Page 13

LIFE MOVED ON so fast and today marked the fifth day of my early morning bucket collections, and I was up before dawn again, bundled in my goofy coat and boots, ready to face the cold and carry buckets of sap.

Sam had walked me through everything on that first morning—checking the taps, emptying the buckets, hauling them to the sled—but it wasn’t hard to learn.

The real challenge was not spilling half of it, and okay, maybe I had been a bit clumsy that first day, but I wasn’t as bad as Haider, according to Sam.

That was a win in my book.

Every day, I showed up, the sugarhouse humming with life and heat, and each morning, Sam let me hang around for breakfast with everyone—seasonal workers, his parents, and sometimes random visitors.

Over coffee and breakfast sandwiches, I’d soak in the syrup-focused conversations, so different from the numbers-and-coding world I’d left behind.

It felt good to be part of this, even if it was just for now.

And maybe that was why I kept coming back—because here, for a few hours, I could forget about the rest of my life.

About the increasingly loud feedback on the WordBook platform, where, yes, my review of Nelson’s book had gone viral.

I’d never meant for that stupid review to spiral into this.

I’d written the original summary in a moment of raw frustration, my life falling apart around me, and the flaws in the book—especially the glaring lack of research on financial and tech matters—felt like a personal attack.

I’d said as much, harsher than I should have, and then I’d pulled the review down when I realized it wasn’t the author’s fault my life was in ruins.

But his super fans had screenshotted my ranting, unhinged review, shared it, debated it, and somehow turned it into a full-blown conspiracy about ghostwriting and the legitimacy of Nelson’s entire body of work.

The fandom was tearing itself apart, and though I’d posted a more reasoned follow-up review focusing on the emotions the book had evoked rather than its technical failings, it was too late.

Whenever I checked WordBook or other social media, my handle was plastered across comment threads, accusations, and think pieces.

Some people agreed with me—most didn’t.

And while I’d tried to distance myself from the chaos, I couldn’t quite bring myself to log out entirely.

And as if that wasn’t enough, Theo had been making noises about me returning to Boston in his best neutral-lawyer tone.

Brad hadn’t given enough information to close the case on the other participants.

The prosecution needed me, the case was moving, and there was a real chance I’d have to testify in person.

Sixty-forty had become eighty-twenty, and the thought of stepping back into the city made my stomach churn.

I wasn’t ready to face Boston—or the ghosts I’d left behind there.

But Theo wasn’t optimistic about keeping me out of it.

I wasn’t ready to leave Sam and here in the sugarhouse, none of what was going on outside mattered.

The scent of boiling sap, the laughter around the picnic benches where we ate breakfast under heat lights, and Sam’s quiet, steady presence were enough to drown out the noise, at least for a while.

But even as I scraped the last of my egg sandwich from its wrapper, I couldn’t stop the faint prickle of anxiety creeping up my spine.

How much longer could I stay off the grid before everything I’d left behind caught up with me?

That was why I spent the day filing, moving boxes, researching—anything to fill the hours until tomorrow morning.

Oh, and fixing fences by flashlight.

“Damn it. Shit. Fuck!” I yelled at the fence panel, which wobbled unsteadily and refused to remain upright no matter how hard I tried to shove it into place.

“Stay up, you son of a—”

“Can I help?”

I spun around, my heart jumping into my throat, to find one of Sam’s friends—Conor—standing behind me, arms crossed and an amused smirk tugging at his mouth.

How long had he been there?

How much of my embarrassing tantrum had he witnessed?

“I was just passing and saw you were in a huge battle.”

Conor was the epitome of casual confidence, rocking a heavy jacket with CCFD stitched on the front.

His blond hair was tousled as though he’d just pulled off a helmet, and his easy grin only added to the effect.

At the bar, he was the one who had the best stories, turning his day as a firefighter into a comedy routine that left everyone laughing.

He carried himself like someone who knew exactly who he was, making me feel all the more like a flailing idiot.

“Uh,” I stammered, trying to recover some dignity.

“It’s the fence… it’s fighting back.”

“I’ll help you.”

“You know how to fix fences?”

“Yep.” His lips quirked, a hint of a smirk breaking through.

He stepped closer, his gaze scanning the wobbly panel.

“Mind if I give it a shot?”

“Be my guest,” I muttered, stepping aside and feeling outclassed.

Conor grabbed the panel and propped it up, making it look effortless.

Pulling a tool out of his pocket—why did he have tools on him?

—he got to work, tightening and securing the panel as though it was second nature.

It occurred to me that I was a long way from the street and behind the house, yet he said he’d seen me fighting the panel.

“How did you even see me?” I blurted, and he glanced up at me.

“I was on my way to get coffee.” He waved at the path behind the house.

“Shortcut.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, figured I’d step in. You can’t let a guy lose a fight with a fence. It’s bad karma.” I huffed a laugh despite myself as he leaned on the now-sturdy panel to test it.

“It’s solid now, but it should be, right? Prepare for the puns to start. I can’t have you railing against my work later.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Oh, come on.”

