Tangled in Wildflower Creek

Harper Quinn If the town of Wildflower Creek had a heartbeat, it pulsed in rhythm with the crickets. Slow. Predictable. A little annoying if you listened too long. The old wooden sign that welcomed travelers at the edge of town still read Population: 2,918, even though that number hadn’t been accurate since Harper was in high school. Just like everything else around here—it refused to change. Her boots crunched over the gravel driveway as she stood in front of the weather-beaten inn that used to belong to her grandmother. “The Blue Fern.” The sign was faded, one of the letters hanging by a rusted nail. Paint peeled from the shutters. The porch slanted like it had started giving up a decade ago. It looked tired, like it had been waiting for her—and wasn’t sure it was happy to see her. Harper sighed and adjusted her camera bag over her shoulder. The cold wind whipped her dark curls across her cheek as she muttered, “Well, Gran. I’m here. But I don’t know what the hell you expected me to do with this place.” The porch stairs groaned as she climbed them, and something scurried underneath the wood. Probably a raccoon. Or a snake. Or the ghosts of old regrets—this town was full of those. She’d barely stuck the key into the lock when a low whistle behind her cut through the silence like a blade. “You weren’t kidding when you said it needed work,” came a voice she hadn’t heard in eight long years. But she’d recognize it anywhere. She turned slowly—and there he was. Wyatt Callahan. The same deep-set hazel eyes that once saw through her every excuse. The same cocky smirk that used to drive her insane. He looked older now—broader shoulders, stubble along his jaw, hair a little messier, like he never bothered with mirrors anymore. He wore a faded black T-shirt and grease-stained jeans, as if time had decided he’d look better rough around the edges. Her stomach dropped, and for a second, she hated her pulse for remembering him. “What are you doing here?” she asked, arms crossing before she could stop herself. He leaned against the porch railing, which creaked under his weight. “Mayor’s office sent me. Said the new owner of The Blue Fern needed a local contractor. Guess they figured I’d be the only fool willing to take this mess on.” Harper narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t ask for a contractor.” “No,” he said, “but you clearly need one.” There it was—that Callahan arrogance. Like he’d already won some invisible argument before she’d even had a chance to speak. She hated that. Hated that it still lit a fire in her chest, same as it did when they were teens. “I’ll find someone else,” she snapped. “Sure,” he said, pushing off the railing. “Let me know how many licensed contractors you find in Wildflower Creek who don’t still hate your guts for leaving.” Her jaw tightened. “I didn’t leave. I escaped.” He stepped closer. Too close. The scent of cedar and motor oil clung to him like a second skin. The same scent that used to linger on her pillow when—no. She shut that memory down. “You ran,” he said flatly. “Big difference.” Her chest burned, but she kept her gaze steady. “I don’t owe you anything, Wyatt.” “Didn’t say you did.” He looked her up and down, slowly, like he was measuring how much she’d changed. “But if we’re working together, might as well get this tension out of the way now.” “We’re not working together.” “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and gravelly, “you think you’ve got a choice?” For a moment, the only sound was the wind brushing through the trees and the distant creak of the inn’s broken weathervane. Harper’s heart beat louder than both. She didn’t want to need him. Didn’t want to need anyone. But Gran’s note haunted her, and so did the collapsing floorboards inside. “I’ll give it one week,” she said finally, glaring up at him. “Then I find someone else.” Wyatt shrugged. “You’ve got one week, Quinn. Try not to quit before then.” She watched him walk away, boots kicking up dust like nothing ever touched him. Same old Wyatt—smug, infuriating, too damn charming for his own good. This was going to be a disaster. And somehow, she couldn’t wait. — The inside of the inn smelled like dust and forgotten memories. The kind that hit you in the throat and lingered like a cough. Harper stepped into the foyer and flicked on the light, only to find the bulb above her flickering weakly and dying with a final pop. She muttered a curse and made a mental note: change lightbulbs, fix wiring, possibly set fire to entire building. Gran had always said this place had "good bones." But bones didn’t pay for new roofs or repair cracked walls. Bones didn’t clean up moldy kitchens or fix warped floors. Bones didn’t hold up a legacy, either. She made her way to the living room, eyes scanning the worn furniture and faded curtains. A photograph still sat on the mantle—her, Gran, and Wyatt, arms around each other, laughing like nothing could ever break them. Harper’s throat tightened. She picked it up, ran her fingers along the dusty glass, and whispered, “What did you expect me to come back to?” Outside, the roar of a pickup truck engine brought her back to the present. She peeked through the window and watched Wyatt toss a toolbox into the bed of his truck. He wiped his hands on a rag, looked up at the inn for a moment, then climbed into the driver’s seat. She let the curtain fall before he could see her watching. Whatever they had before—friendship, chemistry, pain—it was a different lifetime. But Wildflower Creek had a way of pulling you back. Not just to places, but to people. To feelings you thought were long dead. And as much as Harper hated to admit it, Wyatt Callahan wasn’t just a chapter she’d skipped. He was a page she’d torn out and burned—only to find the ashes still clinging to her skin.