Chapter Eighteen

Piper

Last night left me walking on air. Everything about the party was perfect. I felt just as beautiful as our surroundings. The well-wishers around us were bursting with love for each other and for Gibson and Avery. I've never lived in a small town, so I've never felt that kind of camaraderie that comes with seeing the same people day after day, year after year. They've shared in the same victories and losses, the same busy seasons and dead months. They've been to each other's birthday parties and christenings and funerals and engagements. The feeling was so comforting it was intoxicating. I don't understand why Tate left here all those years ago, or how he could find it so suffocating instead of inspiring and uplifting.

By the time the party wrapped up and we made it back to our cabin, my sides hurt from laughing and my calves hurt from the shoes. And then what came after when my calves didn't get one bit of rest until Tate carried me to the bed whispering words that still seem like a dream.

We slept like logs, wrapped up in each other, and I woke up with a river of drool on my pillow, and I think I may have even snored. Seeing Tate's face first thing in the morning is starting to become routine, and I know that I have to brace myself for the fallout that comes with whatever happens when we return to Minneapolis.

Will he ask me to stay over, or will we part at the end of each work day just like we always have?

Waking up next to Tate has woven itself into the fabric of my mornings, a soft, persistent thread that I dread cutting. But the shadow of our impending return to Minneapolis casts a chill over the warmth of these moments. What unsettles me isn't just the transition from companions to colleagues, but also the prospect of being so close yet so impossibly distant from him. There, in the mundane grind of our daily routines, he'll be just steps away but miles out of reach, always within sight but forever beyond my grasp. This proximity, coupled with the impossibility of crossing the invisible line back to intimacy, sharpens the sting of loneliness. I'll see him, hear him, maybe even brush against him as we pass by each other, yet in every meaningful way, he'll be a world away.

The thought of returning to a professional dynamic, rigid and formal after the electric intimacy we've shared, feels like a cruel joke. How will I bear the nearness of him, knowing that the passion we kindled here must be extinguished, leaving behind only the cold ashes of what could have been?

Because beneath my protests, I crave more—infinitely more. Yet I confessed nothing, silenced by the fear that reaching for everything might leave me with nothing at all. Especially since Tate all but admitted having a real relationship with me terrified him. And I know what happens when my boss is frightened, he shuts down completely all while pretending emotions don't even exist.

To hold even the smallest part of him is better than emptiness. The scraps of his affection sustain me, bitter as it is to admit, because the thought of complete absence is a void too harrowing to contemplate. I could say that I've fallen in love with Tate Story, but that would be a lie.

I've always loved him.

We bumble about the cabin for a bit, decidedly hungover and sleep deprived, but the mood is still cheerful as I continue to ignore my real feelings. Which is why it's so jarring when I catch Tate frowning at his cellphone screen, mired in thought at whatever it is that he's reading.

"What's wrong?" I ask with a stretch, massaging a spot in my lower back that I'm certain is being caused by the way Tate juts his knees up in his sleep. He either doesn't hear me, or doesn't care, eyes glued to the screen in front of him. I lean forward, obviously looking at the source of his frustration, giving him ample time to pull it away if he wants to. It's Sunset Fake. Again. But this time, the headline isn't about Gibson and Avery or the new Chipotle they keep threatening to open on Main Street. It's about me.

My eyes widen. "This is crazy. How did you find it?"

"Google alert."

I sink down onto the couch beside him, opening the Sunset Fake homepage on my phone. From the look on Tate's face, I had expected the article to be something truly awful, either revealing our relationship to be a fraud, or worse—exposing Tate's finances and his purchase of the resort. Instead, it's borderline kind.

"Sad day for the ladies of Sunset Lake. Tate Story, perhaps not the most charming of the Story princes but a catch nonetheless, appears to be off the market for good. After arriving in town over the weekend with a mystery girl in tow, the pair could be seen attending his brother Gibson's engagement party last night. A source calls the pair inseparable, even going so far as to say that the mystery girl was gifted with a sizable piece of jewelry later in the evening."

