One week after Halloween, and Mackenzie hadn’t heard a peep about Jake—which was a Sweetbriar miracle, considering how fast news traveled in their town. She already knew that Hank at the market had changed the brand of honey he stocked, so she would have thought that their conquering football hero returning home after all these years would have warranted an all-alerts broadcast. But even though she kept her ears open—and her eyes alert for that tall, muscular frame—as she strolled through town, there was still no hint of him.

She should have been relieved. Her cheeks still flushed when she remembered that night in the gazebo, and how she’d wound up melting in his arms. It was madness, making out like that with Jake Sullivan of all people, especially when he had no clue that she was the woman he’d been kissing.

Mackenzie flushed again, this time with guilt. OK, so she should have said something. They’d been friends, once upon a time. Best friends. She’d teased him, expecting him to figure it out at any moment, but the teasing led to flirting, the flirting made her heart race faster, and then suddenly, he was moving closer with that reckless look in his eyes, and the moment for confessing the truth melted away in a rush of pure desire.

She was a bad, bad girl.

But oh, it had felt so good.

Mackenzie reached her gallery and unlocked the front door. Inside, the bright, airy shopfront was filled with colorful pottery, stacked on pedestals and shelving, with their glazes gleaming in the fall sun. She loved to change her work with the seasons (and those tourist-friendly festivals), so her fall collection was out in full force: rich reds, orange, ochre, and gold colors, with tiny painted leaves edging the bowls and tableware, pretty as a walk through the autumn woods.

She stripped off her coat and scarf and looked around. She had a million things to do: orders to process and pack, fresh pottery to glaze, last month’s accounts.

They could all wait.

She headed in back instead, to the studio she’d affectionately named her mudroom. It had clay-splattered floors, shelving crammed with tools and misshapen experiments, and, in the pride of position, her potter’s wheel, waiting in the middle of the room.

She rolled up her sleeves, tied on an apron, and grabbed a handful of wet clay from the bucket waiting by the door. And just like that, her world made sense again.

Mackenzie smiled. She’d always been an artist. Even as a kid, her hippie parents had encouraged her to be creative, so she would spend hours in the yard making weird play figures out of twigs and material scraps, or mixing her own paints from a dubious collection of wild berries, eyeshadow, and cherry soda, but the first time she ever sank her fingers into a cool, squishy mass of clay, she’d known it was the beginning of a great love affair—one that had lasted twenty years and counting.

Now, she quickly kneaded the clay to remove any air pockets, then settled on her stool and threw it down hard in the middle of the wheel. It landed with a satisfying splat, so she nudged the pedal, and started it spinning.

What would she make today?

She had a list of orders a mile long, but Mackenzie could already see this piece taking shape in her mind: a beautiful serving bowl, with a gently-flared lip. Something simple; she would glaze in pure white and a cobweb of delicate snowflakes, her first nod to the winter season ahead.

She cupped the mound of clay firmly as it spun, exerting just the right amount of pressure with her palm and fingertips to guide the clay into shape. She formed the first dip in the center, gently bringing it wider, until the base of the bowl was formed, then pinched the clay up and out, shaping the slope of the body.

It was second nature to her by now, slipping into that focused dream state, totally absorbed by the project in front of her. She could have done it in her sleep, and sometimes, Mackenzie woke feeling like she had—hands molding around her blankets like she’d been shaping them into a new set of dinnerware. Today, she was glad for the distraction, putting all her attention on the smooth, steady spin, until she heard the bell jangle over the gallery door.

“Just a second!” she called, hitting the pedal and bringing the bowl to a stop. She rinsed her hands, then headed out to find a familiar face browsing the shelves. “Summer,” she greeted her friend happily. “If you tell me that bag is full of sticky buns, I’ll love you forever.”

“You’re easy.” Summer laughed. She had a blue knit cap pulled over her hair, and a brown paper bag wafting sugar and butter across the room. “And yes. Cinnamon sugar buns, and some blackberry turnovers too.”

