Chapter 15
April
We arrive in Cloudcroft just as the sun dips behind the mountains, casting the sky in soft streaks of pink and gold.
The town is small—tiny, really. A sleepy little town folded into the hills, just a few blocks of old wooden storefronts, low-hanging signs, and porches that creak under the weight of time.
I’m in love instantly.
It the kind of place people forget exists. Like someone pressed pause in the middle of a western and never hit play again.
Max pulls into the parking lot of a hotel with white trim, flower boxes in the windows, wooden beams darkened by years of wind and sun. I’m out of the car before the engine’s even off, reaching for my camera.
Click.
The way the shadows stretch across the sidewalk.
Click.
The antique general store across the street with rusted horseshoes nailed to the frame.
Click.
The saloon-style swinging doors on what I assume is a coffee shop but could just as easily be a themed gift shop.
It all reminds me of Silverado—that comfort show my mom used to watch while sipping tea and quoting old lines, with her feet curled under her on the couch. She loved it for the simplicity. The dust, the grit, the charm.
Her dad—my grandpa—was a John Wayne obsessive. Mom used to roll her eyes when he got into his movie rants, but she secretly loved it too. I know she did.
“Mom would love this,”
I whisper, lifting my phone and snapping a picture to send to my sisters of the old western-style storefront bathed in golden light.
I text it to my sisters:
ME
#cloudcroft is a dream
mom would be losing her mind
Behind me, I hear the trunk open. Max is pulling our bags out of the car, methodical as ever. I find him watching me—but not in a way that interrupts. He’s not trying to drag me out of the moment or ask what I’m doing or suggest we hurry up and check in. He’s just... there. Watching, waiting, letting me have this.
And that—more than anything—makes my chest go warm and quiet. He does this thing I never realized I needed; he gives me space, and even from a distance, it still feels like comfort.
We walk into the motel lobby, the door jingling like something out of a cheesy Christmas movie. The space is small but warm, with soft-yellow walls, a bowl of hard candies on the check-in counter, and framed photos of old Cloudcroft hanging in slightly crooked lines. A vase of wildflowers sits near a guest book with yellowed edges that’s been signed in nothing but pencil.
Behind the desk is an older woman in a floral cardigan and lavender glasses, her gray curls pinned neatly, framing a face that’s warm and welcoming.
“Evenin’, sweethearts,”
she says with a smile that could melt granite.
“Checking in?”
“Yes, under Smith,”
Max says, pulling out his wallet.
She taps at her keyboard, humming as she reads the screen.
“I’ve got two rooms reserved, side by side. That sound right?”
“Yes, please,”
Max replies.
She nods, pleased, and slides open a drawer to retrieve two keycards. There’s an ease to her movements—slow, practiced, with the air of someone who’s done this a thousand times yet hasn’t lost the warmth for it.
“Does the motel have a restaurant?” he asks.
She chuckles.
“No, baby, but we’ve got real good coffee in the morning. Just follow the smell of cinnamon rolls and gossip.”
“That might be my love language,”
I say with a grin.
“Then you’ll do just fine here,”
she replies, then winks.
“I can recommend Lucky’s just around the corner for dinner. They’ve got really good food—and you’re lucky. Today’s a bit of a town holiday. You’ll get to meet a lot of our residents.”
“Really?”
I ask, instantly intrigued. Max doesn’t look nearly as impressed.
“Lucky’s it is,”
he says, and I grin. Honestly? I’m already charmed out of my mind.
We walk up the short wooden staircase, keys in hand. The hallway creaks beneath our feet, and everything smells like cedar and fresh linen. His room is the first on the left. Mine is the next door down.
We pause between them.
I should be excited that we’ll have separate spaces, separate doors, separate beds… and while part of me is relieved to exhale alone for a minute, another part of me is disappointed. It was easier before, sharing the silence, with only six feet of motel air between us.
Max offers a small smile as he taps his key card.
“Shower, change, and meet back up?”
“Yeah.”
I nod.
“What time?”
He grabs his phone from his back pocket, unlocks it, and hands it to me.
“Text me so you’ll have my number, and you can message me when you’re ready.”
Our fingers brush, sending a chill through me.
I open a new thread and send myself a text without looking at him, then hand the phone back.
“Cool,”
I mutter.
“I’ll text you.”
He nods and disappears into his room as I stand in the hallway, listening to the soft click of his door closing. Then I do the same.
