Page 13 of Wrecked for Love (Buffaloberry Hill #1)

CLAIRE

Coming full circle had always been an abstract idea to me. Something other people talked about, though it never quite made sense in my world of constant movement. Until now.

Hello, Buffaloberry Hill!

If I could hug the town, I would. But for now, I was focused on finding a place to live. Lucky for me, the cottage I’d fallen in love with was still up for rent.

“So, where are you from?” Logan Pierce, the owner of The Willow, asked as he showed me around the cottage. He was in his early thirties, with the easy confidence of a man who spent his life outdoors. Apparently, he owned a ranch not far from The Lazy Moose.

“Idaho,” I lied effortlessly.

Logan gave an awkward smile, his eyes briefly flicking toward the Chicago license plate on my car.

I didn’t give him a chance to speculate. “Originally from Chicago, but it feels like I’ve hardly lived there. I’ve been on the road so much that I can barely remember where city hall is. I’ve been in Idaho for the past few months, hence the claim.”

Logan took it in stride as we stepped onto the porch. “Well, I bet no place in Chicago or Idaho has the kind of charm this does.” He unlocked the front door and pushed it open wide.

“Definitely not,” I replied, grateful he didn’t question my story.

“With a little TLC,” he said, gesturing to the cozy living room, “this cottage could be a sanctuary like no other.”

Logan was terrible at salesmanship. He didn’t pretend to be a real estate agent; it wasn’t his thing.

The cottage had belonged to his grandmother, and he hadn’t had the heart to sell it.

His honesty was almost too transparent for someone in his position.

In New York, people like him would get eaten alive.

Real estate agents there? They were polished sharks in tailored suits, flashing perfect smiles and spinning webs of half-truths faster than you could blink.

Every inch of square footage was a battle they intended to win.

Logan, though? He was far too genuine for that.

I glanced around the inside of the cottage. It was dark and worn but not without potential.

A spark of excitement flickered in my belly as I imagined what I could do with the place.

There were two bedrooms, one of which I didn’t really need.

Maybe I’d turn it into a study, a space where I could write again.

The window overlooked the backyard, where sunlight danced on the overgrown grass.

Heaven. Maybe I’d pick up that old story about an unlucky-in-love city girl who falls for a motorcycle gang leader.

I’d never been able to finish it. The Revenants had given the word “gangster” a whole new meaning, one that soured the idea.

The thought of bad boys only brought back memories of Cody and what could’ve been.

But maybe, with the hills of Buffaloberry as my backdrop, I could craft a different angle. Perhaps the hero would be a rancher this time.

“What do you think?” Logan’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts.

“The views are incredible,” I said, following him out to the back of the cottage.

The kitchen wasn’t much, but it would do for making simple meals. And the bathroom? To my surprise, it was the gem of the place. It had a classic country bath, deep and inviting. With a little scrubbing, it would be where I’d spend most of my evenings.

“Do you have hot water here?” I asked, turning to Logan.

“Of course. Reliable, too. Want to give it a go?”

He twisted the tap, and within seconds, hot water flowed smoothly from the faucet. I could already picture sinking into a hot bath after a long day, letting the stress of life melt away.

“You said a thousand a month?” I ventured. “How about eight hundred?”

His eyes flickered with consideration. The cottage had been sitting empty for a while. “All right, just for you,” he conceded.

If we were in New York, I would’ve been shown the door. But here? Things ran differently.

“Well, okay!” Excitement bubbled up in my voice, uncontainable. “I’ll take it!”

“Fantastic!” Logan’s grin practically split his face. I handed him the cash right there, feeling like I wasn’t just buying a roof over my head. I was buying my own little piece of heaven, or at least the start of it. “You can move in anytime.”

“Great!”

“I’ll swing by tomorrow with the paperwork.”

“Hey, Logan,” I said as I tucked the keys into my bag, “do you happen to know anyone who could use some help? I’m looking to pick up some work.”

“You kidding? My buddy Paul’s been desperate to find someone to fill shifts at his hardware store. It’s mostly back-of-house, though. Can be pretty back-breaking.”

“That’s fine by me.”

He looked at me as if weighing whether I could handle the work. “I’ll put in a good word for you. I’m sure he’ll take you on.”

“Thanks, Logan.”

“Well, I have my reasons.” He winked. “I’d love for you to stick around. So I’ll do whatever it takes. Don’t tell anyone.”

After Logan left, I wandered through the cottage again.

This time, all the ways I could transform it started to feel a little more concrete.

The dark brown curtains? They had to go.

I could already picture bright sunflower-yellow replacements, filling the room with light.

The furniture wasn’t too bad, just outdated.

With some colorful cushions, a few quirky knickknacks, and a touch of personality, the place could easily turn into a sanctuary. A real home.

Shuffling between motels these past few weeks had drained me—a cycle of temporary rest stops with no sense of permanence. But this? This was different. The longer I stood there, the more I felt the pull of an unspoken connection. A place to settle, to stop running.

Maybe if I found the courage, if I saw Elia again— when I saw him again since this town wasn’t that big—I’d invite him in for coffee or maybe lunch. A luxury I hadn’t allowed myself while always being on the move.

I took a deep breath, my lips curving into a smile. I’d love that very much.

No matter how nomadic life had been, I’d always believed there would come a time, a place, where I’d want to plant roots.

It’s human nature, after all, to crave belonging, to seek out a space in this vast world that feels like ours.

No matter how much we tell ourselves we don’t need anyone or anything, there’s a deeper truth we can’t escape.

Maybe it’s the quiet moments that make it loud—the realization that no matter how independent or untethered we try to be, there’s a part of us, especially as women, that longs to create a safe haven.

A place where we can just be without the need to run, hide, or pretend.

We want a home, not just of bricks and walls, but of moments and memories.

I think, deep down, we all want to find that one place where we can finally exhale.

For me, that place was Buffaloberry Hill.