Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Meadow

"So, how are you liking Kentbury so far?" I ask Raffa, my eyes flicking over to him as I start painting a wooden pumpkin. We're in my little studio at the back of my cottage—aka, my sanctuary. I probably should've tidied up the place before inviting him in, but it's too late now. The table's cluttered with paintbrushes, jars of water, and half-finished projects, giving it that organized chaos vibe that makes sense to me and no one else.

Raffa sits next to me, picking up a paintbrush and staring down at his own wooden pumpkin with that same grumpy scowl on his face, like the idea of painting a pumpkin is personally offending him.

"It seems . . . nice. Definitely not what I'm used to, that's for sure," he mutters, dipping his brush into the paint with about as much enthusiasm as a guy filling out tax forms.

I chuckle, swirling my brush in the bright orange paint, adding layers to the pumpkin in front of me. "I can't imagine what it's like living in the big city. I mean, it's not like I haven't been out of Kentbury. I've been to Boston and New York. Spent a year studying art in France, but not Paris," I add quickly, feeling the need to clarify. "I don't know . . . big cities feel too imposing for me. Too loud, too much . . . everything."

Raffa glances at me, eyebrows raised. "You studied art in France?"

I nod, focusing on my pumpkin but feeling Raffa's gaze linger on me. "Yeah, it was a small town on the coast. It was . . . different. Quiet, a lot like here, actually. Except with better wine and the ocean. I've always loved water—beaches especially. If I had the money, I'd visit every beach in the world."

Just thinking about the ocean makes me feel calm, like I can breathe deeper. The way the waves roll in, steady and endless—it's like they carry away all the noise, the stress. Vermont's beautiful, and I love the lake here in Kentbury, but there's something about the ocean that just calls to me. Maybe one day, I'll find a balance—Kentbury for the quiet, and the ocean for the escape. If only I had the money for that.

"Sounds a hell of a lot better than where I've been," Raffa mutters, dragging his brush over the wood with the kind of half-heartedness that screams I'd rather be anywhere else. "Big cities . . . they've got their perks, but it's all noise, stress, and people in your face twenty-four seven. You barely get a moment to yourself, and when you do, it's usually because something's gone to shit."

I glance over at him, catching that familiar brooding look. Surprise, surprise—he's back in his grumpy zone, probably thinking about whatever bullshit he's left behind in the city. Honestly, though, maybe that's what Kentbury is for—getting away from all the noise, finding some space to think.

"Though in a way," he adds, voice quieter, "being around all those people can make you feel lonelier than walking around this town by yourself."

I raise an eyebrow, surprised by the honesty in his tone. There's something raw there, under the gruff exterior.

"Well, Kentbury's a lot of things," I say, smirking, trying to lighten the mood, "but it's definitely not stressful. Unless you count the festivals. Genie seems to add a new one every year."

Raffa snorts, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, seems like my grandmother's a force of nature around here. She's handling this festival like it's a matter of national security or something."

"Pumpkins, apples, spring . . . even summer. Ask McKay who is in charge of the Fall Festival, hayrides are really high-stakes," I tease, dipping my brush back into the orange paint.

Raffa just shakes his head, muttering under his breath. "I still hate pumpkins."

"Hey, don't knock it until you've tried it." I dip my brush in the paint again, trying to hide my smile. He's infuriating, sure, but there's something almost . . . charming about his relentless grumpiness. Even if he acts like the whole world is a burden he didn't sign up for.

"You seriously like this stuff?" he asks, looking at me like I've just told him I collect toenail clippings for fun. "People watching you everywhere you want, creating something weird for a weekend that makes no sense . . . there's too much."

"I do," I say, meeting his gaze. "It's homey. It's . . . comforting."

Raffa grunts, his focus shifting back to the pumpkin in front of him. For a second, though, I catch him glancing at me, his eyes flicking down to my lips before he quickly returns to pretending he's not interested. He stops swiping his brush and looks over at me again. This time, when our eyes meet, it feels like he's seeing something deeper, like he's searching for something in me.

"So why didn't you stay in France?" he asks, his tone curious, almost soft.

