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I stare at the Pistachio Sweets bag for a solid thirty seconds before I open it.

Four apple cider donuts. Still warm. Cinnamon sugar sticking to the wax paper.

I eat one standing at my workbench with sawdust on my hands and tell myself it doesn't taste like anything special.

It does. It tastes incredible. And I'm furious about it.

My phone buzzes again.

Ms. Shelly:

How'd it go with Kennedy?

Me:

You knew she was coming?

Ms. Shelly:

Honey, I suggested she bring the donuts. You're welcome.

I put the phone face down on the bench and eat a second donut because apparently everyone in this town has decided my boundaries are suggestions.

Through the shop window I can see Maple Lane stretching toward the festival grounds. The big FALL IN LOVE sign is already up in the town square. String lights are being tested along every lamppost. Somewhere down the block, somebody is blasting "Harvest Moon" loud enough that I can hear the chorus through closed windows.

Three years ago I drove into this town with a truck full of tools and nothing else. Left Chicago and a construction management career and a life that stopped making sense the night my phone rang at eleven fourteen p.m. and my brother's name showed up on the screen except it wasn't Liam calling.

It was a nurse.

I bought the shop because it was cheap and empty and at the end of a dead end street. Fixed it up in two weeks. Started building furniture because my hands needed something to do besides shake. Maple Lane Falls was supposed to be the place where I disappeared.

And I did disappear. For a while.

Then Ms. Shelly started saving me books. And Lina started keeping a coffee ready when she saw my truck pull up. And the owner of Pistachio Sweets stopped charging me after I left a carved wooden fox on the counter for her daughter.

I didn't ask for any of it. These people just decided I belonged here whether I agreed or not.

But belonging is different from participating. Belonging means they leave pastries at my door and I leave furniture at theirs and nobody talks about feelings or asks why a thirty seven year old man lives alone in a town he has no connection to.

Participating means someone like Kennedy Brooks walks into my shop with a clipboard and a smile and treats my refusal like the opening line of a negotiation.

The third donut is gone before I realize I've picked it up.

I dust the cinnamon sugar off my hands, walk to the window, and watch the string lights blink on down Maple Lane one section at a time. Golden and warm against the October dusk. Somewhere out there, Kennedy Brooks is probably already planning tomorrow's assault.

Different pitch. Different pastry. Like she's running a campaign against my solitude and she's polling at a hundred percent.

The smart move is to eat the last donut, finish the console table, lock the shop, and drive to my cabin without thinking about brown eyes and gold earrings and the sound of a laugh that bounced off my ceiling like it owned the place.

So that's what I do.

Except the part about not thinking about her. That part doesn't work at all.

CHAPTER TWO

KENNEDY

My alarm goes off at five thirty and my feet are on the floor before the second beep because Kennedy Brooks does not hit snooze.