Page 29 of No Axe to Grind (Ashwood Falls #1)

Tessa

T he Solstice Festival is one part farmer’s market, one part county fair, and one part Pinterest board went feral in the woods and everyone clapped.

Main Street is strung with triangle flags in berry colors, and the carved archway Gage made—seriously, it looks like a forest cathedral—frames the entire scene like the town walked into a storybook.

People mill around with hot drinks and bigger smiles than the weather can account for.

A fiddle saws from somewhere near the gazebo.

Children are sticky. Dogs are happier than any of us deserve.

I’m vibrating—like a champagne bottle someone shook too hard and forgot to cork. Joy fizzes in my chest, bubbles up in my cheeks, and makes it impossible to stand still.

Not just because Ashwood Falls has set up an entire vendor village of hand-carved things that smell like sawdust and nostalgia, but because Gage’s hand is laced through mine like he’s making sure I don’t blow away. Or maybe he’s making sure he doesn’t.

“Is this too much?” I ask, gesturing at my outfit.

Which, to be fair, is… a choice. I’m in a cozy sweater because Alaska summer is still demoted spring in most places, my jeans tucked into hiking boots, and on my head: a beanie.

With ears. Raccoon ears. Gray. With a little black bandit stripe across the brim.

The beanie is for warmth. The ears are for intimidation.

“You look like a dangerous forest criminal,” he says, face solemn, eyes laughing. “I’m terrified.”

“Good. It’s the vibe.” I squeeze his hand. “Take me to the merch.”

We don’t get far before Marnie from the general store materializes like a benevolent retail fairy. “There she is!” She pulls me into a hug that smells like cinnamon and gift wrap. “Back from the tropics and smarter for it.”

“I’m immune to humidity now,” I say. “Only snow and maple-vanilla beverages for me from now on.”

Her gaze flicks between me and the large, handsome man attached to my hand. She does the smirk of a woman who called it weeks ago. “You two look right.”

I can feel my cheeks heat. Gage’s thumb strokes across my knuckles like yes, right, mine.

Trace shimmies past behind us carrying a stack of folding chairs like a show-off ant. “Lots of witnesses out today, Bennett. Try not to brood too hard—you’ll spook the tourists. Hi, Tessa. Love the ears. Ten out of ten, would rob a campground with you.”

“Thank you. They double as storage for any raccoon-related purchases.”

“Speaking of,” Marnie says, herding us toward her booth, “I curated a small selection you might like.”

Small selection, my butt. Her table is a shrine to my brand-new personality: Raccoon Person.

There are raccoon socks (striped), a raccoon apron (pocket shaped like a little trash can—stop), a raccoon oven mitt (tiny hands printed on the palms!), a raccoon mug that says TRASH BUT MAKE IT FASHION, and a hand-painted print of a raccoon in a crown. The crown is crooked. I’m dead.

My eyes widen as if it’s Christmas morning. “I need all of it,” I whisper, reverent.

His brow arches. “All of it?”

“Every. Single. Thing.” I scoop up a raccoon plush that’s wearing a little bowtie and hug it to my chest. “Look at this guy. He’s dignified. He’s practically royalty.”

Gage smirks. “He looks like he’s plotting your demise.”

“Same thing.” I pile the plush into the growing stack of raccoon memorabilia the vendor is bagging for me.

Gage leans down like he’s telling me a secret. “Get the socks.”

I narrow my eyes. “You have a thing for socks?”

He kisses my temple. “It’s strategy.”

I get the socks. And the mug. And the oven mitt because the tiny printed hands make me snort-laugh every time I look at them. And the apron because it has a trash-can pocket. Basically, I buy it all.

Gage swats my hand away when I go to get my wallet and pulls out his wallet without a word, then just shakes his head like a man resigned to the madness. But I see it—the soft smile tugging at his mouth as if he can’t help himself.

