Page 8 of Under Pink Skies

“Sorry I was late to work again,” Kevin said quickly, stopping a few feet from the checkout counter. “I was—“

“Romancing Kyrie and lost track of time?” I said, not looking up from the tablet where I was already outlining ideas about the festival.

Kevin spluttered, and I could practically feel how red his face was getting. I smiled, finally looking up at him.

“It’s fine, Kevin,” I said, and the boy’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “I was eighteen once too, you know. Constantly skipping out on work to hang out with my boyfriend.”

I didn’t know why I said it. Not only had I surprised Kev by sharing something so personal about myself, but I’d surprised myself by acknowledging that part of my life. I’d worked so hard to compartmentalize my memories of him in recent years. Thinking back on the good times, even briefly, actually brought me a sense of comfort, instead of dread.

“So, since you’re the best boss ever, does that mean I can skip my shift on Friday so I can take Kyrie line dancing?”

I shot him a look and at least he had the wherewithal to scram and get back to work.

I laughed as I glanced down at my phone. There was a text from Imogen asking how my day was going. She was the person who always remembered to check in on people, even when those people weren’t always the greatest at responding in a timely fashion.

I messaged her back and said that yes; I was having a good day. A surprisingly okay one.

And for the first time in what felt like months, I meant that.

Within the hour, I had an email from Trent with the contract. The salary money alone would wipe out most of Watford General’s debt—possibly even some of my own. I also couldn’t shake the idea that this would do good things for Watford. I didn’t want to make this decision simply based on my business’s needs.

There were so many small businesses in Watford that had suffered in recent years. The effects of the pandemic had hit the homesteads and farms first, but when they started to go under, so did places like the Roadhouse and Watley’s Diner. Many of the businesses on Main Street had managed to stay afloat, but many local farms didn’t survive.

This festival was an opportunity to put ourselves back on the map. Physically, yes, but also mentally. People would start thinking of Watford as a tourist destination worth visiting. As much as I hated to admit Trent was right, he was correct about one thing: Watford needed this festival. We needed this opportunity.

I busied myself with store maintenance, updating spreadsheets, and checking my business bank account—lots of minuses for expenses, and one measly deposit representing last week’s sales—before I allowed myself to pull out my tablet and electronically sign the contract.

Trent,

Thank you for the opportunity. I’m excited to partner together on the Watford Founder’s Festival. Let me know when you have time this week to further discuss plans.

Sincerely,

Abbie Collins

Owner of Watford General Store

Chapter 4

Connor

Kameronbuzzedwithexcitementbeside me as we stood at the entrance to Winding Road. We waited on a shipment of equipment, tools, and supplies necessary to begin work on the venue.

“You really didn’t have to do any of this,” Kameron said, rocking back and forth on his feet. “Just having you here and willing to help is more than enough.”

For what felt like the millionth time, I gave him a small smile.

“You’ve done more for me than I can ever repay you for, Kam. Investing in your mission is the best way I can think of to say thank you. You’ll be able to reach so many more people who need this program and need this place.”

I gestured behind us, to the sprawling farm fields, the cows and horses grazing in the pastures beyond. Behind the last field was the faint horizon line, dotted with the Washington mountains and a dense forest full of possibilities. If heaven on earth was a place, I was pretty damn convinced it’d be here, at Winding Road.

This is why I’d had no issue calling Amelia back the next day, asking her to help me set up a wire transfer straight to Winding Road’s bank account. She understandably felt disappointed that I didn’t need to sit down with her wealth management banker, but she also felt relieved to see that I no longer had six figures sitting in my checking account. She’d joked that I was practically begging for someone to hack my online banking and rob me blind. The minute I’d gotten the notification that the money was out of my account and into Kameron’s, I felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off my shoulders.

I swore Kameron’s cheeks flushed pink under the calm morning sun.

“Your investment is going towards expanding operations on the for-profit side of things so that I can expand the nonprofit recovery program. Every penny.”

“And my paycheck,” I shot back.

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