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Chapter one

Naomi

My father often berated me as a child for having my head up in the clouds. It was a well-known fact that my whimsical musings were much too immature for his high-achieving, status-driven life.

I knew this because he was never afraid to say it to my face.

But see, I never saw fault in it. To me, I wasn’t just daydreaming.

I was allowing myself a safe space to let my imagination run free.

It was the only way I was able to experience a life filled with wild possibilities and grandiose adventures, one I’ve always yearned for more than anything.

A life that was liberating and exhilarating all at once.

One that I savored—even if I was only ever allowed to experience it in my head.

“Ma’am?” A soft, yet urgent male voice breaks me out of my thoughts.

I blink at the handsome stranger in front of me, suddenly remembering his presence.

That’s right. Clear your head, Naomi. This could be it.

Your meet-cute.

Granted, I didn’t anticipate I’d meet the love of my life in the middle of the murky car ramp at the Minneapolis-St. Paul Airport, but hey, I’ve imagined more bizarre things.

The mystery gentleman in front of me has a strong jawline, probing espresso-colored eyes, and a mischievous dare to his smile that only tilts up partway. Not to mention, he’s dashingly handsome. The kind of good looks that inherently guarantees he’s had a lifetime of women falling at his feet.

And he’s here to sweep me off my feet.

That tracks, anyway, with the life I’ve just created for us in my head.

I’m envisioning us with a lovely two-story colonial along the bank of the Mississippi River, where we spend our weekends chasing after our twin four-year-old girls.

Each night, his art supplies can be found strewn about several rooms throughout the house.

Toys clutter the floor, and baking flour coats every inch of the kitchen from my thriving at-home bakery business.

Most nights, the mess sits abandoned, left to be dealt with after our sunset pontoon ride up the river to the ice cream shop.

Or life option number two has him sweeping me off my feet right here and now, with nothing more than a proposition and a plane ticket. In a fit of spontaneity, we book the next flight out of this airport without a clue where it’s taking us.

Maybe we’ll end up in Paris, sitting streetside at a little cafe, sipping espressos between bites of the most mouthwatering chocolate soufflés either of us has ever had.

All the while, we fall deeply in love on a three-month love affair that we’ll tell our children about someday.

Or maybe—and this one’s my favorite—we end up in Cabo, where we spend four sizzling days on the beach, covered head to toe in sand, sunscreen, and sticky drops of melting pina coladas.

“Do you have change for a twenty?” he repeats firmly. The hint of impatience that comes through in his tone has me sobering up again, clearing my thoughts.

“Oh, um…yes.” I start rummaging through my crossbody purse for my wallet, trying to calm the slight tremor of my fingers. For the life of me, I can’t seem to taper the nerves—falling in love can be so exciting.

“Just one second…” I’m honestly not sure if I do have cash, but I suppose I owe it to the potential love of my life to at least check, right?

While I rummage, I wonder what his initial pickup line will be, whether he has the fashion sense to compliment me on my comfortable-yet-chic travel outfit or not, or if he’ll tease me about how much I overpacked for the two-day baking industry trade show I’m returning from in Cincinnati.

Heck, it’s 2025. Maybe I should be the one to make the first move.

“Ah! I found it.” I raise my wallet in victory, feeling pride amidst the excitement, oblivious and not at all prepared for the harsh interruption about to shatter my plans.

In a split second, before I can pull the wallet open to grab cash, he reaches out and snatches it directly out of my hand. I’ve barely had a second to process what’s happening when he takes off, bolting in the opposite direction, leaving me frozen in place.

“Thanks!” he shouts wickedly over his shoulder, sprinting in between cars until he vanishes out of sight.

My mouth falls open in shock and a rush of fear snakes up my spine all at once. The reality of what just happened hits me all in full force, sending a heavy pit of dread to the bottom of my stomach. Any trace of merriment from my musings just moments earlier is gone in an instant.

Well, I can confidently say I will not be getting swept off my feet today.

“Are you okay, dear?” A woman approaches with concern from somewhere on my side.

“He just… That man stole my wallet,” I stammer, still staring off in the direction of where he disappeared.

Shame, embarrassment, and frustration flood my senses, washing over me in waves.

I feel sick to my stomach—and incredibly stupid.

Here I was, just trying to be nice to a stranger in need and potentially meet the man of my dreams. Instead, I’ve lost two credit cards, my ID, and an ATM card—not to mention my judge of character.

At least I still have my car keys.

“Let’s head inside and talk to security, okay? It’s going to be alright. What’s your name, sweetie?” the woman croons, running a comforting hand down my arm.

