9. Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Savannah
Iwake up thinking about Wyatt.
Specifically, the two seconds our hands stayed stacked on that ten-dollar bill longer than any honey transaction required.
I lie there for another minute, staring at the ceiling and telling myself there are probably several reasonable things I could do with that information.
Driving to the sheriff's office isn't one of them.
I do it anyway.
He's behind the desk when I walk in, sleeves rolled, going through some paperwork with the kind of focus most people save for things that really matter.
He looks up, and something crosses his face—surprise, maybe, or the effort of pretending he isn't.
“This a professional visit?” he asks immediately.
“Depends. Are you free tonight?”
“For a crime?”
“For dinner.” I lean against the doorframe. “Maybe Millie's. Then we could drive around for a while. See where we end up.”
He sets his pen down slowly.
“Savannah, are you asking me out?”
“No.” That comes out much too fast. “I'm asking my old friend to have dinner with me.”
“And drive around.”
“Friends can drive.”
His mouth starts to curve. “So this is definitely not a date.”
“As friends,” I confirm.
“Right.” He picks his pen back up. “Just wanted to be clear.”
“Are you going to go or not?”
“Yeah.” Now he's smiling. “I'll go.”
“I've got to run out for a couple hours this afternoon, but I'll be back by six.”
“Sheriff business?”
“Work.”
I look around his office. “Isn't this work?”
His mouth starts to curve. “One of them.”
“How many jobs do you have?”
“Depends on the day.”
He picks me up at six in the truck, windows down, late-afternoon air moving through the cab and lifting the ends of my hair off my shoulders. He has one hand loose on the wheel when I climb in, looking far too comfortable for a man who spent the afternoon making sure this was not a date.
“Still friends?” he asks as I buckle my seat belt.
I turn toward him. “Were you expecting a status change in the last four hours?”
“Just checking.”
“You seem very concerned about the rules.”
“I'm a sheriff. I like clarity.”
That gets a laugh out of me, and he smiles as he pulls away from Texie's curb.
The barbecue place he chooses sits just outside town, low and square with a neon pig glowing in the front window and a row of picnic tables beneath a metal awning.
I remember coming here after football games, when half the school would crowd into the place at once and nobody cared that we smelled like stadium grass and cheap perfume.
“I remember this place,” I say as we cross the parking lot.
Wyatt opens the door for me. “You should. You used to steal half my fries.”
“I ordered my own fries.”
“And then ate mine.”
“Maybe yours were better.”
“They came out of the same fryer.”
“That's never been proven.”
He shakes his head and follows me inside.
The hostess knows him by name and waves us toward a booth near the back.
The dinner rush hasn't started yet, so the room is mostly quiet, just silverware against plates, low country music from the old jukebox, and two men at the bar arguing about whether Stonebridge's football team has any chance this year.
I slide into the booth and pick up the menu.
This is better than a tour.
No revisiting every place we ever stood as teenagers. No forcing fifteen years of memories into one evening.
Just dinner with Wyatt.
I'm surprised by how relieved I am.
By the time our food arrives, we've moved from the farmers market to Blake Co., then into a competition over which of us had the strangest day at work.
Wyatt wins easily.
“A goat?” I ask, setting down my fork.
“A goat.”
“That was your emergency?”
“I didn't say emergency. You asked for my worst call.”
He takes a drink of sweet tea before continuing, clearly enjoying himself now.
“A tourist called nine-one-one because there was a goat standing on the hood of his rental car.”
I laugh hard enough that the couple in the next booth turns around.
“Don't laugh. The man was genuinely distressed.”
“He called the police over a goat?”
“He was from Chicago.”
“That explains absolutely nothing.”
“It did at the time.”
“How'd you get it down?”
“Granola bar.”
That does it. I lean back against the booth, laughing.
Wyatt's trying not to join me, but his mouth keeps pulling at one corner.
“You solved a nine-one-one call with half a granola bar.”
“I also located the owner.”
“Excellent police work, Sheriff.”
“Thank you.”
He's smiling fully now, and for a moment I forget what we were talking about.
I haven't seen Wyatt laugh much since I've been back. Smile, yes. That quiet half-smile he seems to use when he's trying not to give too much away.
