"Of course you are. You're serious about everything you do."
"Don't say that like it's a bad thing! You could take a page from that book."
"Just because I let myself laugh at a shocking statement doesn't mean I don't also see it as a serious statement!"
He pulled up short and spun on his heel to look at her. "What?"
"I…" She trailed off and waved her arms in the air. "I believe you."
"It doesn't feel like you do." He shoved his hands onto his hips. They were both breathing hard and still damp from the pool. And now cold, he realized. Shit. "Come on, let's get back to the cabin."
"No." She crossed her arms and gave him a level look. "Repeat after me. 'Heather believes me.'"
"Knock it off, sweetheart."
She rolled her eyes. "Right, because this is such a weird idea. Some kind of freak hippie affirmation exercise. Totally out there—"
"Fine. Heather believes me." Except when he said it, it sounded flat. Like he didn't believe that she…Oh. He frowned. "Okay. You believe me?"
She nodded slowly. "I admit I don't really understand, exactly, but yes. I believe that you don't want to go back to your old life. Scary, isn't it?"
His throat was suddenly scratchy. "Terrifying."
"I've got the t-shirt."
"You didn't seem scared when you did it. Walked away, I mean."
Her eyes widened, for just a second, then she glanced to the side. "You weren't really paying close attention."
No, he didn't suppose he had been. "I'm sorry."
She flicked her wrist. "What's done is done."
"I don't want to assume I can just waltz into your plans here, either." He turned in a slow circle, looking at the trees around them. Thinking about the shitty wireless signal and just how far they were from the city.
Then he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
Exhaled.
And remembered.
Chapter 6
1992
Camp Firefly Falls
"What do you want to be when you grow up?"
Michael looked across the bonfire and down the hill toward the lake. Even at twelve, he knew the answer to this. His father was the CEO of Tully & Sons Trading, and his grandfather had founded the company at the turn of the century. "I'm going to…"
But he stopped himself from answering the question, because those three words weren't really the answer. "I'm going to" wasn't the same as "I want to," a painful fact Michael had always understood.
Some kids get to grow up with dreams.
Michael had grown up with responsibilities. He was lucky, he knew that—as long as he did what he was told, he could also have whatever he wanted. Top marks in school? Ski vacation over Christmas. Be well-behaved at political fundraising events? A brand-new video game console would show up the following weekend.
His older sister was getting ready for a year in Europe before heading to university.
University. There was something fantastic about the idea of that place. He didn't quite understand how it was different from the private high school he was heading to in a year, but from the glossy pamphlets, he got the idea that it was a place of freedom.
A pause between the responsibility of growing up right and joining his father in the company.
"Michael?" The counselor looked at him expectantly.
"I want to go to Dartmouth," he blurted out. "Not sure past that point."
Beside him, his friend Heather gave him a curious look. "Me too," she said quietly.
He grinned. "That's cool."
Chapter 7
2013
Camp Firefly Falls
Heather held out her left hand. “Come with me.”
Michael’s brow crinkled momentarily, and she wanted to stomp her foot. Why did he have to question everything? But then his gaze dropped, and when it landed on her hand—where she still wore her wedding ring—the creases softened. Her heart softened with them.
She’d been a colossal idiot, too.
The last few years, she’d been afraid she was losing Michael, but that wasn’t it at all. She’d been losing herself. She blamed him—his parents, his career, his serious nature—but the truth of it was, she was just as much at fault. Michael loved her. His love had never wavered, not once. She may have lost his attention from time to time, but never his heart.
At the center of it all, she’d tried to be someone she wasn’t in order to please the man who already loved her just as she was. And then she blamed him for letting her do it. He might have liked it when she played along at the corporate wife game—but it was never a prerequisite to his love.
But now was not the time for that discussion. He looked raw and on edge, so she pulled him along the trail behind her until they reached the shed near her cabin. Inside, she handed him a paint can while she grabbed the rollers, brushes, and paint trays.
“We’re painting I take it?” The wry tone was back.
“Yep. Follow me.”
She took him back to the cabin. “I already prepped and scraped the flaking paint off the porch. I want to paint the floor and railings yellow because the cabin doesn’t get much sun exposure and I need a little cheery shock of color here.”
Michael set the paint down. “Of all the things that need work on this property, you want to start with porch railings?” He took a deep breath, the kind that gave him time to measure his words more carefully. “Sweetheart, the cabin that you’re staying in shouldn’t be your top priority right now. If we want to get this place off the ground, we need to focus first on big picture items. Major repairs need to come before decorating. And the first impression—the part your clients, and maybe investors, see when they arrive—that's where you need to concentrate your efforts.”
Well, she’d give him points for saying “we” anyway.
“Michael, I appreciate your business acumen more than I can say. I realize that your talents in that realm are going to be necessary to, as you say, getting this place off the ground. But you need my talents too, right?”