“What?” He grinned, enjoying the moment.

“Just trying to spread some good vibes.”

“Please stop,” I groaned, shaking my head.

“Don’t get so defensive,” he said with a wink.

“I’m just trying to keep things upright—unlike this panel was when I found it.”

“Conor…” I warned.

“Fine, fine.” He threw his hands up, still smirking.

“But don’t say I didn’t help mend fences.”

I stared at him, deadpan.

“You’re unbearable.”

“And yet,” he said, patting the panel, “Harriet will be thanking us next time there’s a breeze. How did it happen anyway?”

I shrugged, feeling stupid.

“No idea. Harriet just noticed it leaning and suggested I try to fix it.”

“In the dark?”

“Well, it wasn’t dark when I started.” I sighed, waving the flashlight around.

“I appreciate the help.”

“No problem.” His tone was easy.

“Paying it forward because I hear you’ve been helping Sam at the farm?”

I hesitated, unsure where this was going.

“Yeah, why?”

Conor’s smirk widened as he leaned against the fence, all casual, as if he had all the time in the world.

“No reason. Just… Sam doesn’t usually let people in so fast. He keeps his circle small, you know? But you must’ve made a good impression.”

My face warmed, and I turned away, pretending to check the fence for no real reason.

“He’s been… nice. Helpful.”

“Uh-huh,” Conor said, his tone dripping with teasing.

“Sam’s a solid guy. You like him?”

Oh wow, that was an interrogation question from a best friend.

I fumbled for a response.

“I—uh—he’s… we’re friends. I think.”

Conor raised an eyebrow, not buying it.

“‘Friends’,” he repeated, his smirk turning into a full grin.

“Sure. Friends. Well, you’re a good guy.”

“I am?”

“Harriet said so.”

“Oh.”

“And you laughed at my fence humor, so it’s all good.” Conor clapped me on the shoulder before I could figure out what to say.

“Anyway, the fence is good to go. Don’t let it fall over again, yeah?”

I watched him disappear down the path.

“Was that Conor?” Aunt Harriet called from the porch, the light behind leaving her a silhouette.

“Came to my rescue,” I said, then picked up the box of tools I’d found in the garage—none of which had made me a super-DIY’er by any stretch of the imagination.

“Can you do me another favor?”

“Sure, Aunt Harriet.” I stamped off snow and headed inside, and she was waiting in the mud room.

“Sam’s mom asked me to make something for Sam because he’s working a night shift, and she swears he’ll miss dinner. Will you take it to him?”

I glanced at my watch, never questioning what my aunt had said, all too happy to visit Sam.

“Of course.”

“Take the SUV, though.”

“On it.”

I made it to the sugarhouse by seven, and as soon as I stepped inside, I was hit by a blazing hot wall of the sweet, earthy scent of boiling sap thick in the air.

Sam turned to me, wiping his hands on a rag.

His hair was messy, as if he’d been at this for hours already, and his eyes lit up when he saw me.

“Dinner delivery,” I announced, setting the box on the bench.

“Courtesy of Harriet, who got a call from your mom about you missing dinner. Again.”

He huffed a laugh, then smiled as he leaned against the workbench.

“Dinner is for wimps,” he deadpanned, “and I had a candy bar. What’s in the basket?”

I listed off the contents—stew, bread, pie, and the holy grail of night shifts—coffee.

He seemed grateful, even though I knew I hadn’t done much.

Still, standing in the heat of the sugarhouse with him, something about being there made me feel more settled than I had in weeks.

He pulled me close, and our lips met in a deep, hungry kiss.

I craved him—his touch, his warmth, the way he held me like I was his and nothing else mattered.

The sweet aroma of maple syrup surrounded us as our kiss deepened.

His strong hands brushed over my back, sending shivers down my spine.

I threaded my fingers through his hair, savoring the silky strands against my skin.

We broke apart for a moment, breathless, our eyes locked.

A hint of a smile danced on his lips before he leaned in again, and time stood still in this cozy sugar house, our private sanctuary from the outside world.

I melted into his embrace, feeling safe and something else…

Protected? Wanted? Needed?

I’d never felt this from a kiss before.

His warm lips trailed along my jaw and down my neck, each one igniting a spark within me.

I tilted my head back, relishing the sensation.

When our lips found each other again, it was slow and tender.

His fingers traced delicate patterns on my cheek as we kissed, sending tingles across my skin.

I sighed against his lips, completely lost in the moment.

With our foreheads pressed together, he searched my face with an intense gaze, as if memorizing every detail.

I felt exposed, vulnerable, yet safe under his scrutiny.

My heart raced as he leaned in once more, his lips brushing against mine with exquisite tenderness.

Time lost all meaning as we stood there, exchanging slow, lingering kisses—each one a silent promise, a delicate exploration.

His breath warmed my skin, his hands steadying me as he deepened the kiss, drawing me closer until there was no space left between us, just the quiet urgency of wanting more.

Then his stomach grumbled, and we parted with a laugh.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t be. Eat. We can kiss more later.”

“We can?” He tucked my hair behind my ear.

