Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Raffa

Paul and I finish our conversation, and I head out to run a few errands before helping with the festival. Once I'm done, I head over to Meadow's studio to get back to work on more festival prep. Fall's settling in, the evening cool and breezy, and when I step into her studio, it's warm, comfortable—just like her.

"Hey, Raffa," she greets me with a smile, the awkwardness between us thankfully gone. Thank fuck for that.

"Hey, Meadow. Ready to get to work?" I ask, setting my bag down as she nods, and we fall into small talk while prepping supplies. It's easy, effortless, and it almost feels like we're just two normal people, not two festival co-chairs trying to avoid their growing sexual tension.

After a bit, I decide to ask her about the gallery. "So, the word around town is you're opening a gallery. How's that going? I'm sure preparations for something like that aren't easy."

Her face shifts slightly, surprised, but not in a bad way. She pauses for a moment, as if deciding whether to share. Just when I think she's going to brush it off, she clears her throat and looks up at me. "It hasn't been easy, that's for sure. I'm honestly starting to doubt whether I can get it done. There's so much left to do at the gallery, and between my regular job and taking care of my grandma . . . I don't know if it's going to work out."

I can see the doubt in her eyes, and before I even realize what I'm doing, I feel this overwhelming need to reassure her. What the hell is happening to me? I don't know why, but something about her makes me want to fix everything.

"You're handling a lot, but from what I can see, you're doing a damn good job. It takes strength to juggle all that. Your gallery is going to be amazing, and it'll probably be even more successful than you're imagining."

She smiles at me, but I can tell she doesn't fully believe it. There's a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, like she's fighting her own internal battle. And for the first time, I start to see just how complicated she is—how much more there is to her than I thought.

She's like me in a way. A workhorse. She takes on too much, but she doesn't know any other way. And now I'm wondering how she manages it all—helping her family, running the town events, and still finding time for her gallery. Hell, I'm surprised she hasn't had a heart attack yet.

"I know you're not supposed to ask a woman her age, but I'm curious . . . how old are you?" I ask, cautiously. McKay said she wasn't even thirty, but maybe she was just teasing me.

"I'm thirty," she replies, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Why?"

"I was just thinking about how hard you're working. You remind me of . . . me, I guess. As you know, I had a mild heart attack, and that's why I'm here. Just don't push yourself too hard."

She looks at me with concern, and for some reason, that concern makes my insides twist in a way I haven't felt in years.

"You shouldn't be working like this if you're supposed to be resting, Raffa," she says softly.

Hearing my name on her lips does something to me—something I can't quite explain. It's the kind of feeling I haven't had since I was in high school. Hell, I don't think I even felt this with any of my exes.

"Is that concern I hear? You worried I'm going to keel over and everyone will blame you?" I tease, trying to lighten the mood.

"No," she replies quickly, "I'm worried you'll drop dead, but I'm not worried about being blamed. Your siblings know exactly how you are."

I bark out a laugh—the first real, unfiltered laugh I've had in a long time. It surprises me, but when I look at her, I'm caught. Her eyes, her smile . . . it's like gravity pulling me in, and for the first time in forever, I don't want to fight it.

I can't stop staring at her. And I know she probably thinks I'm weird for it, but I don't care. There's something about Meadow that's dragging me closer, like she's got this invisible hold on me that I can't shake—and I'm not even sure I want to.

"You think you're so funny, huh? I'm not that much of a workaholic," I say, half grumbling but mostly amused.

She smirks, folding her arms, clearly pleased with herself. "The first step to getting help is realizing you have a problem."

I laugh again, shaking my head at her. I hadn't laughed this much in years—not with anyone. Something stirs inside me, something I haven't felt in a long time, and I'm not sure what it is. Hell, maybe I don't want to know what it is.

My eyes linger on her a little longer than they should, and she stares right back. For a second, there's something hanging in the air between us. It's not physical, not something I can touch or see, but I feel it. She's giving me something, something I can't put into words.

It's not just attraction—though, let's be real, the attraction is there. It's more than that. It's like she's offering me a piece of herself. Maybe it's trust, maybe it's connection, but whatever it is, it's wrapping around me, pulling me in deeper.

I don't even know how to explain it. I don't want to explain it, because the second I try to make sense of it, it'll disappear. So, I just stand there, taking her in, letting this unspoken thing between us simmer, even if I have no idea where it's going.

And fuck, I'm not used to this. What am I supposed to do with it?