. She looks up at me curiously, so I add, “Earlier, I should have also told you that I’m not doing what I love.”
“I had a feeling.” She bites back a grin.
Stopping to check for any rogue motorcycles before crossing the street, I place my hand on the small of her back out of an abundance of caution. When I’m satisfied that we’re all clear, I step out onto the road, but I keep my fingers splayed just above her waist the whole way.
“There are aspects that I enjoy, that remind me of what I was doing before Carpenter Collection.”
“What aspects are those?”
I steal a glance at her as we start up her front walk. Her bangs are tussled from the breeze, and she blinks up at me through them, patiently waiting for a response. I reach out and fix them for her.
“The trips to see our business partners out in the community. Getting to bring new partnerships in.”
“Speaking of businesses in the community…”
We look up to find Claire sitting on the front porch, wine glass in hand and blanket tossed across her lap. Had she really been there our whole approach? Did Lucy notice her?
“What about business partners?” Lucy asks, her shoulder dipping against me as she turns to face her roommate. I adjust my arm to make a more comfortable space for her to settle into.
Smirking down at us, Claire announces, “I got our travel writer here an exclusive outing at Holiday Valley.”
“Claire,” Lucy groans. “That was supposed to be a secret, just to get us out of Alice’s crosshairs.”
“Well, she told someone. Specifically, someone that plans the fall treetop days, and they were eager to get Jake out there to experience the magic.”
“Do I want to know what the treetop days are?” I whisper.
“They happen on Saturdays in September and October. People can buy a picnic lunch at the lodge and ride a chairlift up to whatever peak they wish. Then they eat while overlooking all the fall foliage,” Lucy explains.
“That sounds nice.”
“It sounds romantic,” Claire cuts in. “Which is why I had to sign Jake up for a two-person picnic. It’s more believable that he’s looking to get the real experience that way.”
“You—”
“You’ll go with him, right, Lucy?”
“I think it’s a great idea,” I say quickly. “And another chance to see what’s special about this town.”
“That fate you believe in,” Lucy murmurs, “does it come in the form of a meddling roommate?”
“Maybe.” Either way, I owe Claire a thank you.