Chapter 24 Alex
ALEX
The Range Rover hummed beneath me, steady and smooth and completely unbothered by my mood as the road stretched out ahead.
I’d left Bainsville an hour ago, where I owned property, paid taxes, and pretended I had my life neatly sorted, telling myself I just needed to clear my head.
A drive. Distance. Space. That usually worked.
It always had. But my hands stayed tight on the wheel, my jaw locked like my body hadn’t gotten the memo.
I’d done the sensible thing, leaving Maplewood Falls a week ago.
I told myself I was fine with the decision.
Told myself I’d handled it the right way.
That I’d left before things got complicated.
Before I stayed somewhere too long. Before a woman with sharp blue eyes and a stubborn pink inn got under my skin and stayed there.
The road flattened out, trees blurring past in steady green streaks. I drove the way I always did, hands at ten and two, speed just over the limit, eyes forward. Control—that was the point of leaving.
I’d told myself that all week. Said it like a checklist item. Said it while I worked, while I slept, while I drove between properties and pretended the silence meant something good.
The days had been full, productive, the kind of week that usually settled me. Inspections. Meetings. A roof that needed replacing. A tenant who thought a leak counted as an emergency because it inconvenienced him.
I fixed what needed fixing. Signed what needed signing. Ate when I remembered to. Slept when my body finally shut down.
And none of it stuck.
Her face showed up anyway. Everywhere and at any time. Not when I was trying to think about her, when I wasn’t. When I reached for tools and walked into kitchens. When tenants were speaking to me. When I caught myself listening for a voice that wasn’t there.
Her face… always her face.
I told myself it was habit. Proximity. Residual noise from time spent in one place too long.
But the week didn’t settle. It just stacked up.
Every night ended the same way—quiet and unfinished, like I’d walked away from a job before the last bolt was tightened.
That was one of my rules. Don’t leave things unfinished.
It hadn’t come from something I’d read in a book or picked up from a motivational quote taped to a gym wall. It was earned, learned the hard way, and etched in place by one specific mistake I’d promised myself I wouldn’t repeat.
I’d broken the rule once. It had been years ago, another property, another town.
A place I’d told myself I was only passing through.
Short-term work. Temporary presence. I’d stayed longer than planned because things kept needing attention.
One more inspection. One more repair. One more week and then another.
There had been a woman. There was always a woman when lines blurred.
She hadn’t asked for anything unreasonable.
That was the problem. She’d asked for things that sounded small at first—dinner, time, consistency.
Those kinds of requests don’t feel like demands until you realize you’re answering them without thinking.
I hadn’t promised her forever. I hadn’t lied, but I hadn’t been clear either. I’d let her believe the staying meant something it didn’t. Or maybe I’d let myself believe that if I didn’t name it, I wasn’t responsible for it.
By the time I realized I was in too deep, the damage was already done.
Leaving hadn’t been the mistake. Staying too long had been.
That was the lesson.
Don’t stay long enough for someone to build a life around you if you’re not willing to stand still inside it. Don’t let proximity turn into promise. Don’t confuse being decent with being careful.
So I made rules.
I finished jobs. I left when it was time. I didn’t cross lines that couldn’t be uncrossed without consequence. And most of the time, those rules worked. They kept things simple. Organized. Predictable.
They kept me from doing damage.
I tightened my grip on the wheel, my mouth set hard as the road hummed beneath me.
The problem was, New York hadn’t asked for more. She hadn’t leaned. She hadn’t tried to make me stay. She’d just been there, steady, capable, and holding everything together without expecting me to become part of the structure.
Yet somehow, I’d applied an old rule to a situation that didn’t match the memory that created it.
The cab smelled faintly of leather and sawdust, the ghost of work days that had bled into nights. My phone sat face down in the console, silent. It had been silent all day.
Good. Silence meant I hadn’t made things worse.
I replayed the kiss anyway. I didn’t want to, but my body did it for me. Muscle memory. Heat. Whatever the fuck it was. The way she’d gone still for half a second before leaning in like she’d decided something.
It had been impulsive, I got that. But I’d liked it. A lot.
That was the problem.
I’d known exactly what it meant. I just hadn’t known what to do with it.
The sign came up fast—green, reflective, and familiar. I read it without thinking. MAPLEWOOD FALLS 2 MILES
I didn’t slow down. Didn’t hit the brakes either. Just stared at it a beat too long before my foot eased off the gas on its own.
Damnit.
I exhaled through my nose, long and controlled, like I was lowering something heavy into place.
So that was that.
I’d left Maplewood Falls a week ago. I hadn’t planned on coming back so soon.
