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"People always talk."

"True. What can I get you?"

"Two turkey clubs to go."

"For you and Lyla?"

I should probably be surprised she knows Lyla's name, but this is Bloomfield. Of course she knows. "Yeah."

"She seems sweet. You be good to her."

"I'm planning on it."

"Good. Because if you're not, you'll answer to me."

The food comes up fast, and I'm back in the truck and heading toward Maple Ridge Road before I can second-guess what I'm doing. Which is driving back to see a woman I met yesterday because I can't focus on anything except when I get to see her again.

The logical part of my brain is telling me this is too much too fast. That I'm getting attached to someone I barely know. That I should slow down and be reasonable about this.

The rest of me doesn't care.

I pull into her driveway at noon, and before I can even get out of the truck, the cottage door opens and Lyla steps out onto the porch.

She's changed into jeans and a green sweater that brings out the color in her eyes, and her hair is down and wavy around her shoulders.

When she sees me, her whole face lights up in a way that makes my chest tight.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi. I brought lunch."

"You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to."

I follow her inside, and the cottage smells like coffee and the faint scent of her shampoo. Her laptop is open on the table with design software on screen, and there are papers scattered everywhere covered in sketches and notes.

"How's the logo going?" I ask, setting the food on the counter.

"Terribly. I've been staring at it for three hours and I hate everything I've made." She takes the containers from me and starts opening them. "But I'm taking a break because if I look at it any longer, I'm going to throw my laptop out the window."

"That's probably wise."

We sit at her small table to eat, and the conversation flows easily. She tells me about her client, about the impossible balance between modern and approachable. I tell her about the property dispute, about how some people in small towns will hold grudges for decades over things that don't matter.

And the whole time, all I can think about is how right this feels. How natural it is to be here with her, eating lunch and talking about nothing important. How much I want this to be my life.

When we're done eating, she leans back in her chair and looks at me. "What are you thinking about?"

"You."

"What about me?"

"About how I'm supposed to go back to the station and work, and all I want to do is stay here."

Her eyes go dark. "Then stay."

"Lyla..."