Page 25 of The Pumpkin Patch Sisters

"Yes, for the harvest dance. We used these to mark the path through the orchard." Dahlia’s smile reached her eyes this time as she remembered that year.

"We spent three days hanging lanterns from the branches," Beckett recalled, a warmth blooming in his chest at the memory. He remembered how her laughter had echoed through the trees back then, a bright contrast to her silent intensity today. "You wore a dark dress with silver embroidery, and you refused to let anyone help you set up the cider tables."

"I wanted everything to be perfect. I knew delegating would just mean I’d have to redo everything myself," Dahlia admitted, her voice dropping into a softer, more reflective tone. She smoothed the corner of the brass plate, her fingers lingering on the cool metal. "I had to have the night go exactly how I imagined."

"That night was a great night," Beckett remembered, watching the amber light from the window slide across her cheek. "Even if the wind blew out half the candles before we'd even started the music."

"We still danced in the dark," Dahlia gave a soft snort, turning her head to meet his gaze. The guarded distance that had hovered around her since dawn seemed to crack, revealing a sudden, raw vulnerability that made his heart beat faster. "We didn't need the candles."

Beckett held her gaze, his fingers tightening around the edge of his wooden frame. He looked at the curve of her mouth, remembering how he'd spent thirty years wondering what would have happened if he'd only spoken before the train pulled out of the station with her in it. The silence in the barn stretched between them, thick with the weight of thirty-two years of things left unsaid, but this time, the quiet didn't feel like a barrier. It felt like an invitation.

Dahlia

The silence of the cider barn settled over them. The rhythmic whisper of Dahlia's sanding block had stopped, leaving only the soft rustle of the wind pressing against the sliding barn door. She remained leaning against the wooden workbench, her fingers still resting on the curved edge of the cedar stencil she'd been polishing.

Beckett stood inches away, his hand lingering on the pine support post. The autumn sunlight filtered through the high window, casting golden beams across the timber floorboards and highlighting the orange dust that floated in the air between them. His eyes were dark, looking at her with a quiet intensity that made the space feel incredibly small.

"I didn't think you'd remember the decorations," Beckett murmured, his thumb tracing a rough groove in the pine post. “Or even that night.”

"I remember everything about that night," Dahlia replied, her voice barely louder than the breeze outside. Her heart had begun a steady beat against her ribs. She set the sanding block down, the dry scrape of the wood loud in the quiet. "The gymnasium smelled of floor wax and damp wool. Prue had fallen asleep in a metal folding chair before the second song, and Teddy and Junie along with some of their friends had snuck out to the parking pasture. I spent half the evening hiding in the shadow of the bleachers, watching the door waiting for..."

Beckett let out a soft breath, his chest rising as he looked down at his calloused fingers. "You weren't the only one watching. I spent hours trying to figure out how to approach you to ask you for a dance. Every time I got within yards of you, my throat went completely dry and the words died in my throat."

Dahlia focused on his face. The familiar lines around his eyes, the curve of his jaw, the quiet strength she'd spent thirty-two years trying to forget. "You didn't seem nervous when you finally asked me to dance."

"I had to try and act confident. Truth is, I was terrified," Beckett admitted. He shifted his weight closer, his shoulder almost brushing her sleeve. "You had that green dress on, and your hair was pinned up with those brass clips. You looked like you already belonged to another world. A world that didn't have mud under its fingernails or grease on its palms."

"I was just a girl who'd spent her summer drawing pictures on the back of seed catalogs dreaming of dancing at the harvest festival with her best friend," Dahlia whispered, her throat tightening with a deep ache. "Terrified about the future and losing the most special relationship I had."

"I know," Beckett said, his gentle voice vibrating through the cool air. He let his hand drop from the post, his arm hanging at his side, his fingers twitching slightly as if he wanted to reach out to her but resisted. "I felt the same. But all my fear fell away when we danced under those paper streamers while the teachers watched from the stage. And when the music stopped, I guided you to the edge of the driveway, right where the gravel meets the asphalt. I spent ten minutes trying to find the words to tell you what I'd been feeling."