I dump my backpack on the bed, tugging at zippers and shaking out tangled chargers and gum wrappers, trying to find something to wear.
Then I realize... I don’t have much left.
I brought clothes for a three-day trip, and a couple extra undies. Not a multiday detour-across-state-lines kind of adventure filled with mountain air and unexpected hotel stays.
I sigh and dig through the bag I got back at the gas station, hoping for something that isn’t a half-melted chocolate bar, then I see them. The matching T-shirts.
I forgot how funny I thought they were when I saw them on the rack, how I grabbed them on impulse and then chickened out about handing his over. But now, they feel perfect.
I lay them out side by side on the bed, smoothing the wrinkles with my hand, and I don’t even think before pulling out my phone and snapping a picture.
ME
guess who found the world’s most ridiculous matching shirts
MAY
look at her
falling in love with a stranger on a road trip
JUNE
they’re just making memories
how sweet
MAY
we haven’t heard a single thing in about FOREVER
are the memories PG or not?? be honest.
I roll my eyes so hard I almost strain my brain, but I’m laughing as I type back.
ME
literally go away
JUNE
aw look she’s blushing
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab his shirt from the bed, fold it in a neat square, and march straight out the door. Apparently, I’m impulsive now.
I knock twice on his door, nerves flaring like I’ve done something wildly inappropriate—which, okay, maybe I have.
He opens the door, and there he is again in just a towel. Hair damp, chest bare, droplets running down his collarbone. That V above his hips doing... way too much. My brain short-circuits. My eyes are not cooperating. Hello, earth to April? We’ve lost cabin pressure.
“Uh—hi,”
I say, very eloquently.
“Hi,”
he states, as if he’s not shirtless and absolutely devastating.
“I got you a shirt to wear tonight.”
I hold it up like a peace offering.
He holds it up in front of him and smirks.
“‘We’re not lost?’”
“It’ll make sense, I promise.”
I grin—too wide, too obvious—and spin on my heel before my dignity goes down with the ship.
“See you in a bit!”
I call over my shoulder, practically diving back into my room.
The second I close the door behind me, I let out a squeal that would absolutely get me disqualified from being taken seriously ever again.
What was that?
Max, in a towel, looking like a model on the cover of every woman’s fantasies. And me, handing him a dumb gas station T-shirt like it was a love letter wrapped in sarcasm.
I drop onto the edge of the bed and stare at the shirt I still have to wear. It’s cute and funny and unwashed. Which I realize just now as I hold it up and catch a faint scent of stale cardboard and… What is that? Motor oil?
“Ew.”
Before I can spiral, I head for the bathroom and take along scalding shower—scrubbing myself like I’m trying to rinse off every decision I’ve ever made that led to me wearing agas station T-shirt on what is definitely not a date.
I feel better afterward. Mostly. I yank the shirt inside out and spritz it with my perfume like I’m staging a crime scene cover-up. Vanilla and citrus, thank you very much. A desperate attempt to turn roadside regret into soft girl who smells like she has her life together.
I get ready fast—light makeup, clean jeans, fresh-from-the-shower skin. Smoothing the shirt over my hips, I give myself a final once-over in the mirror.
It’s just dinner. In matching shirts. In a tiny mountain town. With a guy who looks like sin in a towel and makes my heart do weird things.
No big deal.
I text him.
ME
I’m ready.
A few moments later, there’s a knock at the door.
When I open it, Max is standing there fully dressed—thank God—in jeans, the matching T-shirt that’s a little snug across his chest, not that I noticed, and hair that’s still damp at the ends.
He’s holding his car keys, his expression caught between flustered and amused—brows lifted, smile crooked, eyes sparkling in a way that makes it impossible not to melt a little.
“You look—”
He clears his throat.
“Very coordinated.”
I smile, leaning against the doorframe.
“Thanks. I wanted us to match in case we got lost.”
He chuckles and glances down at his shirt.
“‘We’re Not Lost.’”
“Exactly. You’re wearing the lead-in. I’m the punchline.”
His smile curves, shy and a little crooked, but the warmth in his eyes gives him away. For a second, he looks almost boyish, as though no one’s ever bothered to notice him this way before.
“Shall we?”
he asks, lifting the keys slightly.
“It’s just around the corner,”
I say.
“Can we walk?”
“Absolutely.”
He steps back, motioning dramatically.
“After you.”
And just like that, we’re walking into the Cloudcroft evening—two strangers in matching T-shirts, pretending this isn’t turning into something more.