“You’re so good to me.” Mackenzie wiped her hands off and skipped over. Summer’s sticky buns were no joking matter: they’d turned her bakery into a massive success, and even fueled a cookbook and TV show. “It’s kind of early for you to be out. Shouldn’t you be chained to the stove, turning out pastries for your adoring masses?”

“My assistants are taking care of the adoring masses,” Summer replied. Mackenzie took a bite of cinnamon dough and sighed with pleasure, as Summer glanced around the store. “I’m actually here on a mission. I need some new sets of plates for the bakery, I thought maybe I could commission you to do a special style.” She turned over one of the bowls, etched with acorns. “Could you maybe do something like this, but in a simple white, with . . .”

“Blackberries!” Mackenzie finished for her. It was the bakery on Blackberry Lane, after all.

“Yes!” Summer lit up. “That’s perfect. We could even sell them, so people can take a souvenir.”

“Done and done.” Mackenzie grabbed her order book and started checking dates. “When would you need them? I have to finish up an order for a gallery in Boston, but then I’m all yours.”

“There’s no rush,” Summer reassured her. “Whenever you can spare the time.”

“Then let me know what you need, exactly, and I’ll get started.” Mackenzie smiled. “I’ll even give you the sticky bun discount.”

Summer laughed. “Sounds good to me.” She checked her phone. “I better get back, before they burn something. Have you heard how Debra is doing?” she added, heading for the door.

“No, did something happen?” Mackenzie frowned.

“She got tipsy on Hank’s elderberry wine at the town meeting last night. She tripped and broke her ankle.”

“Oh no,” Mackenzie exclaimed. “Is she OK?”

“Aside from being laid up with a massive cast,” Summer said. “I was going to take her these muffins, but I really should get back. Would you mind dropping by today?”

“Of course, I’ll put together a care package,” Mackenzie said.

“Great. Tell her I said hi!”

---

Mackenzie closed up early for lunch and headed over to Debra’s farmhouse on the outskirts of town, stopping by the market first, for a stack of the trashy gossip magazines she knew Debra loved. She’d known the older woman for years; she’d been Mackenzie’s art teacher in high school, and now as well as running all the big town festivals, Debra was also a regular participant (slash wine-drinker) at their monthly book club. When she rang the bell at the farmhouse door, Mackenzie was greeted with a riot of barking.

“It’s open!” a call came from inside, so Mackenzie pushed it wider, and was promptly attacked by two fluffy German Shepard dogs.

“Brad Pitt! George Clooney! Down boys!” She managed to keep her balance under the cascade of wagging tails and enthusiastic licking.

“I’m in here,” Debra’s voice led her back to the cozy living room, where the woman herself was resting on the couch, her ankle in a massive cast that was propped up on a cushion. “What do you think?” she asked, nodding to the white shell. “I asked for something a little more colorful, but they only had white. Perhaps you can bring by your paints and jazz it up?”

“What happened?” Mackenzie asked, setting down her bag.

Debra sighed. “Contrary to what Franny says, I wasn’t drunk. Well, not very. But one of those rascals left a chew toy out, and before I knew it, I was ass backwards down the stairs.”

“Ouch.” Mackenzie winced. “Does it hurt?”

“Not since the nice doctor gave me something for the pain,” Debra grinned. “Speaking of, would you be a dear and grab my purse?”

“Here.” Mackenzie passed it over. “And I brought some supplies, too.” She unpacked the shopping. “Summer sends her best, and these muffins.”

“Ooh, I guess there is a silver lining, after all.” Debra swallowed a couple of pills and settled back, shifting position. “Cooper already came to fix my gutters, and Grayson stopped by with a box of rather naughty romance books from his store. I’ve half a mind to take to my bed every year.”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Mackenzie laughed. “I don’t think Brad and George would cope too well.”

The dogs were still racing around, full of energy. One bounded over to nudge at Debra. “That’s my hint,” she said, rueful. “I don’t suppose you could take them out for a walk, could you? I let them out back to run around, but, well, you can see they’re used to a real hike.”