The accusation is so ridiculous that it takes me a minute to realize what they could possibly be talking about. When I finally put the pieces together, I can't help but laugh. "It was a ring pop. A ring pop, Tate! Clearly, this mystery blogger knows nothing."

"Right," he grumbles, still staring at his phone. I can tell from the look in his eyes that he isn't thinking about the article, and that his mind has gone somewhere else entirely. From the depth of the line etched between his brows, it isn't anywhere good. I stare at him for a moment, waiting for him to snap out of it, but no such luck. After last night, I don't want to lose him to his fear. Not yet anyway.

But when he doesn't budge, I give up, patting him on the thigh before standing with a stretch. "Ready to go make some chocolate?"

"Yes," he agrees readily, tossing his phone onto the seat next to him and rubbing at his temples. "Let's go."

When we arrive at the VFW, there are already a few people milling around outside. I don't know if it was the catering, the cornhole, or the actual algorithm, but whatever Tate and I are doing with the app launch seems to be working. There's an air of excitement as I start unloading the few things from the car that Fallon couldn't get her hands on at either the VFW or the resort. She's done an excellent job of setting the kitchen up to my specifications. I barely have to lift a finger to arrange everything just how I like it. She seems in a good mood today, chatting with the couples that showed up early and chugging a coffee the size of her head. That is, until Leo walks in.

Neither speak to each other, but it's obvious that they make eye contact when he walks through the door. Fallon bends first, turning on her heel and striking up conversation with the guy from the cornhole tournament. She shoots a quick glance behind her, and when she notices that Leo is already making pleasant small talk with another girl, Fallon makes a show of linking her arm with her new partner, dragging him to the most visible chocolate making station, the one set up the closet to mine.

"Look at Fallon playing the field," Tate whistles, sipping at a paper cup of coffee and grimacing. It's the instant stuff they had laying around the VFW, and I can't imagine it holds a candle to the small batch stuff he grinds for himself every morning.

"Or…" I take a sip from his cup, my desperation for caffeine overriding my distaste for the poor quality coffee. "Playing hard to get."

He looks from Fallon to Leo, Leo to Fallon, and then back to me with a raised eyebrow. "Fallon? With Leo?"

"She likes him. He's not showing how he feels the same way. She's pulling back and making a point." The moment the words fall from my lips, I start to see the wisdom in her plan. It's a bold move, and a gambit that I'm not sure will pay off, but I understand the impulse. She just wants him to show that he cares. Even if she has to upset him to do it. Any reaction is better than none.

"Games are so unnecessary."

"Protecting her heart isn't playing a game. It's hard to keep putting yourself out there and never get anything in return. The constant feeling of rejection…" I let my words trail off, everything suddenly hitting too close to home.

"Who hurt you, Piper?" Tate teases, scanning the crowd of couples waiting for us to get started, rolling up his sleeves.

If he only knew. "You're going to beat someone up on my behalf?"

"No," he deflates, shoulders slumping as his arms drop to his sides. "But as I recall, Gibson is great at that. Maybe he could stand in for me."

It's so odd to me that this entire conversation can feel so relevant to our current situation, but Tate doesn't see it at all. Despite what happened last night, his words, his actions, his current detachment and casual attitude are starting to make me worried again that all of this is just as fake as it was when we started. I can't sit here pondering my eventual hurt feelings, not when I'm supposed to be teaching a bunch of strangers how to make truffles.

"No fisticuffs needed," I insist, slipping my apron over my neck and tightening the strap at my waist. "Let's get started."

Daisy sweeps into the VFW hall with the grace of a seasoned event planner, her arms laden with fresh herbs and wildflowers, local touches that breathe life into the space. She spots us immediately, her smile brightening the already sunlit room.

"Piper, right?" she extends a hand, her voice as warm as the summer air outside. "Fallon's told me so much about you. It's great to finally meet Tate's..." she trails off, a playful glance at Fallon cutting her off.

