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“SAM?”

I turned and looked up to see what could only be described as a massive bundle of clothing, with Ben’s face barely visible beneath it.

“Your mom sent me down here,” he said, his voice muffled by the thick layers.

I raised an eyebrow, leaning against the work table.

“Sent you to help? You don’t exactly look prepared to wrestle sap lines.”

“No, no.” He tugged the scarf down enough for me to see his mouth, and sure enough, his face was flushed—whether from cold or embarrassment, I couldn’t tell.

“Not to help. I needed to talk to you about… something I found, and your mom said it would be something you’d want to know about.”

Something about his tone piqued my curiosity.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” His brown eyes brightened with enthusiasm.

“I’ve been helping Harriet organize old donations at the library, and I came across a set of letters. They’re… Samuel P. Caldwell’s letters. Or at least, they’re addressed to him—from Clara, his wife.”

“ The Samuel P. Caldwell?”

Ben nodded, his excitement growing.

“The founder of Caldwell Crossing. I’ve read a couple of them, and they’re incredible.” He paused as though he wasn’t sure if he was oversharing.

“Anyway, some letters even mention Stonebridge Maple Farm locations, and your mom says you’d know better than she does. About your family’s farm, I mean.”

Well, that was a crock of shit.

My parents had shown me every nook and cranny of our acreage, so why would she…

And then it hit me.

She hadn’t sent Ben here because I was an expert—she was matchmaking.

Again.

“Isn’t that exciting?” Ben added and waited for me to answer.

Exciting wasn’t the word that immediately came to mind, but I couldn’t miss how Ben’s face lit up as he talked, his breath misting in the cold air.

His enthusiasm was contagious, and I stood straighter, listening closer.

“I figured you’d want to know about them,” he continued.

“I mean, you’re his great-great-grandson, right? It’s history. Your history.”

“I’m busy.” I waved at the shed and all the machinery, so he’d understand what I meant.

He followed my gesture, and the excitement dimmed in his eyes.

I’d done that, taken away his enthusiasm, and I didn’t have time for old family history, but I was never knowingly cruel to people.

“Sorry. I mean, I’d love to see them,” I lied.

“Just maybe after the season.”

His smile came back, and it was the most beautiful smile.

He was cute, sweet, and gentle, and the way he bounced on his toes was so fucking endearing.

“Cool,” he said and then bounced once more.

“I’ll uhm… I’ll go then.”

“Sure,” I muttered, turning back to the spiles I’d been sorting, trying to focus on something other than the fact that he was still standing there.

“How long is the season?” he asked, not going anywhere, and I sighed when I lost count.

Again.

Only I was rewarded when his beautiful smile returned.

Cute, sweet, gentle—Ben had this quiet energy about him that snuck up on me when I least expected it.

I had to look away, or he’d see how much I wanted to kiss his smile.

And protect him, and hold him, and keep him warm and—

“Sorry?” I asked.

“How long is the season?” He stopped my stupid, spiraling thoughts, not moving an inch.

I huffed out a soft laugh, straightening to look at him.

“Depends on the weather. Usually, it’s about six weeks, give or take. Some years, we get longer, but once the trees start to bud, that’s it. The sap turns bitter.”

He nodded thoughtfully as though he were taking mental notes.

“And you tap all the trees in that time?”

“Pretty much. Hundreds of them, all over the sugarbush.” I gestured to the room around us.

“Everything has to be ready to go before the first run starts otherwise, we’ll be playing catch-up.”

At that, Ben tilted his head, considering, then took the stool Dad had been sitting on earlier.

He sat down, elbows resting on his knees, his chin propped on his hands as he watched me.

He was still wrapped up like a snowman, layered in at least a hundred things, and I’d never seen anything so damn cute.

“You look like you’re about to ask more questions.” I smirked.

“Maybe,” he replied, his lips twitching into a small smile.

“What’s the process like? After the sap comes in, I mean.”

I grabbed one of the fresh spiles from the table and held it up.

“Here. Let me show you.” I moved closer, holding the small tap out for him to see.