“I’d love to,” Mackenzie agreed. “Things are slow at the gallery, so I was planning to get some fresh air anyway.” She paused, scratching one of the dogs behind the ears as she fought her curiosity.

The curiosity won.

“I heard Jake Sullivan was back in town the other week,” she said, trying her best to sound casual.

“Mmmhmm.” Debra was busy picking through the bag of muffins. “Oh, yes, he’s back. Staying at his folks’ house while they’re off on that trip of theirs.”

Mackenzie’s heart stopped. Staying. As in, present tense?

“I thought he’d already left,” she said, her pulse suddenly racing. “He’s still here?”

Debra looked up. “For the winter, at least. You should stop by,” she said, getting a familiar gleam in her eye. “Welcome him to the neighborhood. Didn’t I read in Men’s Health he’s still single? He was one of their top bachelors. I’ve got the article here somewhere—”

“No, thanks! I’m fine. Just . . . heard the gossip, that’s all.” Mackenzie leapt up, certain her cheeks were flushing bright red by now. “I should go take these guys out before they cause any more damage.” She gathered her bag and the leashes, and was heading for the door when she added, “If you need anything else, just call.”

“Well, there is one small thing.” Debra said, stopping her. “The Starbright Festival.”

“What about it?” Mackenzie paused. It was the pride of Sweetbriar Cove, a huge set of festive events leading up to the big candle-lighting ceremony on Christmas Eve, and Mackenzie loved every minute of it.

“I need you to run it.”

Mackenzie snorted with laughter, but Debra looked deadly serious. “Wait, what?”

“I usually steer the whole thing, but as you can see . . .” Debra wriggled the toes peeping out of her cast.

“But . . .” Mackenzie blinked at the enormity of the project. “It’s a huge festival. Thousands of people, and dozens of events!”

“Oh, don’t worry, it practically runs itself.” Debra waved away her concerns. “But, I suppose, if you don’t have the time to help . . .” she sniffed, giving Mackenzie a frail look. “I could try and soldier on, and hope I don’t do any permanent damage . . .”

“Don’t play ‘weak old lady’ with me.” Mackenzie stopped her with a grin. “You’re in better health than the rest of us.”

“But I can’t get around.” Debra pointed out. “Besides, I’ve been running the damn thing for over a decade. This time, I deserve to sip my eggnog in peace. Look, it’s all here.”

She heaved a massive binder up, stuffed with loose pages and handwritten notes peeking out. “The local businesses all know the drill,” Debra continued, “you just need to crack the whip and keep them on schedule.”

Mackenzie slowly lifted the binder. It weighed as much as a block of clay. “Why me?” she asked, feeling like she’d just been given a curse, not a blessing. “Ellie Lucas would be great at something like this, she’s used to doing all the accounts. Or Riley’s new girlfriend Brooke! She runs that hotel, spends all her time staging events. She’d be perfect!”

“They’re in the honeymoon phase,” Debra said, dismissing her. “Poppy and Cooper will be planning a wedding soon enough. You’re the only one without any distractions, no man keeping you up at night—you’ll have plenty of time for this!”

---

Mackenzie left the binder at her gallery, and then headed for the coastal trail with the rambunctious dogs in tow. Single-shamed for not having a boyfriend! She couldn’t believe it, and from Debra of all people. But the older woman probably just knew Mackenzie was a soft touch, and she did love the holidays . . .

Christmas was her favorite time of year, and the Starbright Festival always made it special. The town was transformed into a twinkling wonderland, with Christmas trees on every corner, and the local businesses going all-out to decorate in new festive themes. Mackenzie did her best to top herself every year at the gallery, even hosting the annual Nog-Off eggnog competition, but she’d never been responsible for much more—let alone the whole thing!

It couldn’t be too complicated, could it? Debra wouldn’t risk the biggest tourist draw of the year just to have a nap.

Would she?