This is different.
His whole face changes when he laughs.
I remember that.
I tell him about a Blake Co. show where a zipper broke less than a minute before a model was supposed to walk.
“I stitched her into the dress.”
His eyebrows rise. “While she was wearing it?”
“There wasn't time to take it off.”
He laughs again.
Dinner stretches longer than either of us planned. We talk about his first year as sheriff and my first design market in New York. He tells me Ellie has moved on from horses and now intends to become either a veterinarian or a professional soccer player, depending on the day.
I tell him Liv once sent an internal email to a buyer and spent twenty minutes pretending she'd meant to.
Nothing about the conversation feels important.
That's probably why it feels so good.
When the waitress clears our plates, the room has filled around us. I hadn't even noticed.
Wyatt checks his watch, then reaches for his wallet.
“You in a hurry?”
“No.”
“Good.” He sets a few bills beside the check. “I'd like to take you to Iron Ridge. Dad would like to say hi.”
"I would love that.”
I grab my purse. “Take me to Iron Ridge.”
Instead of turning toward Texie's, Wyatt heads out of town.
I remember the road.
Fields open on either side of us, greener than I remember, broken by fence lines and old trees. When Iron Ridge comes into view, the sun is already low enough to catch along the roof of the barn and turn the orchard gold at the edges.
It looks exactly the same.
The farmhouse.
The porch.
The barn where Wyatt and I used to hide when chores got too boring is still there, but it looks completely different.
Wide double doors have been added, along with a small covered porch across the front. The whole thing has been renovated, polished up from the old working barn I remember.
Wyatt parks beside it.
I'm still taking everything in when he comes around and opens my door.
“You planning to get out?”
I look up at him. “Wyatt, this is incredible.”
His smile comes slowly, unmistakably proud.
A wooden sign hangs over the entrance.
IRON RIDGE HONEY
“I love what you've done with the old barn. The doors, the porch. All of it.”
“Dad and I fixed it up a few years ago.”
I climb out, still looking around.
That's when I spot the wooden sign hanging over the entrance.
IRON RIDGE HONEY
smile. “So this is where all that delicious, beautiful honey comes from.”
“Actually, it comes from honeybees.”
“Thank you, Sheriff. I was unclear on that.”
He laughs. “This is where we bottle it and get it ready to sell. Come see inside.”
He unlocks the door and flips on the lights.
The space opens up in front of me, larger than I expected.
Warm wood shelves line the walls, filled with rows of amber jars in different sizes.
Beeswax candles sit near the register beside small gift boxes and honey sticks.
There's a display of soap near one window and a broad worktable in the center of the room with shipping boxes tucked beneath it.
Nothing about it is fancy.
Everything about it works.
Which feels very Wyatt.
I move toward the nearest shelf and pick up a jar.
The honey is beautiful, deep amber when I hold it toward the light.
The label is simple. Classic. Very Wyatt.
I turn the jar over. Then back again.
And immediately start imagining what the Blake Co. design team could do with it.
Behind me, Wyatt sighs.
“Don't.”
I turn. “I didn't say anything.”
“You didn't have to.”
“I was admiring the honey.”
“You were judging the label.”
“I'm a designer. It's involuntary.”
He comes over and takes the jar from me.
“It says Iron Ridge Honey. Tells people exactly what's inside.”
“In a font that looks like it came free with a printer.”
“It sells.”
“The honey sells.”
“Same thing.”
“Not even close.”
He puts the jar back on the shelf with more care than necessary.
I move on to the candles, smiling.
“These are nice.”
“Ellie helps Dad pour them.”
I pick one up and lift it toward my nose. “Honey and vanilla?”
“That's what she tells me.”
“You don't know?”
“I don't generally smell the inventory.”
“You should. Market research.”
He folds his arms.
“You've been in here five minutes and you're already redesigning the place.”
“Six.”
“That's worse.”
I turn slowly, taking in the shelves again.
The labels could use some work.
“You know what you have here?”
“Honey.”
I give him a look.
“A story. Family farm. Three generations. Local bees. An orchard. A sheriff who has too many jobs.”
“I don't put the sheriff part on the label.”
“You should.”
“No.”