“Of course. It’s just that—”
“It’s just that sometimes you need to live in the moment. Sometimes you need to think about what makes you happy right now. What you need right now. I have the paint. I have the time. And now I have the helper. What I need, right now, is a little cheer in the place where I live, where I come back to after a long day of focusing on the big picture.”
He didn’t argue. He didn’t say anything. He nodded and began getting the paint ready. He didn’t seem mad, in fact, he seemed extra focused even though painting was sort of a monotonous action. Maybe he was thinking about his shocking confession earlier. That he didn’t want to go back.
She thought about it, too. It would be a dream come true to work side-by-side with him. To rebuild the place where they fell in love. To have a co-dream. But she didn’t want him to make the same mistakes she had. She didn’t want him to change to please her, to make things smoother for her. She wanted him to do what made him happy.
But she wouldn’t deny that she hoped in the long run, Firefly Falls made him happier than corporate America.
They worked for almost an hour before he finally broke the silence. “You’re my yellow porch.”
Heather paused her brush over the railing. “I’m what?”
“You are where I live in the moment. You are where I come back to after a long day of focusing on the big picture. My cheery shock of color.”
“Oh.” She felt the flush as heat probably painted her cheeks. It wasn’t like her to blush, but the compliment was so raw, so unpolished and perfect. It was, in fact, being told that the one thing she valued over all other things, the thing she worked hardest at, hadn’t gone unnoticed. “That's actually the sweetest thing you could say to me."
"It is?"
She nodded. "When you asked me to marry you, I vowed to myself that I would be the one place you could count on for color in your black and white world.”
He put dow
n his brush and gave her a look that warmed her to her core. “You always have been. You still are.”
The shock of what she’d nearly done was a fresh blow. She took a step back, dropping the brush in the dirt. “But I walked away. I left you. I was…weak…I…”
Michaels arms wrapped around her. “We left each other. We just forgot for a little while. But we can fix it, I promise. We’ll fix this godforsaken falling down summer camp, one step at a time, together, and we’ll fix us, too.”
A half-laugh-half-sob choked out of her throat. “It really is falling down, isn’t it?”
He kissed her hair. “It really is.”
“But we’ll fix it?”
“We’ll make it better than it was before.”
She wanted to believe that more than anything. “I have a business plan typed out in the office at the main house. When we finish here, will you come look at it? Help me with it?”
He squeezed her closer. “I would love that.”
They stood a few minutes longer in silence, looking at the half painted yellow porch.
“Heather?”
“Hmm?”
“I don’t suppose there is another door to your cabin?”
“No, just the one.”
“I see.”
“Why?”
“Just curious how we’re going to get back in. Won't it take a while for the paint to dry?”
Whoops. “I…um…hadn’t thought of that.”
"Why don't we finish this, then I have an idea."
* * *
Michael knew that Heather wasn't sure about his sudden enthusiasm for the camp. Hell, he wasn't so sure about it, either. Was this tied up in his emotional response to losing his wife for good? Not that he'd let that happen.
But the more he thought about it, the more he realized two important facts.
One, he'd seriously underestimated his wife's vision.
Two, he was more engaged in this project than anything TST had done in the last five years.
He'd taken enough Operations Leadership professional development courses to know that was a problem. Sooner or later, he'd become a liability to the company. It didn't matter if it was his birthright. He wasn't the right man to helm the ship once his father retired.
At some point soon, he would need to have that frank conversation with his dad. But not today.
Today he had a porch to paint, and then he needed to find a high point so they could get a Wi-Fi signal. He had a plan.
He worked on the rails as Heather finished the floor. They teased each other with their progress, urging the other on, and when he stroked the last swipe of yellow on the last finial, he turned and pointed a victorious finger at…his wife's gorgeous bottom.
She was painting the last three boards closest to the steps, wiggling her way backwards.
He carefully wiped the excess paint off his brush and dropped it in the jar of turpentine to clean it. Then he grabbed a rag and wiped his hands. The whole time, he kept his gaze on her ass.
Wiggle. Wiggle.
This was the best show. He chuckled and crossed his arms.
When she glanced back at him, he bit his lip to keep from laughing.
"What?"
"Nothing," he choked out, then cleared his throat. "You're almost there. Keep wiggling. I mean, keep going."
"Wiggling?" She frowned at him as she scooted back again. "What are you…Oh!"
He laughed out loud as she pinked up. "I love your ass, wife. It's gorgeous."
"Oh yeah?" She returned to her work, but this time there was something more deliberately feline to her pose. Her hips tipped up and her back arched low.
He could imagine her breasts hanging free beneath her body as she presented herself to be taken.
And now he had a hard-on.
"Not fair," he muttered.
"You started it," she giggled as she ever-so-slowly and ever-so-carefully wound her way around the railing post, avoiding getting any—well, much—yellow paint on her. He crowded close as soon as she was free and tangled his hands in her hair, crushing his mouth against hers.
"My roller!" she yipped between kisses, and he stole it from her, tossing it toward the plastic drop sheet where the supplies were.