Dahlia's breath hitched, her fingers curling over the edge of the workbench. "Why didn't you?"

"Because I lost my nerve," Beckett murmured, his eyes locking onto hers, holding her in the pale light. "I stood there looking at you, convinced that if I said a word, or if I tried to kiss you, you'd realize how completely out of my depth I was. I thought if I let you go back to your sketches and your plans, at least I wouldn't have ruined the one perfect thing I'd ever had." His Adams apple bobbed and his voice dropped to a mere whisper. “And I never wanted you to end up resenting me or feeling like I’d trapped you with my feelings.”

The decades of distance between them seemed to evaporate, leaving only the urgent truth of his admission. Dahlia looked at his mouth, her heart hammering so hard she felt certain he could hear it. She remembered that night and how desperately she’d wanted him to kiss her. How hurt, disappointed, and humiliated she was when he didn’t. She’d felt she’d been wrong and Beckett had only seen her as his best friend. Her heart had been crushed.

But now, after his confession, all the anger she'd carried, the defensive walls she'd built to shield herself from the pain of having been forgotten—all of it dissolved in the warmth of his gaze. She didn't want to run anymore. Then it hit Dahlia. A feeling rippled through her so intense she sucked in a breath. She realized she didn't want to hide behind schedules or the safety of another city. She was home being pulled into a world within this small town she never knew existed. Like Alice falling through the rabbit hole.

Then caution evaporated as the pull toward him felt like a magnet she could no longer resist. Before she could stop herself, Dahlia lunged forward, her movement fluid as she closed the small gap between them. She didn't think about the consequences, or what they'd say, or the contract waiting in her inbox. She only knew she couldn't let another thirty years slip away into the dark.

Dahlia reached up, her fingers curling into the rough canvas collar of his jacket, her palms finding the dry warmth of his neck. Beckett gasped, a soft sound that was swallowed as she pressed her lips to his.

Beckett’s response was immediate, a sudden surge of heat that made her knees go weak. His hand rose, his fingers wrapping around her jaw, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone with a calloused tenderness that sent a shiver down her spine. He pulled her flush against his chest, his other arm wrapping around her waist, holding her tightly so she could feel the rapid beat of his heart against her ribs.

The kiss was deep and warm, sweet with the lingering taste of apple cider. It carried the immense weight of thirty-two years of unspoken longing, the pain of their separation, and the hope of a future they'd both spent decades pretending they didn't want. Dahlia leaned into his touch, her eyes closing as she let herself drown in the scent of pine and wood smoke, alongside the familiar warmth of him. She tightened her grip on his collar, pulling him closer, letting her forehead rest against his cheek as they finally parted, their breath coming in ragged gasps in the quiet barn.

The heat of Beckett's skin against her forehead was a sudden, dizzying anchor, but the moment her breath began to steady, a cold spike of reality pierced the warmth.

The Chicago contract was waiting on her nightstand. The managing partner position. The life she’d spent thirty-two years building.

Dahlia gasped, her fingers instantly releasing his canvas collar as if the fabric had turned to hot ash. She retreated a yard, her back pressing hard against the rough cedar edge of the workbench, placing a solid barrier of wood and air between them. Her hands flew to her throat, her fingers curling over her collarbone as she desperately tried to piece her corporate armor back together. Her chest was heaving, her breathing coming in short, panicked gasps that felt far too loud in the quiet barn.

She looked at him through the dim light of the rafters, and a wave of absolute terror washed over her. In Chicago, her world was constructed of thick glass, soundproof boardrooms, and digital calendars that kept every minute safely insulated. Out here, she stood in faded jeans, her palms covered in cedar dust, completely exposed.

Beckett remained completely still, his hand hovering in the empty space where her face had been a second before. The golden sunlight from the high window highlighted the sudden tension in his jaw, his eyes widening with a quiet hurt that made her throat tighten.

"We can't do this," Dahlia said, her voice instantly taking on a professional tone that sounded incredibly thin, almost brittle.