Chapter 2
Chapter two
Jack
It’s been years since a stranger’s touch got under my skin.
Years since a woman’s laugh cut through the background noise of my mind and made me want to chase after it just to hear it again.
But as I push through the doors of the Harvest Hollow Market and step out into the evening chill, all I can think about is the way Autumn Murphy said my name.
The sun is low, painting the town in long shadows and cold gold.
There’s frost on the corners of the parking lot, a group of kids bundled up in puffy coats racing for the donut shop on the corner, their breath clouds in the air.
The light from the market spills onto the sidewalk behind me, and for a moment I stand there, letting the cold bite my cheeks, not quite ready to let the spell break.
I cross to my truck, still thinking about Autumn. She looked like a city girl with the way she carried herself, that edge in her voice, the expensive-looking boots already dusted with farm dirt, but there was nothing guarded about her smile.
I slide the groceries into the back seat, not caring if the bread gets smushed.
My hands move on autopilot, but my head is somewhere else.
I can’t remember the last time I felt this curious about someone, hungry to know what makes them laugh, what keeps them up at night, what they look like first thing in the morning.
People warned me when I moved here that small towns have long memories.
That outsiders don’t always get invited in.
But it’s only been a month and already I know where the best coffee is, where to find gas after midnight, which bar to avoid if you don’t want to get dragged into a political debate.
I know the court clerk’s birthday and the librarian’s son’s football stats.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, dragging me out of my thoughts. It’s a reminder for a conference call I have no intention of joining. I silence it, then thumb through my contacts. I didn’t ask for her number. Should I have? Would it have been too forward, too fast?
I climb into the truck and drive the long way home, letting the scenery blur by.
Harvest Hollow is a town that slows you down whether you like it or not.
The Christmas lights are already tangled in the bushes outside the library.
The ice cream shop on Main Street is closed for the season, with a sign taped to the door that reads “See you in spring!”
I count four wreaths on the hardware store, two on the fire station, and at least a dozen on houses as I wind through the neighborhoods.
My house is a blue Craftsman a block off the square, with floors that creak and radiators that barely work, but I love the place already. There’s a porch swing out front and a cluster of pumpkins left over from Halloween. I can’t wait to get started on fixing it up in the spring.
I carry the groceries inside, stepping over a stack of boxes I still haven’t unpacked, and dump everything on the counter.
It’s quiet, just the tick of the kitchen clock and the whisper of wind at the windows. I light a fire in the small living room fireplace, watching the kindling catch, and lean against the doorframe, lost in thought.
There’s a photo of my old college friends on the mantle, everyone grinning, holding drinks at a rooftop bar.
I used to think that was the life I wanted.
Partner at the best law firm in the city, a calendar full of parties and dinners, along with all the noise I could handle.
The truth is, the more successful I got, the less I recognized myself.
I was tired of being needed but never known.
Harvest Hollow was supposed to be a reset button.
I didn’t expect to want anything more than peace and quiet.
And now? All I want is another five minutes with Autumn Murphy.
I try to read an old mystery novel borrowed from the library, the kind with yellowed pages and someone else’s notes in the margins, but I can’t get past the first paragraph. Her voice, her laugh, the way she challenged me in the market keep looping through my head.
I remember the way she looked at me, steady and a little appraising. There was a spark there, more than just a polite hello, more than the usual small-town curiosity about the new guy. It was heat, and interest, and a flicker of hope so strong I almost reached for it.
Eventually, I give up on the book. I think about tomorrow. Am I really thinking about going to her family’s house for Thanksgiving?
I wonder what her family is like, if her laugh is as easy around them as it was with me, and if her mom taught her to bake pies. I think about the way her hair slipped from its tie, the flush on her cheeks when our hands touched, and the way she didn’t let go right away.
I finish my wine, restless. There’s too much space in this house tonight. I wander to the porch and sit in the swing, watching the windows glow up and down the street, people setting tables and arguing about football and burning pies in kitchens just like mine.
I close my eyes, listening to the wind, and let myself imagine what it would be like to be part of that world.
To stand in the middle of the chaos and know that I belong, that someone wants me to stay, not because I can fix their legal problems or pay the tab, but because they see me, really see me.