Page 2 of Her Ohio Old Flame

She tipped back her head, her dark eyes meeting his. She was stunning, yes, but it wasn’t just that. She was smart, sharp in ways that both impressed and challenged him. How the hell had he gotten so lucky?

Even with her heading to college soon, two hours away, Zane wasn’t worried. They’d make it work. Asha was his girl. Nothing was going to change that.

Chapter One

PRESENT DAY

Asha Williams stood at the edge of the front porch, her polished leather heels clicking faintly on the wooden planks as she adjusted the strap of her rolling suitcase. The house loomed before her, steadfast in its white-picketed simplicity. The porch swing to her right oscillated in the morning breeze, the chain creaking with a sound that felt like a whisper from the past. The air carried the faint scent of lavender, likely from the rows of the purple flowers her mother tended religiously.

Fifteen years hadn’t dulled the memories rooted here. If anything, they seemed sharper now, each detail like a thread pulling her back to a version of herself she believed she’d outgrown. The porch railing, worn smooth by years of leaning elbows, the faint smudge of green paint near the steps from her own clumsy hand as a child—all of it was unchanged. It was as if the house had been waiting for her, preserving its quiet charm while her own life rushed ahead at breakneck speed.

She glanced down, smoothing the lapels of her tailored navy blazer, the sharp angles of the fabric contrasting starkly with the weathered boards upon which she stood. Beneath the blazer, her ivory silk blouse hugged her frame, the kind of perfectionshe’d cultivated throughout years of corporate boardrooms and courtroom floors. Her hair was swept back into a sleek bun, not a strand out of place.

It was armor. She could admit that much to herself. A shield against the vulnerability that seemed to seep out of every crevice of this house.

“Mom?” she called, stepping into the foyer.

Cinnamon and warm spices greeted her like an embrace, filling the air with familiarity. She paused, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. This house—this town—had always smelled of something comforting, something safe. Until now, she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it.

The creak of the floorboards under her heels was a quiet reminder of how long it had been.

“In the kitchen!” Her mother’s voice rang out, as bright and welcoming as ever.

Asha followed the sound down the narrow hallway, her heels tapping against the wooden floor. She glanced at the faded floral wallpaper, its edges starting to curl with age. It was the same pattern she’d stared at as a teenager, willing herself to believe that the world outside Peaceful was bigger, brighter, and more exciting than the one inside these walls.

The kitchen came into view, a snapshot of a life she’d left behind. Her mother stood at the stove, a wooden spoon in hand as she stirred a pot. Her gingham dress was cheerful, yellow-and-white squares punctuated by the starched whiteness of her apron. She looked over her shoulder, and when she saw Asha, her eyes lit up like the sunrise.

“There she is! My Asha.” Her mother set down the spoon with a gentle clatter and opened her arms wide, her warmth as unchanging as the house itself.

Asha stepped forward, letting herself be drawn into her mother’s arms. The familiar scent of rosemary and lavenderwrapped around her, a comforting mix from her mother’s favorite hand lotion and the herb pots that lined the windowsill above the sink. The hug was warm and firm, a quiet anchor in a sea of emotions, and for a moment, Asha let herself sink into it. Her throat tightened, and she swallowed hard, the ache of nostalgia pressing against her ribs.

“It’s been too long.” Her mother pulled back just enough to study Asha’s face. Her gaze was sharp, the kind that didn’t miss much, as if she could see straight through the polished veneer to the girl who used to sit at this very table, arguing about curfews and SAT prep.

Asha tried for a laugh, but it came out thin. “I know.”

She took in the kitchen, catching all the little details that had stayed the same. The ceramic jar stuffed with wooden spoons sat next to the stove, like it always had. The fridge was still covered in magnets holding up faded coupons and a marked-up calendar, each square filled with her mother’s neat handwriting. Even the smudges on the cupboard doors, worn into the paint by years of use, tugged at something deep in her chest.

Asha slid her hand to her heart, rubbing absently at the sudden tightness there.

“You’ve lost weight,” her mother said, her hands lingering on Asha’s shoulders, as if unwilling to let go just yet.

“And you’re still the same,” Asha replied, softer than she’d intended. Her words held a note of wistfulness she hadn’t meant to betray.

Her mother’s smile crinkled the corners of her eyes as she turned back toward the stove. “Well, corporate life must be treating you well.”

Asha didn’t answer right away, her gaze snagged on the polished brass kettle resting on the stovetop, her own reflection staring back at her. The sleek lines of her blazer and the sharpparting in her hair were so out of place here, among the chipped mugs and cluttered countertops.

“Something like that,” she murmured.

The rhythmic scrape of her mother’s wooden spoon against the pot filled the brief silence, and a familiar pang settled deep in Asha’s chest. Longing, maybe. For what, she wasn’t entirely sure. It wasn’t simply the past she missed—it was the simplicity of it, the certainty. The kitchen, with its mismatched tiles and worn-by-time countertops, seemed to hold a kind of permanence she had spent years trying to outrun.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” her mother said. “Why don’t you sit and rest?”

Asha shook her head, grateful for the excuse to retreat. “I need to unpack first,” she replied tightly.

She grabbed her suitcase and rolled it down the hallway toward the stairs. The floorboards creaked under her heels, each step heavier than the last as the memories pressed in around her.

When she reached her old bedroom, she hesitated, hovering her hand over the doorknob before she gathered the courage to push it open. The sight inside stopped her in her tracks.

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