“Naomi Tillman,” I murmur grumpily. She gently wraps her arm around my torso, guiding my still-shocked body back toward the airport entrance.

One hour, one police report, and one whopping parking fee later, I’m officially on the road back home.

The low hum of my tires against the freeway serves as a futile distraction from the lingering humiliation that simmers just under my skin.

I don’t even have the desire to turn on my pop dance playlist that I belted out on the drive down to the airport a few days ago.

Instead, I replay the interaction repeatedly, convincing myself it was my fault for being too trusting of a stranger, too willing to help, foolishly jumping at the smallest request, all the while naively believing some grand gesture would alter the course of my life.

With nothing else to distract me, I’ve soon spiraled into obsessing over all my other shortcomings as well, wallowing in self-pity.

Who was I kidding even coming on this conference trip in the first place?

It’s not like I’m realistically ever going to open my own bakery anyway.

That dream seems even further out of reach now than it did this morning.

If I learned anything at the conference, it was that business owners require a certain level of grit and tenacity that I’m self-aware enough to know I definitely don’t have.

After about thirty minutes into my three-hour drive, my friend Gabby’s name flashes on the display screen as an incoming call. I know that talking to her won’t be able to pull me out of this self-loathing funk—in fact, it might make it worse—but I answer anyway. I don’t have it in me to ignore her.

“Hey, Gabs,” I say wearily. “You’ll never believe what just happened to me.”

“What happened? A flat tire?”

“I was robbed.” Saying the words out loud brings a sour taste to my mouth, and I brace myself for what her response will be. She’s not exactly my most compassionate friend, so the conversation really could go several different ways.

“Where are you now? Are you okay?” she has the decency to ask, although her tone is slightly bored and uninterested.

“Driving home. He stole my wallet. It happened in the car ramp at the airport, of all places.”

“See, that’s why I don’t like heavily populated areas,” she says pointedly, as if I have any control over where the airport is. “But yikes. That must have been scary.”

I can hear her rummaging for something in the background, clearly distracted, but to her credit, she does have genuine concern etched in her voice.

“It was,” I admit quietly.

“Well, at least you’re okay.”

I’m not exactly okay, but instead of correcting her, I inhale a calming deep breath and continue to wallow silently.

“Hey, would you be able to do me a huge favor?” Her upbeat question suggests she’s already moved on from my situation.

“I’m here at your house, doing laundry—thanks, by the way— and seeing your running shoes reminded me to get some for myself.

I knew you would be driving through St. Cloud on your way home, so I called in an order at Scheels.

Do you think you could swing by and grab them for me on your way home, please? ”

“Uh, yeah…sure. No problem.” To be honest, making a pit stop is the last thing I want to do right now.

I want nothing more than to make it home and disappear under the weight of my comforter as soon as possible.

But…I suppose it is on my way home. And it’s not like we travel this far south that often.

I can do this favor for her.

“Ugh, you’re the best. They should be right at the front desk. I already put your name on them. Listen, I’ve gotta run. Call me when you get home. Love you, bye!” She hangs up before I can get a word in.

With a defeated eye roll, I refocus all my attention on the road and on any damage control from the robbery that I can do hands-free while I drive.

The rest of the drive home to central Minnesota—minus stopping at Scheels to pick up shoes, that is—has me on speaker phone with my bank, canceling cards, and generally wallowing in my misfortunes.

Not to mention dreading the condescending lecture that will surely be coming my way when my dad finds out what happened.

It’s not until I see the Welcome to Pine Falls sign that I’m able to feel my shoulders release a small amount of tension.

The stress from driving in the city—let alone navigating the airport and the wallet incident—slowly dissipates with every mile into my quiet, small town.

No matter where I go, even with my vast love of adventure, I’m always reminded why I belong here when I come home.

The high-rise buildings that were next to the airport have been gradually replaced with patches of towering oak trees and modest homes that are amply spaced apart underneath them.

What used to be highway markers and billboards in the city are now watch out for wildlife markers and mayor candidate signs along the side of the road.

Dirt driveways with old dilapidated mailboxes are scattered by the road, and I pass a hand-drawn sign advertising the farmers market that runs on the east side of town all summer.

There’s a quiet, soothing effect that seems to happen every time I pass through the streets of Pine Falls. I grew up driving on these same roads and know them so intimately that somehow every inch of tar feels like a part of the very fabric of what makes me—me.

When I finally pull onto Pebble Street and then the gravel driveway of my quaint single-story rambler, my eyes inadvertently well with tears.

The sight of my cozy front porch and the glistening lake out back serves as the final source of comfort for me, a balm to my soul, allowing it the safe place to finally process everything that happened today.