"I came back because of my grandma," I say, shrugging. "But maybe soon I'll start taking vacations . . . or not." I turn the question back to him. "How about you? Do you travel a lot?"

I know the McFolleys are billionaires—or at least, that's how Genie describes his side of the family. Must be nice to have that kind of freedom, right?

"Nope," he says, still sounding distant. "I barely get out of the city. My life's there. My work, everything I need—it's all at my fingertips. Never really took a vacation until now." His voice gets quieter as he moves his brush from the orange of the pumpkin to the green on top.

"You've never taken a vacation? Why?" I ask, surprised, the question slipping out before I can stop myself.

"My parents weren't big into trips," he replies, his voice tight. "Then after I graduated, I started working for my dad, while building my own firm. It was practically impossible to take time off. There's always another case, another deal. No time for vacations."

I shake my head, listening to him talk about his life. It sounds . . . lonely. Like all he does is work. No wonder he had a heart attack. Does this guy ever stop?

He's got more family here in this small town than I do, but he hasn't really mentioned them. Aren't they close? The rest of them seem pretty tight. And something else—he hasn't mentioned whether he's married. So, naturally, I decide to push a little.

"I'm sure your wife doesn't like that," I say, casually setting my pumpkin on a piece of wax paper to dry before grabbing another one to paint. "Is she going to join you soon or does she work a lot just like you?"

He goes quiet, and when I turn to look at him, his expression has shifted. His eyes have that faraway look, like he's staring at something only he can see. And he seems . . . sad.

"I'm not married," he says softly, his brush still in his hand, unmoving. "Relationships don't seem to stick for me. Fuck, this town is making me look like I'm a loser and have nothing to account for. No wife, children or even a fucking hobby."

Oh no. I've just opened a can of worms, haven't I? I feel a wave of sympathy for him, watching his face. There's a heaviness there, one that tells me this isn't just something he brushes off, no matter how much he tries.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly, my voice softening as I meet his gaze.

He shrugs, like it doesn't matter. But I know it does. I know a thing or two about failed relationships and how shitty it feels—a kind of feeling that doesn't just go away. And now, after that confession, I'm stuck, unsure how to follow up on something so personal.

The room feels quieter, heavier, and I wonder how we went from painting pumpkins to discussing broken relationships.

We work in silence for a while, the weight of his words still lingering. At some point, Raffa clears his throat, breaking the quiet. "What about you? Are you married? Have a boyfriend? Seems like this town has a way of bringing people together. Worked for my siblings."

A giggle escapes my lips, surprising even me. I'm not sure if I'm laughing because what he said was funny or if it's my anxiety bubbling up at the mention of the topic. I hate talking about my ex—Bryce the Cheating Bastard—and all the baggage that came with that disaster. Clearing my throat, I try to find a way to answer him without opening that particular can of worms.

"No, I'm not married," I say, keeping my tone light. "And I'm not really looking for a relationship at the moment."

Raffa glances at me but doesn't push further. Thank God.

We fall back into silence, working quietly for the next couple of hours. It's odd how comfortable it feels—two people, barely speaking, but the air isn't tense. It's . . . peaceful. Even with him sitting there, all grumpy and scowling, it feels different. In a good way.

Eventually, it's time for him to leave, and we start cleaning up. Raffa wipes down the brushes, glancing around the studio with a frown. "This place could use a deep clean. Some tidying up at least."

I laugh, shaking my head. "Yeah, well, I'd love a bigger place so I can add shelves to put my things away. That would make me happy."

He gives a half-smile, the kind that's more of a twitch than anything else, and we finish cleaning in silence. As I walk him to the door, I realize I don't really want him to leave. The quiet we shared wasn't awkward—it was comfortable. And that's rare.

"Have a good night, Meadow. See you tomorrow," he says, his gruff tone softened slightly.

"Goodnight, Raffa. See you later," I reply as I watch him head out.

As I make my way to the cottage, I can't shake the feeling that I've opened up to someone I barely know. And what's worse? It didn't feel wrong. It felt . . . safe.

But I remind myself to keep my heart firmly locked in the box it's been in for years. I don't need any more trauma. Not now. Not after everything.

Still, as I slip into bed, I can't help but look forward to tomorrow.