12. Alice
ALICE
“It’s alright, girls,” I soothe as I lock the coop door. “Just a bit of rain. Nothing you haven’t seen before.” My hens cluck softly in response as I sweep my hoodie over my head and dash for the back door.
Inside, the house smells like the vanilla-orange soap I used to scrub the river silt from my skin. I’m clean as a whistle, yet I can still feel Colt’s hands when he helped me out of the current. And when he guided me into the passenger seat of his truck.
I had a crush on him when I was a kid, of course. Colt was attractive, he was older, and he came from a family vastly different from mine, which made him interesting.
But most importantly, he was kind to me. He asked questions about my classes and my tennis practice and made me feel like what I said mattered.
He looked at me like the kid I was, and I looked at him as an annoyance first, then as a welcome presence, and later—after he left—as an anchor.
While he was gone, I’d envisioned him as indomitable and infallible. I’d built him up in my head to impossible heights. Because that’s what I needed during that time. To believe I was communicating with someone omnipotent.
And then he returned to Holly River so much more than I’d ever imagined.
I lean against the kitchen counter, closing my eyes.
I can see him standing in the river shallows—all hard lines and military precision, his silhouette backlit against the moonlight.
He moves with a calm, erotic gravity, never hurried, never rushed.
But I’ve also seen the fire under that steady exterior.
I felt it at the Hall when Travis wouldn't take no for an answer.
Colt stepped in, a wall of protective intent, and the air in the room had changed without him even raising his voice.
In an instant, I knew I was unquestionably safe.
A sudden heat blooms between my thighs, deepening. Tonight in the water, I’d wanted him to touch me. The realization steals my breath, because while I missed Colt—while I often dreamed of him returning to Holly River—I wasn’t expecting him to come home looking like that.
I can see it, Colt had said. You were always a dreamer, Alice.
Coming from my parents, those words were a strike—a sigh, a shake of the head, a reminder that dreamer was another word for unreliable. But Colt had said it like it was a gift. Like he was proud of that quality in me.
But dreams don’t pay for renovations, I remind myself as I flop onto my sofa. The bank had been polite but firm. My management degree and business plan weren’t enough to overlook my lack of collateral.
Not everyone has the luxury of dreaming, kid, Colt had said to me years ago. Don't ever stop dreaming.
I shoot to my feet, his words ringing in my mind, drowning out any others. I’m moving before I can talk myself out of it. After yanking my hair back into a messy ponytail, I grab a bottle of Chardonnay from the counter and uncork it. I take a long, stinging sip straight from the bottle.
Then I turn to the living room, my pulse racing.
You were always a dreamer, Alice.
I shove the heavy coffee table aside with a grunt of exertion. The rug is next. I roll it up, dust tickling my nose, and raise it into the air, letting it flop into the corner with a thud. My eyes fall on the wallpaper. Wallpaper I never envisioned in my bookshop.
I could put the table back, and the rug too. But once I strip—
I tear it away with a wild scream, nails digging into the faded paper.
It peels off in long, satisfying strips.
I hurl misshapen pieces of it over my shoulder and keep going.
Next comes the artwork—one painting lifted off its hooks, then another.
And another. With every action, my confidence builds.
I’m a machine that’s been put in motion, and I wonder if that’s all I needed.
To yank the pull cord and get my motor running.
Maybe I didn’t need a foolproof plan.
Maybe I just needed to begin.
I spin toward the couch and start pushing it toward the kitchen, its legs screeching against the floorboards. I struggle with an oversized framed landscape, panting, sweat slicking my forehead, until the wall is bare.
The wall.
The one separating the den from the kitchen nook. In my mind, it’s already gone, allowing the entire space to become a sun-drenched reading room. I run to the garage, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I find a lone can of red spray paint and dart back inside.
Standing before the creamy drywall, I tremble, hesitating because everything else could easily be undone. Not this.
Don’t ever stop dreaming.
I press the nozzle.
A glistening red X bleeds across the center of the wall, marking it for demolition.
The pungent, chemical scent of the paint fills the room, making my head spin. I turn toward the front door, intent on throwing it open for fresh air.
I freeze.
A shadow stands in the rain. Tall, broad, unmistakable.
I’m moving again, pulling open the door and stepping out onto the porch.
"Colt," I yell over the downpour. "What are you doing out there?"
He walks toward me, his boots heavy on the steps, and stops directly in front of me.
His intense eyes roam over my face, and he takes another determined step closer, our bodies so close they practically touch.
Rainwater drips off his jawline, wets his lashes and lips.
His gaze moves from my flushed face to the red X behind me. "You really want to open a bookstore?"
“Yes,” I reply at once, his presence emboldening me.
"Then do it."
"It’s not that easy," I admit, reality crashing back down. My shoulders slump, my bravado slipping. "I tried getting a loan. The bank said no."
"Ask your parents," he persists. I start to turn away, but he catches my hand. "Ask them. Explain the dream. Not positioned as a fantasy, Alice. Explain it so they understand."
"They'll never agree."
He lets go, thinking. I can practically see his mind racing. He scrubs a hand over his head, back and forth, then looks at me, fire blazing in his eyes. "I'll do the carpentry. For free. Tell them that."
"Colt, no. You told me you wanted to get out of here. You can't—"
"I need something to do, Alice," he interrupts, his voice dropping. "I need a project. Do you believe that? That I might need this as badly as you do?”
I look into his eyes, searching for the truth, unable to decipher him. But…I want it to be the truth. Because I don’t want Colt to leave. I like who I am when he’s beside me.
I slowly nod.
He doesn't waste a second. He grabs the phone from the kitchen and presses it into my hand. "Call them. Now."
I hesitate, staring down at the phone.
Colt wraps my fingers around it and squeezes. “Do it, Ali.”
My fingers shake as I dial. When my dad picks up, the words tumble out of me in a frantic rush.
I explain the layout, the vision, the shop.
I’m pacing, fumbling through my pitch. My dad starts to protest, his voice loud enough that I can hear my mom in the background asking what all the shouting is about.
"Colt is here," I interject, my voice gaining strength. "He's going to do the labor for free."
Silence. Then, "Colt Mitchell? What’s he doing in Holly River? Does he even know how to swing a hammer, Alice?"
I cover the receiver and look at Colt. “Can you really do this?” I mouth, motioning toward the house.
He looks at the walls, the windows. Uncertainty flashes in his eyes.
"Hell, yeah," he says resolutely.
I turn back to the phone, my business degree finally kicking in.
I scramble for my tote bag, pulling out the laminated plan.
I talk numbers. I talk about how a retail-friendly layout this close to town square increases resale value.
I tell my dad that if I fail, he’ll get his down payment back with interest because we’re slashing labor costs.
I listen to him talk for a long time, nodding to the empty room. "Okay. Okay, Dad. I understand."
I hang up. Colt’s hands are raised in a silent question.
A slow, wide smile breaks across my face. "They’ll co-sign."
Colt lets out a whoop, and I laugh at the sudden sound.
"But," I add, "we have three months. We have to be open and turning a profit by the Fall Festival, or I agree to sell the space. Immediately."
Colt's expression turns serious. "That’s a hell of a deadline."
"This is going to be really hard, Colt."
"I've done plenty of hard things.” He steps in close, heat rolling off him.
"I haven't."
"Yes, you have," he says softly. He looks at me, at the excitement and worry etched on my face as I examine the house with fresh eyes.
“Hey,” he says.
I look up at him.
"Let’s fucking go, kid."
He raises a hand in the air, palm open.
I laugh and slap my hand against his in a high five that echoes through the house.