“This goes into the tree. You drill a small hole—only an inch and a half deep—and tap this in to catch the sap. It’s mostly lines and tubing these days, but you’ll still see buckets too. Tradition and all.”

Ben straightened, pulling one of his gloves off to take the spile from me.

His bare fingers brushed mine, and the brief touch was enough to send a jolt through me that I pretended not to feel.

“Like this?” he asked, holding it like I’d shown him.

“Yeah,” I said, stepping closer to adjust the angle of his grip.

We were inches apart now, close enough that I could see the faint bruising still on his cheek from the accident and the bruises on his forehead.

He glanced up at me, his green eyes curious and sharp, and for a second, I forgot what I was explaining.

He broke the moment first, staring down at the spile in his hands.

“I don’t know how you do all this. Six weeks of running around the woods, boiling sap, managing everything… I’d be useless at all that physical stuff.”

“You’d figure it out,” I replied, leaning back.

He reached for my arm and squeezed my bicep, “I guess that’s how you got these then.”

I didn’t move.

Mesmerized. So close I could just lean over and kiss him, right here.

He filled the silence.

“I guess that’s how you could lift me to your truck when I was all discombobulated after crashing?”

I was so damn hard it was difficult to think, what with all my blood rushing south.

“Uh huh,” I managed.

“So how many of these taps do you have?” he asked, and the moment was broken.

“Twelve hundred organized and ready to go.” I kept them in neat rows, sorted and counted with precision—because once the sap run started, there wouldn’t be time to scramble for missing equipment.

“It’s a different world here,” he murmured.

Something in his voice had shifted—quieter now.

“Different to Boston?”

He nodded.

“Yeah. I don’t miss it.”

“What about your job there? Mom said something about computers?”

He winced.

“Sort of. It’s… complicated.” He hesitated, his thumb tracing the edge of the tap.

“Everything went to shit. I lost my job, not that I can talk about it—NDAs and all that.”

“‘NDA’?”

“Yeah, a Non-Disclosure Agreement. It’s a legal contract that means I can’t talk about—”

“I know what an NDA is.” I put on my best country drawl and poked him with one of the other spiles.

“Sorry, I’m… underestimating this town,” he said.

“I’m teasing you.” I nudged him on the shoulder and said, “You’re holding that spile like it’s going to bite you.”

That got a smile out of him—a real one, not forced or shy.

“I’ve never exactly been outdoorsy,” he said, laughing.

“I’m thrilled I’ve touched an actual tool!” He went scarlet and dipped his head to stare at his hands.

“Well, it’s a start,” I said, stepping back before I did something stupid, like reach for his hand again.

“Next thing you know, you’ll be in the sugarbush helping me tap trees.”

He shook his head.

“Let’s not get carried away.”

“You’ll have to come to the Tap the Year,” I blurted.

He blinked at me. “And that is?”

“A celebration for the start of the season, coffee, doughnuts, a ceremonial tap, this Saturday.” Everything spilled out of me.

He nodded. “Okay. I’d love to. What time?”

“We start around three, and then it goes on into the evening. It’s friends and family and potluck.”

“I could bring something,” he volunteered, then laughed.

“Scratch that, I’ll ask Aunt Harriet to make something for me to bring.”

“She’s invited anyway—Mom invites the entire knitting circle—so instead of food, how about you bring your cute self?”

Fuck!

What the fuck did I just say?

He slid off the stool, steadying himself, and handed me the spile, offering me the softest of smiles.

“I’ll see you Saturday at three.”

“Bye,” I said, returning to the table, hearing him leave and shutting the door behind him.

God. I’m a fucking idiot.

I wished I could keep him there longer, asking questions and flashing that shy smile.

He had a way of getting under my skin without even trying.

“Haider and his fucking dibs,” I muttered under my breath as I leaned against the counter, my phone already in hand.

This needed to be sorted out long before Saturday.

Because if it wasn’t, there was a very real chance I’d smash the bro-code to bits by tugging Ben behind a tree and kissing him senseless.

I hit Haider’s contact and pressed call .

He answered on the third ring with a grumbled, “No one uses phones to call people, Sammy.”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Ever heard of messaging? Some of us are working!”

