Page 57 of In Your Dreams, Holden Rhodes

He nudged me with his elbow. “Tell me.”

“Did you ever have a treehouse growing up?”

He shook his head, eyebrows lifting with curiosity.

“Me neither. I always wanted one but there was no tree in our backyard growing up. It would be cool to have a treehouse out here for the inn, but for adults.”

Our shoes made soft noises on the path as we walked and the idea became clearer in my head.

“Okay, if I had a bazillion dollars,” I told Holden while he listened, “this is what I’d do. There’s this bar in Toronto Willa and I go to all the time. Tiny little place. It’s at the back of a restaurant and it doesn’t even have a name. No one really knows about it, which is part of the appeal. Behind the bar is a wall of windows, and when you sit at the counter, sipping your cocktail, you can look out at all the city lights. Three million people in Toronto, eating dinner in their kitchens, taking the bus home from work, walking to meet friends, grocery shopping. It’s like, everyone is the star of their own story, you know?”

I looked up at him and he studied me with a thoughtful expression.

“I love going there with Willa. We sit and chat and look out at the lights and feel so small and insignificant, like our problems aren’t so important in the big scheme of things.” I shrugged. “Maybe I’m missing Toronto, but it would be cool to do a little bar out in the woods.”

“You want to do a bar in the middle of the woods?” Holden’s eyebrows shot up. Beside us, a squirrel chased another up a tree.

“I know, I know.” I rolled my eyes. “It’s insane. It’s just a daydream. I think it would be fun, especially because we’re doing the secret library so we have the whole whimsical getaway thing going for the inn.” I surveyed the forest around us. “I get that city lights vibe here, funny enough. These trees are hundreds of years old. They’ve seen lots of people walk by, thinking about their own problems, and yet the trees are still standing.”

Emotion stung my eyes and I blinked it away.

“It’s like my problems don’t matter as much here,” I told him, laughing a little. “Which is crazy.”

“It’s not.” He shook his head. “I like that about the forest, too. It’s quiet, and everything grows around each other in harmony.” He shrugged. “And it smells nice in here.”

I laughed. “It smells really, really good in this forest, but that might be partly due to you.”

He gave me a strange look.

“You smell good,” I explained.

“Really.” He sounded like he didn’t believe me.

I nodded. “Yep. Don’t let it get to your head, though.”

He snorted.

We walked for a few more minutes in silence, and maybe it was the walk or the coffee hitting my bloodstream or the clean forest air, but I perked up. I didn’t even mind the elevation gain as the trail led up into the mountain. Spending time in the forest with Holden cleared my head and put a brighter shine on my mood.

“There’s a painting of this forest at the gallery,” Holden said.

“Oh, yeah?”

He nodded. “I was going to take you there.” He cleared his throat. “On our date.” He glanced at my face and then back at the path. “It’s by a local Indigenous artist. She does a lot of pieces inspired by this area. I like her work.”

“That sounds really cool. I’ll have to swing by and check it out.”

He nodded and continued walking in silence.

“Why do you like art?” I asked, because one crumb of information about Holden wasn’t enough. I wanted him to keep talking about himself.

He glanced at me. In the forest light, Holden looked so handsome, like he wasn’t even real. Like I had imagined him. His skin glowed, his eyes were so clear and bright, and I could smell him—a mix of deodorant and laundry soap and a bit of sweat from working. That scent was like the cordial drinks I chugged last night—addictive and totally intoxicating.

A twinge hit me in the chest. Whoever got Holden was a lucky lady.

“Art makes me feel connected to other people.” He thought about it for a second, frowning a little. “It’s like what you said about that bar. I look at some paintings and I feel small and insignificant, but in a connected way. People are not that different, no matter the time period or where they live or how much money they have. The most famous paintings explore the things that make us human.”

“Like what?” I breathed.

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