"My wife is more important than that," he whispered. "I need to remind her just how much she means to me."
"She means to you? Or her ass means to you?"
"Don't ask complicated questions of the hired help." He scraped his teeth lightly over her bottom lip. It was her, of course. The sex was symbolic of their connection, but it was Heather that lit him up inside. Her passion and her enthusiasm. She was the color in his life on every level.
But there were things more important than getting each other off in the midday sun. Not that he could remember them, at the moment.
High-ground. Oh, right.
"While the porch dries, let's take another walk," he murmured between kisses.
"There's a bed in the main house."
Tempting. "We'll get there eventually. I want to see more of the camp. I've got…some ideas."
She leaned back as far as his arms, banded tight around her, allowed. Not far, at all, but enough for him to read a touch of wariness in her expression. "What kind of ideas?"
"Fully supportive, ready-to-be-vetted-by-the-camp-director ideas." He cleared his throat. "Masculine, all-men-want-to-be-boys ideas."
Her face lit up. "I love that."
Okay, so maybe that was a bit manipulative, appealing to her deep-seated belief that everyone wanted to reclaim their lost youth. She wasn't wrong, though. There was something invigorating about skinny dipping and getting grass in one's hair. "Is there still a dock in the lake?"
She nodded.
"How about we go find some paper and sketch out what we've got, and what we need to build, then we can drive into Briarsted to get supplies and lunch. When we get back, we can swim out to the dock. I've got a fantasy about tugging on your bikini strings that I can't get out of my mind."
"My swimsuit is inside the cabin."
"We can buy you one in town—" He held up his hand, cutting off her protest. "Let me spoil you a bit while I still have a successful job. Pretty soon we'll be able to authentically play the penniless camp director and her hired handyman to your heart's content."
She winked. "No skinny dipping?"
"Any chance anyone else will see that bottom I'm so fond of? Because I'm feeling extra possessive right now."
"Maybe no skinny dipping. You can buy me a new swimsuit. And the makings for s’mores. I feel like having a bonfire."
"Deal." He took her hand, the most natural feeling in the world, and together they cleaned up the paint supplies. Lugging it all over to the main house was worth it when she pulled two cold beers from the fridge in the kitchen. It was the only new appliance in the place.
"Got that fifty percent off on a scratch and dent sale," Heather said proudly when she caught him looking at it.
"Very impressive." He meant it. "All of it is, baby. I mean it."
She held his gaze for a long, heavy moment, then nodded and smiled. "Thank you."
"So tell me more about the corporate retreat option."
"That grabs your attention, eh?"
"I've been on the other end of a few. I know what I've liked—and what I didn't care for. It's gotta be an experience that really pushes teams out of their comfort zone."
"Helps them reconnect with the boys—and girls—deep inside?"
He laughed. "Something like that. Inspire and motivate them to innovate, 'out-of-the-box thinking' might be the corporate spin on it."
"Oh, blech," she burst out. "Come on, that's what all the pamphlets say!"
He took a slow draw of beer as his eyebrows crawled up his forehead. "You think?"
"You forget I know that corporate world just as well as you do." She tapped her finger against his chest, her eyes bright. "The difference is, you drank the Kool-Aid. I was never comfortable with all that mumbo jumbo.
You're on the right path, though."
He grunted, not wanting to get into a fight over semantics.
She tipped her bottle up, and he distracted himself by watching the play of her throat as she swallowed. Living at the camp all summer had been good for her, and it showed in little ways. The faint tan line at her collar. Pale white highlights in her golden hair. And all of her muscles were a little more defined, in a way that said, "This woman works from sun-up to sun-down and loves every minute of it."
They didn't have much time left in the summer. A few weeks. He wanted a taste of that goodness for himself. Wanted her to look at him, as they drifted toward fall, and think the same thing about him. That he was happy and healthy and had honestly earned every inch of that joy.
They finished their drinks in silence, the agreement to not fight pulsing in the air between them.
After Heather rinsed their bottles and put them in a tub to take to the bottle depot, she took his hand and led him to her office. She handed him a yellow legal pad, took another for herself, and pointed them to opposite ends of the couch shoved against one wall.
"Sketch out what you think the pitch should be," she said. "I'll do the same, and then we'll compare."
He gave her an amused nod. "That's a good idea."
She rolled her eyes. "It was my job for nearly a decade. You saw me get my MBA in Marketing."
Touché. "I know."
"Then get to it, handyman."
He laughed. Maybe he'd call her ma'am later, see if that turned her crank, too.
It only took him five minutes to outline what he envisioned. He snuck a look at Heather over the top of his notepad. She was scribbling furiously, her brows drawn in concentration, and her hair tumbled over one shoulder.
Every time he looked at her today, he noticed something new about her. Her hair was longer than it had ever been in their marriage. It reminded him of their last summer together at camp—and the next time he saw her, four years later, across the green at Dartmouth.
Chapter 8
1997
Dartmouth College