Fallon laughs, stepping in to save Daisy from the awkward pause. "Piper's the magician behind today's chocolate extravaganza," she interjects, giving me a conspiratorial wink. "And possibly other kinds of magic, too, since my brother is acting almost human since he got here."

At Tate's blush, Daisy's laughter is a gentle, melodic sound that makes you want to join in. "I brought some lavender and mint from my garden. Thought it might add a nice touch to your chocolates," she says, unpacking her bounty onto a nearby table. The scents mingle beautifully, the lavender's soothing aroma promising a hint of calm amidst the chaos of preparation.

Her mention of Tate's younger brother, Hudson, is casual, dropped into conversation like a pebble into still water, creating ripples that hint at deeper stories beneath the surface. "He used to help me pick these in high school," she muses softly, more to herself than to us, arranging the stems with practiced fingers.

As I watch her, a part of me is drawn to the ease with which she carries her past, a stark contrast to the way I've seen Tate wrestle with his own. Her openness about Hudson paints her history in strokes of fond nostalgia rather than regret, and I find myself wondering about the strength it must take to look back so kindly on what might have been. I also wonder if I'll ever get to meet Tate's elusive brother.

As Daisy finishes arranging the herbs, she turns back to us with a more contemplative look, her gaze lingering on the bustling setup around us. "It's amazing to see how these gatherings pull the community together. It's like weaving a tapestry—everyone adds their thread, and somehow, it all turns into something beautiful."

I nod, struck by her analogy, feeling the truth of it as I look around at the familiar and new faces mingling in the hall. "It's my first time experiencing something like this," I admit, a bit sheepishly. "I've always lived in bigger cities. The sense of community here is... different. More personal, I guess?"

"Definitely more personal," Fallon chimes in, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Everyone knows your business, but they also have your back. It's a double-edged sword, but mostly, it's just comforting."

Daisy smiles, a soft, knowing smile that speaks of years embedded in this community's heart. "You get used to it," she assures me. "And sometimes, you find it's exactly what you needed—a place where people don't just pass by in your life; they actually stay and become a part of it."

Her words echo in my mind, resonating with a longing I hadn't fully acknowledged. The intimacy of these relationships, the depth of the bonds they suggest, it's alluring in a way I hadn't expected. It makes me wonder about the roots one could grow in a place like this, and whether, despite the complications and the past I'm tangled up with Tate, I could find a semblance of this community warmth for myself.

As Daisy and Fallon exchange a look that speaks volumes of their shared history, I'm struck by the depth of connections that seem to underpin every interaction here.

"Come on, let's get these chocolates started before everyone starts thinking we're only here to chat!" Fallon declares, her energy infectious as she leads the way to the set-up area. Daisy follows, her movements graceful and unhurried, yet every step is purposeful.

I trail behind them, absorbing the warmth and laughter that fills the room. Daisy pauses to introduce me to some of the VFW regulars, her introductions rich with anecdotes and fond teasing. Each person beams at her words, their respect and affection for her palpable. It's clear she's more than just the resort manager; she's a beloved part of this community fabric.

The VFW hall resonates with eager chatter as couples gather around our makeshift chocolate workshop. My hands, confident and practiced, dive into the rich, molten chocolate that awaits its transformation into decadent truffles. I address the group with a smile, thrilled to share the art that has long been my passion.

"Alright everyone, let's see if we can't make some chocolate magic happen today," I begin, feeling a surge of excitement as the couples lean in, their eyes fixed on the bowls of chocolate before them. "Remember, making truffles is a lot like a good relationship—messy but incredibly rewarding."

Laughter ripples through the group, and I guide them through the process of scooping and rolling the ganache. A few enthusiastic attempts result in more chocolate on hands and faces than in the forming trays. One gentleman, in a valiant effort to impress his partner, ends up with a splatter of chocolate across his forehead, earning a peal of laughter from his date when she makes a half-hearted attempt to lick it off.

