The next morning, Amara set out to the small town market. She wasn't expecting to run into him again—but there he was, loading planks of wood into the back of a pickup truck.
"Morning," he said, his voice low, rough like gravel but not unkind.
Amara straightened, clutching her basket. "Morning. You're… the carpenter?"
He raised a brow. "Ethan. And you must be the city girl who moved into the cottage."
She bristled. "I grew up here, you know."
"Sure," he said with a half-smile that tugged annoyingly at her patience. "But you don't look like you've chopped wood in your life."
Amara opened her mouth to argue—but then realized he was teasing. His smile softened, and for a brief moment, she felt warmth flicker between them, unexpected and confusing.
The market buzzed with Saturday life. Vendors called out their prices—fresh berries, baskets of tomatoes, warm loaves of bread still steaming from the oven. Children darted between stalls, and the smell of roasted corn lingered in the air.
Amara wove through the crowd with her wicker basket, soaking in the colors and sounds. She'd forgotten this part of the town—the closeness of it, the way everyone seemed to know one another. It was the exact opposite of the city, where people kept their eyes glued to phones, brushing past each other without a word.
She paused at a fruit stand, reaching for a handful of cherries. That's when she saw him.
Across the square, Ethan stood by a pickup truck, his back to her as he loaded long planks of wood into the bed. His shirt clung to him in the morning heat, and his movements were unhurried, steady. The sight made her pulse quicken against her will.
Don't stare, Amara scolded herself. But of course, she did.
"Morning."
She nearly dropped the cherries. He was closer now, standing just a few feet away, wiping sawdust from his hands with a rag. His voice was deep, rough around the edges, but it wasn't unkind.
"Oh. Hi." She adjusted her basket, willing her cheeks not to flush. "You're—uh—the man from the dock yesterday."
One corner of his mouth curved. "Ethan," he said simply. "And you must be the city girl who moved into the cottage."
Amara straightened at the label. "I grew up here, you know. This was my grandmother's place."
He nodded, unconcerned. "Doesn't change the fact you've got city written all over you."
Her brows shot up. "Excuse me?"
He shrugged, almost teasing. "That dress, those sandals—you don't look like someone who's ever chopped wood in her life."
Amara's lips parted in outrage, but the glimmer in his eyes stopped her. He was smiling—just barely—but enough to reveal he was enjoying himself. Teasing her.
She exhaled sharply, trying not to smile back. "Well, lucky for me, I don't plan on chopping any wood."
"Then you'll freeze your first cold night by the lake," he said, tossing the rag into his truck. "Unless you're planning to call the city to deliver your firewood, too?"
Now she laughed, despite herself. "You're infuriating."
He tilted his head, satisfied. "And you're not as easy to scare off as I thought."
For a moment, their eyes locked, and the sounds of the market seemed to blur. Amara felt something she couldn't name—a spark, faint but real. She looked away first, pretending to be interested in the cherries.
"Enjoy your wood," she said briskly, turning toward the next stall.
"Enjoy your cherries," Ethan called after her.
And even as she walked away, basket in hand, Amara couldn't stop the small, traitorous smile that curved her lips.