By the time I’m done, I’ve got two cloth totes bulging with raccoon loot. Gage shakes his head, sets his wallet back in his pocket, and watches me try to wrangle the bags. “Don’t judge me,” I say, trying to balance them on one arm.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies, easily taking the bags from me like they weigh nothing. His free hand slides back into mine. “Besides, you’re cute when you’re feral.”

I beam at him, heat curling through me, joy fizzing out in every direction. “Careful, Gage. Compliments like that might get you somewhere—and fast.”

His grin says he knows exactly where.

Trace reappears, points at my shopping bag. “Ah yes, philanthropy.”

“We’re stimulating the local economy,” I say primly, then whisper to Gage, “If I buy one more raccoon item, legally I become their queen and have to move into a hollow log.”

He deadpans, “I can build you a log with central heating.”

I aim a look at him that says stop making me swoon in public; there are minors here. He just smiles back at me like he’s seen the whole town but keeps choosing the one view with my face in it.

We meander down the row of food stalls, following the siren call of sizzling meat and sugar.

There is moose everywhere. Moose chili. Moose jerky.

Moose sliders. Moose-shaped cookies that, to Marnie’s credit, contain zero moose.

Gage lights up at the stall and shifts the raccoon bags into one arm, then sets them down neatly by an empty bench as if to free up his hands.

He zeroes in on a booth advertising Moose Burgers—Real Alaskan Flavor.

“You cannot be serious,” I mutter as he orders one, pulling out his wallet again like he hasn’t already bankrolled my entire raccoon adoption spree. He doctors the burger at the condiments station—slathering on mustard, stacking pickles, and shaking way too much pepper over the top.

He bites into it, eyes closing like he’s experiencing a religious awakening, chewing with exaggerated bliss. He even lets out a low hum, patting the burger like it’s a good little burger. “This is heaven,” he declares, mouth full, totally unashamed.

I wrinkle my nose, mock-gagging dramatically. “That’s Bambi’s uncle! You’re basically eating a Disney movie character, and I don’t think Mickey signed off on this.”

“Delicious Disney,” he corrects, taking another giant bite. Juice drips down his fingers, and he licks it off with zero shame before offering me a piece, like he’s some burger-slinging prince making an indecent proposal.

I recoil. “Hard pass. I’ll stick with my funnel cake.

” I hold my plate like it’s a crown jewel, snap off a piece, and shove a powdered-sugar-coated bite into my mouth with triumphant flair.

Sugar dust puffs into the air and settles on my nose.

I sigh dramatically. “Mmm. Fried therapy. This is cuisine, thank you very much.”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll convert you and then you’ll be in a ‘Team Moose’ hoodie.”

I tug the hem of my raccoon sweater. “I serve one master. But I’m open to a moose trade agreement.”

We stand under the archway while we eat—Greta from the bakery snaps a picture of us without asking, then shows it to me.

My hair’s doing that fluffy thing it does in crisp air, my raccoon beanie ears preposterous against the carved wood.

Gage is halfway to a smile, the kind that reaches his eyes and goes soft around the edges.

He’s angled toward me like his body knows something his brain has already decided.

“Send me that,” I say, trying to sound casual, and Greta winks, already tapping away.

We keep walking; the music gets louder as we near the gazebo.

A fiddler and a guitarist play a jaunty tune, couples dancing in the grass with a kind of abandon that makes me want to clap along.

Kids run circles around them, shrieking with joy, while older folks tap their toes from benches and clap in rhythm.

The whole square hums with life, every corner buzzing as if the town itself is celebrating something bigger than summer.

Gage tugs me closer to the music. “Dance with me.”

My eyes widen. “Oh, no. I don't think so. I have two left feet. Possibly three.”

“Lucky for you, I’ve got two good ones.” He sets the raccoon bags down at the edge of the dance floor, then pulls me out before I can argue, wrapping an arm firmly around my waist.

I stumble with a laugh, nearly clipping a couple’s toes. “See? I almost just killed that nice couple over there. Total hazard on the dance floor.”

He chuckles low in his throat. “You’re fine. Just follow my lead.”