“Fine. It’s already beautiful. But a few changes could help your sales.”
That makes him pause.
Not defensive this time.
Just listening.
I pick up another jar.
“The product already speaks for itself. I’m talking about the marketing.”
Before he can respond, the door swings open.
Ellie comes in wearing pajama pants covered in tiny soccer balls and an oversized T-shirt, Moose right behind her. Her hair is in a loose braid that looks like she did it herself.
“I knew you were here.”
She says it with enough satisfaction that I have a feeling our being here together is the interesting part.
Then she hurries over and wraps her arms around me.
The hug catches me by surprise, but I hug her right back.
“Hi, Ellie.”
She lets go and turns immediately to Wyatt, apparently finished with me now that she has more important business.
“Can I have another cookie?”
Wyatt checks the clock. “Why aren't you getting ready for bed?”
“I am ready.”
“Ready for bed doesn't usually involve leaving the house.”
“Grandpa sent me.”
She holds up the cookie.
Wyatt stares at it. “Why?”
“He said I could have another one if you said yes.”
“Grandpa is twenty feet away.”
“I know.”
“And he sent you over here?”
Ellie nods like this is perfectly reasonable.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Wyatt catches me anyway.
“Don't encourage her.”
“I'm standing here.”
“You're smiling.”
“Can't help that.”
Ellie looks between us. “Can I have the cookie?”
“One.”
She grins. “Thanks, Dad.”
The word is so casual she doesn't seem to notice it.
Wyatt doesn't either.
Or if he does, it doesn't show.
Ellie turns and heads back toward the house, Moose trotting after her.
I watch them cross the yard.
Hearing her call Wyatt Dad is different from hearing him explain it at the farmers market.
There was no hesitation.
No big moment.
Just Dad.
“She seems happy,” I say.
Wyatt starts straightening a row of jars Ellie probably knocked crooked on the way in.
“She is.”
“You've done a good job with her.”
His hand stills for a moment.
“She did most of the hard part.”
“She was a kid, Wyatt.”
“Still is.”
“I know.”
He doesn't take compliments easily. I remember that too.
Some things really don't change.
***
The shop door opens again and Mr. Stapleton steps inside.
“Thought I heard voices.”
Then he sees me.
“Savannah.”
His whole face brightens, and before I've decided whether we're still people who hug, he's already crossed the room and pulled me into one.
“It's good to see you out here again, sweetheart.”
I close my arms around him.
“It's good to be here.”
He lets me go and studies me for a second.
“You staying for cobbler?”
Mr. Stapleton gestures toward the house. “Come on. Ellie’s been waiting for an excuse to keep you here.”
Wyatt mutters something about that being entirely possible and starts toward the door.
I linger another second, taking in the shelves.
“You really built all this?”
Wyatt turns back.
“Dad and I did.”
“No, I mean the whole thing. The shop. The farmers market booth. Bottling it, selling it.”
He shrugs like it isn't much.
“Started small. People liked the honey.”
“People don't keep buying something year after year just because they like it. You built something good here, Wyatt.”
He waits.
I pick up one of the jars. “Even if the labels are tragic.”
He takes it from me. “They're functional.”
“That's not the same thing.”
He shakes his head, but he's smiling now.
“Come on, designer. Cobbler.”
I follow him out, already thinking about fonts.
When we pull into Texie's drive, the porch light is already on.
Wyatt parks and shuts off the engine.
“Thanks for tonight,” I say.
“Anytime.”
We get out, and Wyatt walks me across the yard to the porch.
At the door, I turn toward him. “I had a really good time.”
“So did I.”
For a second, neither of us seems quite ready to end the night.
“Goodnight, Wyatt.”
“Goodnight, Savannah.”
I open the door and step inside.
He waits until I'm in before heading back to his truck.
Later, lying in bed, I think about the evening.
About Wyatt now.
The man raising Ellie. The sheriff an entire town trusts. The man who listened while I talked and made me laugh through dinner.
I've spent the last few days telling myself Wyatt feels this comfortable because I loved him once.
Maybe that's not it.
Maybe I'm starting to like the man he is now entirely too much.
I pull the blanket up and close my eyes.
That feels considerably more dangerous.