"Now, while we're waiting for these to set," I continue, "you'll each take turns dipping the truffles in tempered chocolate. It's all about timing—dip too soon, and your truffles will melt into the coating. Too late, and the coating might not stick."

As the couples line up to dip their creations, I walk around, offering tips and encouragement. The atmosphere is light and playful, a stark contrast to the meticulous solitude of my usual chocolate making. Watching them laugh and tease each other, occasionally stealing a chocolate-dipped kiss, I'm reminded of why I fell in love with this craft in the first place. It's not just about creating something beautiful and delicious—it's about the shared experience, the joy it brings to others.

A particularly exuberant couple misjudges their dipping technique, leading to a splash of chocolate across the table. "It's a new abstract art form," I joke, helping them clean up while ensuring they're still smiling. The room echoes with chuckles and chattering, the initial awkwardness dissolved in shared mishaps and triumphs.

As the couples diligently focus on their creations, a chuckle escapes me when I catch sight of Tate at the end of the table, clearly more interested in tasting the chocolate than making truffles. He pops another ‘misshapen' truffle into his mouth, a guilty pleasure evident in his grin. When he catches my eye, he sheepishly points to a small smear of chocolate on his cheek, mimicking shock.

"Quality control," he declares with mock seriousness. His light-hearted antics not only add to the warm ambiance but also draw a few more spectators to our workshop, including some reluctant partners who'd been mere observers until now. I give him a playful roll of my eyes but can't hide my amusement. This unexpected side of him, playful and carefree, only deepens the connection I feel.

As the workshop winds down, each couple proudly inspects their handiwork. I stand back, watching the happy chaos, the room buzzing with laughter and chatter. It's these moments—of connection, of joy, of chocolate-covered smiles—that remind me how much I love the simple joys of my favorite hobby.

"Thanks for being such a great group," I say as they begin to pack up their truffles, each couple leaving with a box of their handmade sweets. "Remember, the key to great chocolate and great relationships is patience, care, and a lot of sweet moments."

Their thanks and praises are heartwarming, and as they exit, the room feels larger, emptier but somehow filled with the residue of happy memories. I clean up the last of the supplies, a smile lingering on my lips. This, right here, is the sweet spot—where my passion meets purpose and brings joy, not just to me but to others. It's a reminder of the beauty in sharing your gifts, in turning an everyday skill into a conduit for connection and joy.

"Wow, Piper, you really know how to put on a show," Fallon says with a wide grin, her eyes sparkling despite the fatigue edging her voice. "I think every couple in Sunset Lake fell a little more in love today—thanks to you."

Daisy nods in agreement, her gentle smile reflecting the soft lighting of the VFW hall. "You have a gift, Piper. It's not just about the chocolate, you know? It's about how you make people feel while they're making it."

Their kind words warm me, and I feel a rush of pride. "Thanks, you two. I couldn't have pulled it off without your help. Let's do this again sometime."

"Definitely," Daisy replies. "But next time, less chocolate splatter and more aprons."

We all laugh, and after a few more pleasantries, they head out into the cool evening, leaving me to gather my things. I turn off the lights and lock the door behind me, the echo of laughter and chatter still bouncing off the walls in my mind.

Outside, Tate waits by the car, a thoughtful expression on his face. As I approach, he opens his arms for a quick, comforting hug. "You were amazing in there, Piper. Not just with the chocolate. You handled the crowd, made it fun, made it about more than just dessert. I learned a lot tonight—about chocolate, sure, but more about what people enjoy together. It's good research for the new app."

I chuckle, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "Glad I could help with your market research. So, this was work after all?"

"In a way," he admits with a mischievous grin. "But mostly, it was about watching you do what you do best. You in your element? That's the part I love most of all."

The drive back is quiet, contemplative. The soft hum of the car blends with my thoughts, swirling around the future of Tate's app and the depth of what we've shared. It's been a night of laughter, learning, and a little bit of chocolate magic. As the lights of the resort appear in the distance, I realize that no matter what happens next, tonight was a reminder of why I do what I do, and who I want to be doing it for.