The tone caught me off guard.

Haider was all warmth and energy, not this curt version.

“Um… are you okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“You seem—”

“Sorry—I’m good—too much work,” he replied, his voice lighter but still not quite right.

I’d known Haider a very long time, and he wasn’t right.

“What did you call for?”

I hesitated, rubbing the back of my neck as I paced the room.

“I, uh… I might have sort of… think…”

“What?” Haider asked, his tone sharpening.

“Shit, Sam, what? Is it your parents?”

“No,” I muttered, feeling my nerves spike.

“Okay, look. I like Ben.”

“Ben from Boston?” Haider said.

“Big-city Ben.”

There it was—a reminder of what happened last time I’d been interested in a guy.

I rubbed my chest. Byron-from-the-city had been an aberration, a blip, someone I shouldn’t waste time on.

There was silence for half a beat before Haider continued, “And?”

“And you called dibs,” I said, the words spilling out faster now.

“But I think I want to kiss him, and I don’t want to do something idiotic like destroy the bro-code, if that’s even a thing.”

There was another pause, then the sound of Haider snorting.

One laugh turned into another, and I could imagine him rolling on the floor.

“It’s not funny,” I snapped, feeling stupid and defensive.

“You can’t call dibs on a person,” Haider said, his voice still tinged with amusement.

“But you said—”

“I was joking, Sam,” he interrupted, still chuckling with a hint of exasperation.

“Come on, did you really think I was serious?”

“Well, yeah,” I admitted, feeling my face heat even though he couldn’t see me.

“It’s not like I know all the rules to this dating crap.”

He sighed, and for a moment, the line went quiet.

When he spoke again, his voice had softened.

“Look, you like him, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice quieter now.

“And he’s nothing like… y’know… the other one.”

“I hope not.”

“Then go for it,” he said.

“If Ben likes you back, that’s all that matters.”

There was something off in his tone, the first time I’d ever heard Haider sound as if he were holding back.

I frowned. “Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked again.

“All good,” he said, brushing it aside.

“Jeez, Sam, go get your man.”

He hung up before I could say anything else, leaving me standing there, phone still in hand, staring at the screen.

Something wasn’t right.

Haider didn’t get grumpy.

He didn’t brush me off like that.

And yet, he had.

But before I could dwell on it too much, my thoughts shifted back to Ben.

To his shy smile, the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.

Haider’s words echoed in my head.

“Go get your man.”

Maybe I would.

And I’d be sure to have something to break the ice.

Something that would fascinate him long enough so I could stare at him.

“WHERE DO WE keep the old family history stuff?” I asked Mom, leaning against the kitchen counter as she stirred soup in a pot on the stove.

The smell of simmering herbs and vegetables filled the room—comforting and familiar.

She’d asked me over for dinner, and there was no way I’d say no.

She glanced at me, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

“History stuff? What kind of history?”

“I don’t know—photos, papers, anything from way back.”

She shrugged, her brow furrowing.

“In your dad’s office, I guess. Go ask him. He’s got all the old junk crammed in that storage room.”

I headed to Dad’s office, the small, book-filled space that doubled as the farm’s nerve center.

He was at his desk, poring over receipts.

“You need something?” he asked without taking his eye off the paperwork, a pen tapping on the ledger in front of him.

“Mom said you might have some old family stuff in here. History—like photos, papers, that kind of thing.”

He finally looked up, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“History, huh? Yeah, there are some boxes in the storage room. Hold on.”

Dad stood, moving at the steady, deliberate pace he used for everything, and disappeared into the storage room.

I heard shuffling, the scrape of a box being dragged out, then another.

“Here,” he said when he returned, dusting off his hands.

“Journals, photos, and whatnot. There’s probably some ledgers in there, too. You’re not about to start a genealogy project, are you?”

I snorted, hefting the boxes in my arms. “Nope. Just curious.”

He paused, glancing at me as if he wanted to say something else, then gestured toward the window.

“How’s that young maple in the north field doing? You check it this week?”

I nodded, adjusting my grip on the boxes.

“Yeah, the new growth looks good. Should be solid for tapping in a few years.”