But apparently my brain and body had already made that decision for me because I couldn’t remember how the fuck I’d ended up back here.
I passed roads I’d driven too many times, turns that lived in my hands. I’d told myself I was leaving town, clearing my head, putting space between me and Maplewood Falls—between me and something I didn’t have the right to want.
Turned out I’d just taken the long way back.
I could still turn around. There was a turnaround less than a mile ahead. I knew that too. Knew exactly where it was. I’d used it plenty of times hauling equipment, adjusting routes, correcting mistakes.
That’s what this was. Right? A mistake.
Except it didn’t feel like one.
What felt wrong was leaving.
I tightened my grip on the wheel, my knuckles whitening, and finally let the thought finish itself instead of cutting it off halfway like I’d been doing all week.
I should’ve stayed.
Staying had never scared me because of what it might take from me.
It scared me because of what it might change.
With New York, staying wouldn’t be temporary.
It wouldn’t be a few extra days tacked onto a project or a slow drift into something I could eventually step away from.
Staying would mean choosing a place, choosing a rhythm that wasn’t dictated by contracts and deadlines.
It would mean waking up and knowing where I was going to be next month, next year.
That kind of permanence had weight.
I’d built my life around motion, around the idea that I could always move on once the work was done. I could finish the job and leave it better than I found it. That wasn’t avoidance. It was order. It was how I stayed useful without getting stuck.
But New York wasn’t a project.
She didn’t need fixing or managing. She was already doing the work, holding that place together with grit and stubbornness and a quiet refusal to quit. If I stayed, it wouldn’t be to help her. It would be to stand beside her.
And that was different.
Because standing beside someone meant they saw you when you stopped moving. They noticed when you hesitated. They expected you to be there tomorrow, not just until the last nail was driven.
I imagined it without meaning to, mornings that weren’t rushed, a kitchen that wasn’t borrowed, the inn settled into something steady and alive. I imagined knowing the rooms by heart not because I’d fixed them but because I belonged there.
The thought settled low and heavy. That was the part I hadn’t been honest about.
Leaving wasn’t just about protecting her. It was about protecting the version of myself that didn’t have to choose. The one who could say, “This is temporary,” and mean it.
With New York, temporary wouldn’t hold.
If I stayed, it would be because I wanted to. Not because she asked. Not because she needed me to.
And wanting that meant risking it. Risking the work, the balance, the rules that had kept everything else clean and contained.
I exhaled slowly, the road stretching out in front of me. I’d told myself my rules existed to keep people from getting hurt. What I hadn’t admitted was that they also kept me from ever wanting to stay.
The truth settled in, quiet but undeniable.
Leaving had been the safer choice.
Staying would be the braver one.
And I wasn’t ready to pretend those were the same thing anymore.
The words landed, heavy and solid, like a truth you didn’t argue with once you heard it said out loud, even if it was only in your head.
I should’ve stayed and talked. Should’ve explained. Should’ve given her the dignity of the whole story instead of deciding for her what she could handle.
I’d been an asshole, and I knew it.
I’d told myself I was protecting her. I knew she was already dealing with enough already with the inn, the repairs, the pressure, the way she carried everything like it was hers alone to manage.
What I hadn’t admitted was that leaving had been easier than trusting myself to stay without breaking my own rules.
I didn’t start things I couldn’t finish or get involved where I couldn’t commit. I didn’t make promises I wasn’t sure I could keep. Those rules had served me well. Built my life. Kept it clean and orderly and predictable.
They’d also kept me alone.
New York hadn’t asked me for guarantees. She hadn’t asked me to stay forever or fix her life or be something I wasn’t. She’d just looked at me like she saw me, like she trusted me to show up honestly.
And I’d decided she didn’t get a say.
The road curved gently, familiar landmarks sliding into place—the diner, the hardware store, the stretch where the trees opened up and the air changed, salt sneaking in even with the windows closed.
I kept going.
I had to tell her why I left. What I was afraid of. What I wanted, and what I didn’t know how to promise yet.
And then I had to let her decide.
I drove past the turnoff without taking it, letting the decision wait another mile. I let myself sit in it, the discomfort, the crack in the rules I’d lived by for years.
I’d built my life on rules for a reason. They’d kept everything intact and orderly.
But for the first time, the rule didn’t feel like protection. It felt like avoidance.
Maybe restraint wasn’t respect if it took someone else’s choice away. Maybe finishing something didn’t always mean walking away clean.
I gripped the wheel, my jaw tight, focused on the road ahead of me.
I fucked up. I realized that now.
I should have stayed.