Page 105 of Chasing the Sun

In the quiet of the kitchen, I allowed myself to smile. A new, hopeful feeling settled between my ribs.

I hadn’t stopped to consider why I was making two cups of coffee like it was pure instinct—like she was an inevitable part of my morning now.

I ran a hand over my face, shaking my head as I popped the tops on the mugs to keep them warm. I grabbed both coffees and made my way out onto the porch. The air was cool, thick with the scent of earth and damp grass. A mist curled low over the fields, a quiet hush over everything as if the land itself was holding its breath, waiting for the day to begin.

And I stood there, waiting with it.

Outside, the land stretched before me in muted shades of blue and gray, waiting for the sun. In a few hours, it would be crawling with workers, the quiet replaced with hammering, shouting, the rhythmic hum of a town coming together to build something permanent.

The farm was changing.

She was changing it.

And hell, she was changing me.

I ran a hand over my jaw, exhaling. I should be worried about that, and maybe I was. The fate of the farmland rested in the Keepers’ hands. With every improvement, I could feel my dream slip further and further away. It was a strange sensation––to be sad about something but also vaguely okay with it.

I settled onto the porch steps just as the first golden streaks cut across the sky.

The first to arrive were the Amish. They moved quietly, efficiently, their horse-drawn buggies rolling in just as the sky began to warm from deep navy to soft pink. They worked without preamble, unloading tools, stacking wood, making their preparations without a single wasted movement. There was something steadying about their presence, their deep-rooted tradition turning what could have been chaos into something structured and precise. There was no wasted movement, no hesitation. It was like watching a well-practiced team fall into place, lifting beams, lining up supports, an entire framework taking shape before my eyes.

Then the rest of Star Harbor started rolling in.

Trucks and SUVs pulled into the drive, kicking up dust, doors slamming as people spilled out—neighbors, friends, old-timers with more opinions than muscle, young families eager to be part of something bigger than themselves. The quiet hum of work was joined by a familiar mix of voices and laughter.

There was an easy camaraderie as they all greeted one another, laughter mixing with the sounds of shifting lumber and rolling toolboxes. The kind of small-town unity that didn’t need to be spoken aloud to be understood.

And in the thick of it all was Elodie.

She moved through the crowd like she was born for this, all bright eyes and easy smiles, her hair twisted into some kind of messy knot on top of her head, the loose tendrils catching the golden morning light. She wore jeans that clung to the curves of her hips and a faded blue T-shirt that had probably been soft since the day it was made. She wasn’t directing—Elodie never seemed to do that—but she was everywhere at once, delegating with ease, checking in on the workers, making sure people had what they needed, capturing pictures with her phone and laughing.

It suited her.

All of it. The way she threw herself into things. The way she built a community around her without even trying. The way she’d turned that broken-down farm into something that people wanted to rally behind.

I tried to look away. I needed to focus on the work, the logistics, on the fact that they were about to build an entire barn in a single day.

Instead, I watched her.

She must have felt it because, in the middle of whatever she was saying to Selene, she turned, catching my gaze across the crowd. A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corner of her lips. I lifted her coffee mug, and her grin widened as her head bobbed in an enthusiastic nod.

I smiled and looked away first.

“Jesus,” a voice beside me drawled. “You are downbad.”

I scowled, turning to find Wes standing there, arms crossed, watching me with a smirk that was way too pleased with itself. Unease rolled through me, as though I’d been caught cheating on his beloved sister.

“It looks good on you,” he finally said, and the knot in my chest loosened. “For a while there, I was worried your dick was broken.”

I shot him a droll look as Hayes, Brody, and his younger brother Austin walked up.

“His dick is fine,” Brody chimed in. “He’s just been busy becoming a less-handsome equivalent to Julia Child.” He looked past me at the porch. “Speaking of ... I need a sweet treat.”

I laughed, reaching behind me for the bag. I tossed it at him, and he caught it midair before tearing it open.

“See,” I said to Wes, “I’m multitalented, unlike you uncultured cavemen.”

Hayes chuckled, glancing around and shaking his head. “Hell of a turnout.”