“I’d like that.”

He wolfed his dinner, and when he was done, I helped him repack the basket, but I wasn’t sure what would happen next.

“Do you want to see the chaos of a night shift?” he asked.

“I’d love to.”

He pulled up a stool, encouraged me to sit, and walked me through the process, explaining how sap was boiled down, pan by pan until it became syrup.

“Forty gallons of sap for one gallon of syrup,” I recalled.

“You remember that?”

I dipped my gaze because remembering facts was my thing, and my ex had teased me for all the—in his words—useless shit I knew.

Sam wasn’t teasing me, though.

Instead, he was pleased I’d recalled it as he handed me a small cup of hot syrup to taste.

“Blow on it for a bit,” he said, “then try it.”

Once it was cool enough, I sipped the liquid, and it was sweet and rich.

“Wow!”

“Let me show you something else,” he said, calling over one of the workers to take his spot.

Jesus—I’d forgotten we weren’t alone when we’d stood there kissing.

At least where we were was a hidden corner, but still…

“No worries, boss,” the other man called over, and I swear I must’ve been scarlet.

“Okay, let’s do this,” Sam announced, grabbed a tray, took it outside to pack it with snow, came back in, and drizzled syrup over it in thin lines.

“Sugar on snow,” he said with a grin, handing me a fork.

When I tried it, the syrup had hardened into chewy candy.

It was sweet and sticky, and it was so good.

Sam waited for my reaction, and I couldn’t help but grin.

“Okay, this is amazing,” I said.

“Kids love it.”

“If my children have a sweet tooth like me, then they’d be here every day,” I said and grinned at him.

“You want children?” Sam sounded thoughtful.

“I’ve always said one day, yeah, but you know, I’m thirty-eight and time’s moving on.”

“There’s always time.”

“I’d have to meet the right guy first,” I said.

“True. I’ve always wanted kids—someone to carry on the work when I eventually stepped back. Or maybe not. Maybe they’d sell the place and use the money to chase their dreams. That’d be okay, too. The farm doesn’t have to stay in the family forever; not everyone wants to work a farm, but the idea of having children—of raising them here, teaching them how to tap the trees, showing them the grove where Samuel P. carved his initials—that feels right.”

“Wow,” was all I could say—that was some speech.

I could imagine, one day, he’d have kids running through these woods, laughter echoing through the trees.

The idea made me smile, even as a pang of longing hit me.

Yeah, one day. “I bet you’d make a great dad.”

“I’d try.”

“I always thought I’d have kids.”

“Yeah?”

“Hmmm.” The idea had always been there, like a quiet undercurrent to the chaos of my life.

Growing up, I’d imagine it sometimes—little moments like teaching someone how to ride a bike or sitting at a table covered in crayons and construction paper.

Back then, it felt inevitable, like something that would happen when the time was right.

But then my career happened—and then more career.

Each promotion, each late night at the office, each “next big project” kept pushing that dream further into the background.

I told myself it wasn’t the right time, that once I reached a certain point, I could finally make space for everything else.

Except that point never came.

Could Sam picture it—me, him, and some hypothetical kids running through the fields or climbing trees on his family farm?

Or was I clinging to something I’d buried so deep I’d forgotten it was still there?

I rubbed my hands over my face, trying to shake off the thoughts, but they clung to me like the scent of maple in the sugar shack.

I’d spent so long chasing something I couldn’t define that I’d let go of everything that once mattered.

Could I have both? Could I have him and a future that looked nothing like the one I’d once imagined?

Was I setting myself up to lose it all over again?

The moment felt quiet and perfect, but before I could say more, the two other workers in the sugarhouse came over for the remaining candy.

The spell broke, and I was wrapping up to leave.

Sam helped me with my coat and then walked me to the door, and when we stepped into the cold night, he followed, lingering a little longer than he needed to.

I turned back to say goodbye, but before I could, he was there, close enough to steal my breath.

“Thanks for letting me help,” I said, my voice almost lost in the icy air.

“Thanks for coming,” he replied, his voice low and warm.

And then he leaned in.

His lips met mine, light at first and almost hesitant, but even that slight touch sent a wave of warmth through me.

The cold, the snow, and the night itself faded, leaving only the heat between us.

My fingers curled into his shirt, holding him there as if letting go might break the moment.

When we finally pulled apart, his gaze locked onto mine, his breath uneven, and I knew mine was no steadier.

A shiver ran through him, and I realized then—he was the one trembling, not me.

“You don’t have a coat on,” I murmured, my hand pressing against his chest as if that could warm him.

He caught my fingers, his grip firm yet careful, and lifted them to his lips.

A slow kiss brushed my palm before he folded my hand into a loose fist, his thumb smoothing over my knuckles.

“I don’t feel cold,” he whispered.

“Not right now.” He gave me a small wave.

“See you in the morning,” he murmured, his voice rough and quiet.

“Yeah,” I said, my heart racing as I stepped back.

“See you then.”

As I walked away, I couldn’t help but wish I didn’t have to leave.

And I didn’t open my hand until I reached my car.