The barking of the dogs pulled her back to reality. They were out of town now, away from the main highway, so Mackenzie undid their leashes and let them run free into the undergrowth and along the winding trail that meandered up the coast, with the woods on one side, and the rocky shoreline on the other. It was a gorgeous fall afternoon, with a cool blue sky and leaves crunching underfoot, and Mackenzie took a deep breath of crisp air and felt her tension slowly slip away.

She could handle this, no problem. A project was good. Things had been getting a little predictable at the gallery, and helping with the Starbright Festival was her chance to shake things up. It would occupy her mind, and keep her from being distracted . . . like by a certain football star’s unexpected return.

Jake.

Mackenzie felt her cheeks flush again, picturing his broad shoulders and blue eyes. She hoped Debra hadn’t seen her feelings written all over her face before, but hopefully she’d played it off as just a casual question. They’d been friends, after all, long before he’d become the sports superstar everyone knew today.

Best friends.

Mackenzie smiled, remembering it. Back then, he gave her rides to school in his dad’s beat-up truck, blasting mixtapes from the cassette deck. They did their homework together in the back corner of the library, and watched crappy movies in her basement on a Friday night—before he went off to whatever party was raging that weekend. They were an unlikely pair: the football star and the weird art girl, but thanks to the Sweetbriar School District’s alphabetical seating policy, they didn’t really have a choice. Mackenzie had arrived the first day in school, a transfer student with her chunky knit sweaters and that frizzy red hair that made her wince to think of it, and been assigned the seat beside him. It was her third move in five years, so she knew the deal: high-school gods like him didn’t look twice at dorky mere mortals like her. But one afternoon during Calculus, she’d been deep in her sketchbook, when a tiny paper plane landed on her desk.

Can I see? the message read.

Jake had been watching her sketch and scribble all afternoon long. She’d been embarrassed at first, showing him her half-finished drawings and random notes, but he’d been so enthusiastic that she kept sharing. Art club let out the same time as football practice, so he’d offered her a ride home, and just like that, they’d become friends.

It would have been great, if she hadn’t gone and fallen head over teenage heels in love with him.

Mackenzie winced. Her unrequited crush on Jake had consumed most of her junior and senior years, and the only silver lining to it all was that he’d remained completely oblivious. She’d come close to telling him how she felt, just once, the night of prom, but . . . well, that hadn’t exactly gone as planned. (Unless the plan had been running half-dressed and humiliated through the Sweetbriar Town Square). But perhaps that was a blessing in disguise, because Jake stayed in the dark about her feelings—right up until the day he left for college on a football scholarship, and started what would become his glittering career. He hadn’t stepped foot back in Sweetbriar since, and although she sometimes thought of him—when a game was on TV at her parents’ place, or when some old Jimmy Eat World song came on the radio—Mackenzie figured he was gone for good, just another wistful memory of the girl she used to be.

Until that Halloween kiss made him anything but ancient history.

The kiss . . .

She inhaled, memories rushing back to her. The broad, stacked planes of his body pressed hotly against her . . . The way she’d surrendered willingly to his tempting mouth, losing her mind, and her breath, as he kissed her like nobody had ever kissed her before . . .

She shook her head sternly. It was stupid to keep replaying that night. It had been a moment of madness, and now she had to face the consequences—or rather, try her best to avoid them. With any luck, Jake was just in town for a quick visit, and she wouldn’t have to explain herself. She couldn’t imagine him staying longer, anyway. He was rich and famous, and used to the city lights by now. He was—

Jogging up the trail in workout gear, heading straight for her.

Mackenzie froze.

Maybe she was imagining things, but nope: there he was, in loose gray track pants and a sweat-drenched blue T-shirt. She wondered if she had time to dive back into the trees and hide, but it was too late. He looked up and saw her.

“Mac?” he called, a grin spreading across his face. He slowed his pace, and came to a stop in front her, breathing hard. “Holy crap, I can’t believe it. I haven’t seen you in, what, ten years? C’mon over here and give me a hug!”

He held his arms wide, still beaming, and that’s when Mackenzie realized:

He still had absolutely no idea that the woman from the gazebo was her.