He gave me a small smile that said he approved but didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.

“Good. That’s good.”

I carried the boxes upstairs to my room and set them down next to my desk.

Their weight stirred something in me—an odd mix of anticipation and nostalgia.

Whatever was in these boxes was a piece of the farm, of us, and that felt important, and Ben would be so excited to see them.

Dinner was the usual—Dad was quiet, Mom filled the silence with updates on the neighbors and whatever small-town gossip she’d picked up that week.

“I saw Harriet at the store today,” Mom said, her tone casual but her eyes gleaming in that way that always spelled trouble.

“Uh-huh?” I said, reaching for the bread basket.

“She was talking more about Ben and how it’s so nice he finally has a friend like you who’s… compatible.”

I nearly choked on my soup.

“Mom—”

“What? I’m just saying.” Her grin didn’t falter as she waved a hand, dismissing my protest. “He’s handsome, isn’t he?”

“Stop matchmaking,” I muttered

Dad chuckled from his end of the table.

“Oh, let her have her fun,” he said, barely hiding his smirk.

I rolled my eyes but leaned over to peck Mom on the cheek.

“You’re impossible, you know that?”

“And you’re my favorite child,” she said, laughing.

“I’m your only child.” I deadpanned.

Then, the elephant in the room sat on my chest. “You know what happened before, with Byron.”

“Ben is nothing like that asshole,” she muttered and then pressed her fingers to her lips at the uncharacteristic outburst.

“But he’s used to city life,” I said.

“He’ll be going back, and then what? I’ll just be back to being on my own. What can Caldwell Crossing offer him?”

Mom reached across the table and took my hand, her fingers warm against my calloused skin.

“Oh, you sweet boy,” she said, eyes full of understanding.

“It can offer him you.”

Her words hung in the air, and my mind spun in a dozen directions.

I thought about Byron and how he’d looked down their nose at almost everything about Caldwell Crossing.

Haider’s exuberance, the way he couldn’t help but light up every room he walked into, had been “too much.” Ryan’s quiet, steady nature had been dismissed as boring.

And Conor? Byron couldn’t understand why a guy like me would waste time with someone so brash and loud, no matter that Conor would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it.

Even my family hadn’t been spared.

Byron had endured the weekly dinners with my parents, sighing at Dad’s stories about maple season and dismissing Mom’s talk of local news.

He saw my life here as either quaint or backward.

Ben might be the same, a nagging voice whispered in my head.

What if he looked at my friends and saw liabilities instead of blessings?

What if he thought my routine—my early mornings and late nights at the sugar shack, my quiet evenings on the farm—was too small, too simple for someone used to the fast pace of the city?

But then I thought about how Ben had laughed with Haider, had listened when Ryan spoke, and joined in with Conor’s stories without hesitation.

I remembered how he’d asked questions about the farm, as though he genuinely wanted to know the answers.

But he has secrets. He hasn’t told me what sent him here?

He hasn’t said he won’t be going back.

Maybe Ben wasn’t Byron.

Maybe Ben was different.

But the fear of being wrong, of opening my heart only to watch him leave, still clawed at my chest.

Later, in the quiet of my room, I opened the first box, pulling out faded photos of faces I barely recognized, and scraps of paper covered in my grandmother’s looping handwriting.

Beneath the pile of photographs, I found a small, weathered leather ledger.

The name on the cover stopped me in my tracks.

Samuel Phineas Caldwell .

I knew the P stood for something old-fashioned, and I was never so glad to hear I was named Samuel after him instead of Phineas.

Imagine being at school with a name immortalized in a cartoon show.

My great-great-grandfather’s handwriting filled the pages, each line neat and deliberate.

Most of it was what I expected—entries about sap yields, weather patterns, and the cost of supplies—but then there were the strange notations.

Phrases that didn’t make sense were scattered among the practical notes:

Sweetheart’s Haven.

The beacon of the grove.

The words sent a jolt of curiosity through me.

I leaned back in my chair, turning the page carefully.

Whatever Samuel had written here, it felt as though he’d left it for someone to find, and I bet Ben would love this.

And I’d love helping him.