Chapter 1: Rumors, Pastries, and First Impressions

Me? I believe in doing, not just talking. When I say I’m going to pursue someone? You better believe I mean it.

I’ve always been this way, ever since high school—never the type to just sit back and let life happen. If I want something, I go after it. No hesitation. No hemming and hawing. That’s just me. My friends call me stubborn, my mom says I’m headstrong, but honestly, isn’t that the only way to get anywhere in this world?

Chris Lane stayed at the Maple Heights Community Health Center for ten days. And I dropped by every single day.

Every morning, before work, I’d swing by with a bag of groceries or flowers from the farmer’s market. In the evenings, after closing up at the store, I’d show up with a crossword puzzle book or his favorite lemon soda. I even brought my old iPad loaded up with movies—because, let’s be real, hospital TV is the worst. The nurses started to greet me by name by day three, and by day five, they’d ask if I was bringing dinner for two.

I went so often that gossip started flying all over town—folks said I was keeping a boy toy at the health center. As if.

I mean, it’s Maple Heights—word gets around faster than wildfire in August. I’d hear whispers at the bakery, see smirks at the gas station. Even my Aunt Linda called, half-joking, half-prying, wanting to know if I’d finally snagged myself a man. I laughed it off. But deep down? It stung a little.

Come on…

Isn't my place on Willow Street nice enough? If I wanted to keep someone in style, would I really pick that half-renovated, half-falling-apart old clinic? Wouldn’t that just make me look desperate? Please.

Honestly, the health center’s got more duct tape than medical tape holding it together. If I were running some kind of secret romance, you’d think I’d at least spring for a place with central air. Or, you know, a place where the windows actually close. But people will talk, and there’s no stopping them.

On the last day, Dr. Patel came by for a follow-up. After giving his instructions, he nagged me a bit. I helped the staff organize prescriptions and run errands, staying busy till nearly noon before I could finally slip out of the health center.

Dr. Patel’s a good man, but he’s got a way of making you feel twelve years old again. He caught me in the hallway, wagged his finger, and said, “Savannah, don’t think I don’t see what’s going on. Take it easy on that boy.” I just rolled my eyes, but inside, I was a little rattled. Maybe he was right.

Before I left, Dr. Patel pulled me aside, away from everyone else, and warned me not to play too rough. He said Chris was a gentle soul and couldn’t handle being chewed up and spit out.

He really said that, in those exact words. I almost laughed, but his face was so serious I bit my tongue. I guess he’s seen enough heartbreak to know what he’s talking about, but still—me, a heartbreaker?

Seriously?

Rumors are brutal!

Do I really look like someone who steamrolls everyone in my path?

Sometimes I wonder if I walk around with a sign on my back: WARNING—MAY CAUSE TROUBLE. Honestly, sure, I’m not exactly a wallflower, but I’m not some soap opera villain, either. You know?

With that question stuck in my head, after we sat in the car for a while, I finally couldn’t help but ask, “Do I have the kind of face that screams troublemaker?”

I tried to make it sound casual, but my voice came out small. Great, Savannah. Real smooth. The silence in the car was thick, like the air before a summer storm. I glanced at him, hoping he’d laugh it off.

There are just too many stories swirling around. People repeat them so much, I’m starting to believe them myself. If I really had the guts to just sweep a guy off his feet... I’d have married Chris by now—why would I be chasing after him like this?

It’s funny how the things people say start to worm their way into your head. I’m not the villain in their stories, but sometimes I wonder if I could be. If I really was that bold, would I be sitting here, heart pounding? Waiting for him to say something nice?

Chris sat quietly to the side, eyes lowered in thought. When he heard my question, he instinctively shook his head. After a moment, he replied, “You’re… really beautiful.”

He said it so softly I almost missed it. No fancy words. Just that. The way he looked at me—like I was the sunrise after a long night—made my cheeks burn. For a second, I forgot all about the rumors.

I expected the usual canned compliments—talented and gorgeous, beauty queen, the whole nine yards… Heard it all before. But this? This was different.

I couldn’t help it—I actually giggled. The kind of laugh that bubbles up when you least expect it. I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror and saw a girl who was glowing. Not because of what anyone else thought, but because he’d said something honest.

I get what he means. In a small town, if you stand out—even a little—people talk. Rumors are just folks twisting things out of envy—it’s got nothing to do with me. After all, I’m just a regular, lovesick girl trying to win over her guy.

It’s true. In a town like Maple Heights, being different is enough to make you a target. But I’ve never been one to let that stop me. I just want to be with Chris, plain and simple.

When the car passed Oakwood Avenue, I asked us to stop. I had my friend Jessie run in to pick up the stuff I’d ordered from Finch’s Fabrics and also grabbed pastries from Sweet Molly’s.

Jessie hopped out like she was on a mission. I double-checked the list—yards of navy cotton, some tartan for fall, and a couple of bright prints. For good measure. As for Sweet Molly’s, I texted Molly herself to make sure she’d set aside the best batch of the day.