I mutter, "Follow my lead, he says. I don't even know what that means."

He spins me gently, and somehow my feet don’t betray me. I laugh, breathless, as he twirls me again, catching me before I trip into another couple. His steady hands guide me, strong and sure, like he’s been dancing with me his whole life.

“You’re ridiculous,” I tell him.

“You love it,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving mine. Even with the music, the laughter, and the whole town spinning around us, he doesn’t glance away. It’s like I’m the only person here, the center of his world, and the realization floods me with dizzy, ridiculous joy.

And God help me, I do love it. Everything single thing about this night. And him.

Around us, people smile knowingly. I catch snippets—“That must be her”—“Gage finally found someone”—“They look good together.” Instead of shrinking, instead of worrying about gossip, I feel proud. I don’t care that everyone’s watching. He doesn’t even notice them. He only sees me.

The music slows, and we sway in place, pressed close, my cheek against his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat steadier than the fiddle. The crowd blurs, the festival noise softens, and for a breathless moment it feels like the world has folded down to just the two of us.

“I love you,” I whisper, the words slipping free before I can second-guess them.

His eyes soften, the corners crinkling, like the weight of the whole town has lifted off his shoulders. “I love you, too.” He says it again, firmer this time, as if he’s carving the words into the night air itself. “I love you.”

I squeeze tighter, resting my cheek against his chest, letting his steady heartbeat anchor me. A laugh bubbles out, half-joy, half-relief. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me and my chaos—and honestly, I think you like it.”

We dance another slow song and then I figure I should warn him.

"Oh, and by the way, my mom already shipped all my stuff here. To your cabin. She scheduled her next vacation to come meet you in a month. And I, uh… kind of lost my job when I went back to Florida.” I peek up at him, wincing but unable to hide the nervous laugh bubbling out.

“So I’m unemployed. And homeless. And I need a job.

Basically, you’re adopting me. Congratulations, you just won the girlfriend sweepstakes—no returns, no exchanges. ”

For a second, he just stares, like he’s letting the words sink in. Then laughter rumbles deep in his chest and spills out, warm and unrestrained. He scoops me closer, kissing the top of my head, still shaking with amusement. “Perfect,” he says, his voice rough with affection. “Absolutely perfect.”

“Perfect?” I echo, incredulous, though a secret bubble of joy pops warm in my chest at hearing him call me that. “I just confessed I’m a jobless squatter. I think Bambi’s uncle is doing something to your head. Are you okay?”

“I'm perfect. I just confessed I love you. Which makes everything perfect.” His thumb traces my jaw as he tilts my chin up and kisses me, slow and sure, right there in front of the whole damn town, sealing it like a vow.

“So, there are currently seventeen boxes and a potted plant named Linda en route to your porch.”

He stares at me for a beat that could fit an entire weather system, then he laughs. It cracks out of him, warm and shockingly bright, and the relief that slides through me makes my knees consider resignation.

“Seventeen?” he asks, grinning.

“And Linda. She’s a snake plant, and she’s very judgmental. But resilient. Like a nun with a watering can.”

He cups my cheek with his free hand, thumb brushing the hinge of my jaw. “Perfect.” He kisses me.

When we finally pull apart, he brushes a strand of hair from my cheek, his hand lingering as if he can’t quite let go. His voice is thick with gratitude, raw and reverent. “I can’t believe you came back. Having you in my arms again…it feels like I got my whole world back.”

“I’m staying, too,” I promise, my voice thick with emotion, gratitude spilling into every word. “Alaska feels like home now. Ashwood Falls feels like home. You feel like home—and I’m so thankful I get to be here with you again.”

His eyes darken, fierce and tender all at once, gratitude shimmering in them as if he can’t believe this second chance is real. “It is home. For both of us. Together. And I’ll never stop being thankful you came back to me.”

And as the fiddle plays and the town bustles and laughter carries on the summer air, I believe him. Because right here, in his arms, surrounded by joy and raccoon plushies, I finally know what home really means.