Page 56

Jake runs over and tugs on my shirt. “Can I try the ring toss, Aunt Quinn? Please?”

“Go for it,” I say, handing him a couple of tickets. He bolts, and Wes laughs.

We make our way toward the picnic tables where Abby and Beckett are setting up, baby Violet strapped to Abby’s chest in a sunflower-patterned carrier. Megan waves us over from a lemonade stand, and next to her, Savannah Jenkins—one of the newer clinic hires—hands out cups with a practiced grace that belies her occasional klutziness.

“Savannah!” I call.

She turns, nearly sloshing a pitcher of lemonade down her scrubs. “Hey, Quinn! I’m surviving. Barely. Megan’s got me in volunteer bootcamp.”

Megan snorts. “You dropped a pretzel stick in the cotton candy machine. You needed supervision.”

Savannah rolls her eyes, but her smile is bright. She’s only been in town a few months but is already a favorite—quirky, kind, and constantly baking treats she insists aren’t good enough even as people beg for more.

“You look cozy,” she says, giving me a sly grin as she eyes Wes.

“It’s been a good week,” I admit, my cheeks flushing.

Wes steps closer, offering his hand. “Wes Archer.”

“Savannah Jenkins. Nurse. Trouble. Professional lemonade wrangler.”

He laughs, and the two of them exchange a warm handshake. It means something to see him welcomed so easily by the people in my world.

“You sticking around, or is this just a romantic detour?” Savannah asks bluntly.

I blink.

Wes doesn’t. “I’m staying.”

Savannah looks at me, then back at him, and nods. “Good. Quinn’s too awesome for temporary.”

The honesty in her voice makes me want to hug her.

We sit down for the community picnic, wedged between Liz and Griff on one side and Savannah and a local firefighter onthe other. The food is messy and perfect—baked beans, ribs, watermelon slices. Jake runs up every five minutes to show me another prize he’s won.

“Wes,” Savannah says around a bite of cornbread, “don’t take this the wrong way, but I expected you to be taller.”

He nearly chokes on his drink. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.”

She shrugs. “It’s the vibe. Big-deal hockey star, emotional damage, mysteriously broody—you’re supposed to be six foot five and glowering.”

I giggle into my lemonade.

“He’s six feet of reformed menace,” I say.

Wes grins. “Thanks?”

Savannah raises her glass. “To second chances, then.”

The sun dips lower, casting golden light across the lake. Somewhere nearby, a kid screams with glee from a potato sack race. The band strikes up a slower tune, and I lean against Wes.

“You know,” he murmurs, “I never imagined something like this.”

“Like what?”

“A small-town festival. Kids running wild. Friends who talk back. You, laughing.”

“You’re doing pretty well for a hot shot hockey heartthrob.”