I bought a ton—boxes of them filled up the backseat.

It smelled like a bakery exploded in my car. I kept glancing back, worried the lemon bars would melt or the brownies would disappear before we got there. Jessie teased me, saying I looked like a squirrel hoarding nuts for winter. Not wrong.

The pastries from Sweet Molly’s were for visiting his home. I’d heard Chris’s parents weren’t in town, and now only a teenage cousin and an old housekeeper were left at the Lane place.

I’d never met his family before. My stomach twisted with nerves. I’d Googled ‘what to bring when meeting the family’ the night before, but nothing felt quite right. Pastries seemed safe, at least. You can’t go wrong with sugar.

They’re all regular folks. If I showed up with fancy gifts, I’d probably freak them out.

I remembered my own mom’s reaction the first time someone brought a wine basket to dinner—she spent the whole night worrying about which fork to use. I didn’t want to be that person.

Sweet Molly’s pastries are just right…

Perfect.

Nothing says ‘I come in peace’ like a box of still-warm cookies. Molly’s got a reputation for baking the best in three counties, and I was banking on that.

I glanced at them out of the corner of my eye, quietly swallowing my craving. Sweet Molly’s is so tempting—can’t even tape the boxes tight; the smell’s already leaking out.

My mouth watered. I promised myself I’d only eat one when I got home, but who was I kidding? I’d probably demolish a whole box.

But I had to hold back—these were gifts for meeting his family. If I wanted to eat, I’d just buy more when I got back. At least ten… no, twenty boxes!

I made a mental shopping list, plotting my pastry raid for later. I’d even text Molly to set aside an extra tray. A girl’s gotta have her priorities.

Pumpkin pie, lemon bars, brownies—the basics. And I had to get blondies, soft cookies, cheesecake too. I just hope they’re still in stock when I return—they always sell out.

Molly’s pumpkin pie is legendary—people line up before dawn on Thanksgiving just to get a slice. I’d elbow my way to the front of the line for those lemon bars. No shame.

I smacked my lips and sighed quietly.

Jessie shot me a look in the rearview, trying not to laugh. “You gonna make it, Savannah?” I just shrugged and grinned.

Luckily, we got to the Lane house quick. I hopped out first, then turned back, wanting to help Chris out. For the record, I had no hidden motives—just being considerate since he’s still recovering!

The front yard was full of fallen leaves, golden and crisp, and the porch light was still on even though it was midday. I wiped my hands on my jeans—nervous habit—and hurried around to his door.

Chris followed behind me. I turned too fast; he was already getting out on his own, but when he saw my hand, he clearly hesitated.

“Savannah, this isn’t really… you know, proper…”

He said it in that soft, worried way of his, like I might get in trouble for being too forward. I just rolled my eyes and grinned.

What’s the point of clinging to useless rules? Etiquette is whatever I say it is.

In my book, helping someone out of the car isn’t a crime. I stuck my hand out, wiggling my fingers for emphasis.

I grabbed his hand, looked up, and urged, “C’mon, my arm’s getting tired.”

I even gave him a little tug, just to prove I meant business. He looked at me like I was breaking some ancient code, but he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t argue after that and let me help him down from the car.

His hand was warm and steady, and for a second, I wondered if he’d ever let go. I tried not to let my heart show on my face.

Earlier, I’d texted ahead, so as soon as we got to the porch, a teenage boy helped an old housekeeper out to greet us.

The house looked lived-in, not staged for company, which made me feel oddly at home. The screen door creaked, and out came Mrs. Harper, wiping her hands on her apron, with Josh trailing behind her, his hair sticking up like he’d just rolled out of bed.

Mrs. Harper’s eyes went red as soon as she saw Chris. She came forward and looked him over carefully before saying, “Young man, how’d you get hurt? You okay now?”

She fussed over him like only someone who’d known him since diapers could. I stepped back, letting her have her moment, feeling a little like I was intruding on a family reunion.

With family around, Chris relaxed a lot, reassuring her, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Harper. I’m almost good as new—it wasn’t anything big.”

He smiled in that calm, gentle way that makes you believe every word. Mrs. Harper patted his cheek, her eyes shining with relief.

Mrs. Harper saw how at ease he was and finally relaxed, then turned to me. “And you are…?”

Her voice was kind but curious. Like she was sizing me up for a secret club. I straightened my jacket and tried to look as harmless as possible.

Chris was about to introduce me, but worried he’d blurt something that might make them nervous, I quickly spoke up first, smiling as I greeted her.

“Hi, Mrs. Harper, I’m Chris’s friend. Savannah.”

I stuck out my hand, hoping she’d shake it, but she just smiled wider and patted my arm instead. Her touch was warm, like a grandmother’s.

Maybe it’s because I smiled kindly and looked presentable—after all, older folks always like girls with a warm smile.

I’d even remembered to brush my hair and wear my least-ripped jeans. Small victories.

Mrs. Harper didn’t doubt me for a second and immediately welcomed me. “Well, Savannah, come on in and have a seat.”

