Page 126 of Chasing the Sun

To keep her.

Her curls were pulled back into a loose knot, and there were smudges under her eyes, like she hadn’t slept much either.

“Didn’t expect to see you out here,” I said finally.

She sipped her coffee. “Didn’t expect to find you either. But ... I sort of hoped.”

That pulled something loose in my chest. Something I hadn’t realized I’d been clinging to.

The words hovered behind my teeth, burning for release. I almost said them then—I love you—but it didn’t feel right. Not yet. Not until I was certain I could give her everything she deserved.

“El,” I said, and my voice broke a little. I cleared my throat. “I’ve been thinking a lot about ... everything.”

She didn’t interrupt, but tilted her head toward me, listening.

“I keep looking at all the versions of life I’ve tried to build,” I continued. “Levi. The inn. The restaurant. I thought if I could just get one thing right, everything else would settle.”

The breeze stirred the leaves above us, a low rustling sound that felt like it was listening too.

“But my time with you? That’s the only thing that’s ever made me feel ... alive.”

Her breath hitched andfuck it, I was too exhausted to keep denying it.

“I love you,” I said.

Her head whipped toward me, eyes wide, mouth parting like she hadn’t been ready for it. She swayed slightly, like I’d knocked the wind out of her with three little words. Her lips remained parted, breath shallow, and her fingers went slack around the coffee mug.

“I’ve been holding it in,” I said, the truth catching in my throat. “Every time you laugh. Every time you fight like hell for this place. Every time you look at me like maybe I’m enough. I’ve been falling, Elodie. I love you and not in asomeday, maybe kind of way. Not if things work out or when the timing’s better. I love you now. Completely.”

I turned to face her fully.

“Even if all I get to do is bring you coffee and fix fences, Elodie, I’m in. I’m all in.”

She blinked. Once. Twice, and then her coffee slipped from her hand into the grass, forgotten.

My heart pounded like a war drum. I’d said too much. Maybe it was too soon. Maybe I’d broken something that had only just started to heal.

I started to step back—to apologize—when she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around my waist, pressing her cheek to my chest like she needed to hear the truth in my heartbeat. I held her there, fingers curling into the fabric of her hoodie, burying my nose in her hair. The orchard stretched out around us, glowing gold with the morning light.

She clutched the front of my shirt like she was afraid I’d disappear. Elodie’s voice was flooded with emotion. Her voice shook. “You wrecked me, Callum Blackwood. And I don’t even care. I love you so damn much I can’t see straight.” Her eyes blazed as they searched mine. “I got the money. I don’t know how or why, but it’s happening. I can’t stand the idea of some stranger taking it away from us.” Her words ran into one another as she rambled. “But I don’t want you to think that I’m taking this lightly. I know what it means for you to not have the restaurant, I?—”

My mouth found hers and I squeezed her tight, willing the moment to stretch on forever. No matter what came next, that moment was special. It was ours. Everything else could be figured out later.

For the first time in forever, I didn’t feel like I was standing in someone else’s story. I felt like I was home.

THIRTY-EIGHT

ELODIE

The Drifted Spiritsmelled like butter and cinnamon and a little bit of chaos.

I stood at the far end of the wide farmhouse kitchen, elbow-deep in a bowl of biscuit dough and wearing one of Cal’s spare aprons. The hem brushed my knees, and the strings were looped twice around my waist, tied in a bow that kept coming undone.

“Flour’s in the bin under the counter,” Helen called from behind the stovetop, where she was managing three sizzling cast-iron pans with the grace and precision of a woman who’d been raised on Sunday brunch and strong coffee. I could feel the warmth of the oven at my back and the cool marble counter under my fingertips. The scent of clove and rising dough clung to my sleeves, the kind of comfort that made you close your eyes and justbreathe.

“I found it,” I said, brushing a rogue curl out of my face with the back of my hand. A smudge of flour ended up across my cheek, but I didn’t bother to wipe it away.

We’d already served the first wave of guests—retired teachers from Kalamazoo who’d eaten their weight in pecanwaffles and maple-glazed sausage—and now we were prepping for round two. There were a few late sleepers trickling down from their rooms upstairs, and Helen said we might as well keep the griddle going.