She ushered us inside, the smell of cinnamon and old books drifting through the hallway. I could hear Josh whispering to Chris, probably asking if I was his girlfriend. I pretended not to notice.

I turned to tell Jessie to bring in the pastries, then was led inside.

Jessie lugged the boxes in like a pack mule, shooting me a look that said, ‘You owe me big time.’ I mouthed ‘thank you’ and promised her a latte later.

The Lane house is a classic two-story, probably once the home of a local judge, with a cozy, bookish feel. The place is simple and homey. Every plant, every picture frame, just right.

The living room had old photos on the mantel, a faded quilt on the couch, and the kind of knickknacks you only get from decades of living in one place. I felt like I’d stepped into a storybook.

I sat in the living room for a while, then Mrs. Harper invited me to stroll in the backyard.

She said it like it was a secret garden. And I was about to discover something magical. I slipped on my shoes and followed her out, curious.

Chris was outside talking to his cousin, but came in when he heard, “Mrs. Harper, you go rest. I’ll show Savannah around.”

He said it with a little smile, like he was rescuing me from polite small talk. I was grateful—my social battery was running low.

Who doesn’t like a little alone time? Besides, I really wanted to see where he lives.

I’d heard about his garden from Jessie, but seeing it in person was something else. The air was crisp, and the sunlight made everything look golden.

The garden’s at the back, white siding, trailing vines over the arbor. Bright orange trumpet flowers everywhere.

It looked like something out of a Southern Living magazine, but with more personality. The vines curled around the posts, and the flowers glowed like little lanterns.

Autumn isn’t just gray—there’s warmth, too.

The air smelled of earth and leaves, and somewhere, a cardinal chirped. I hugged my arms to my chest, feeling cozy.

Chris has a wonderful backyard, I thought.

It was the kind of place you’d want to drink coffee in on a lazy Sunday, or read a book while the sun set. Peaceful, but alive.

Most fancy gardens are all about neat hedges and showy flowers. My mom’s got a backyard for parties, with sections for roses, hydrangeas, and lilies, always perfectly trimmed.

My mom’s garden could win awards, but you’d never dare step off the path. Not unless you wanted to get The Look.

But Chris’s is different.

There’s a wildness to it, but also care. Like someone planted things for the joy of it, not to impress the neighbors.

In one corner, colorful peppers grow wild and bright. Nearby is a patch just for scallions, neat and green, row after row.

The peppers looked like little Christmas lights. And the scallions were so perfect I wondered if he measured them with a ruler.

On another side is a grape arbor, full of grapes wrapped in paper bags, clearly well cared for. There are also two persimmon trees, already bearing half-red fruit.

The grape arbor was the centerpiece—heavy clusters hanging down, each wrapped with care. The persimmons glowed in the sunlight, looking almost good enough to eat right off the branch.

So a garden can be like this—full of everyday life.

It made me think of my grandma’s garden, where nothing matched but everything thrived. I felt a pang of nostalgia.

I stood at the entrance, amazed for a moment. “Your garden is really something.”

I meant it. My voice came out a little breathless, which made Chris smile shyly.

Chris was modest. “Just something I mess with in my free time—not as nice as other people’s.”

He shrugged, but I could tell he was proud. There was a softness in his eyes, like he was letting me see a secret part of himself.

“I think it’s awesome, way better than those fancy but useless gardens! Not only can you look at your garden, you can eat from it too!”

I grinned, picturing myself sneaking out here for midnight snacks. Chris laughed, shaking his head.

As soon as I mentioned eating, my eyes drifted to the grape arbor.

I tried to be subtle, but my stomach growled. Chris noticed, his mouth twitching like he was holding back a laugh.

A bunch of grapes had slipped out of a paper bag—deep purple, covered in a white frost.

They looked so perfect, I almost snapped a picture. Instead, I just reached out to touch them.

I’m not greedy! I’ve seen plenty of fruit in my life—it’s not the rarity—it’s that Chris grew them himself!

There’s something about food that someone you like has grown with their own hands. It’s more special than anything you could buy. No contest.

I couldn’t resist and asked, “These grapes should be ripe by now, right?”

I tried to sound casual, but my voice squeaked. Chris grinned, knowing exactly what I was after.

“They’ve been bagged for over two weeks.”

He sounded proud, like a kid showing off a science project.

“Then…” I looked at him. “Let me help you try one first, so you’ll know if they’re ready.”

I batted my eyelashes for good measure. Chris shook his head, but I could see he was amused.

Chris caught on right away. “I’ll pick them for you.”

He moved a wooden ladder from the shed and set it up under the grape arbor.

The ladder looked sturdy enough, but I could see Chris eyeing it like it might collapse at any second.

I rolled up my sleeves, ready to climb up. Chris startled, quickly steadied the other side of the ladder, but was a beat too slow to stop me.

I’d climbed plenty of trees as a kid—this was nothing. Chris, though, looked ready to call 911.

“Savannah, this is kinda dangerous. Let me do it.”