But somehow, that thought makes me recoil.

I couldn’t go back now. I’ve had a taste of the life I want, a life of freedom and creativity and belonging, and I couldn’t forget that, not even if I tried.

I want to make my life here, but what that means, I have no idea anymore.

The sound of a horn comes, and I leap back out of the middle of the road. A truck passes me by, and then another—this one with a cement mixer on the bed. They rumble on down the winding road ahead of me, leaving clouds of dust in their wake. I walk faster, curious, and round the bend in time to see them squeeze into the driveway at Rose Cottage.

What on earth?

I hurry home, arriving just as another big van pulls in, and three beefy guys get out. They go unload equipment from the back, and I fight my way through to see what’s going on.

It’s bedlam.

There must be two dozen people here, in a whirlwind of activity. Construction guys carrying plywood and debris out of the house, more men hoisting some kind of industrial hose up the front steps, and people taking measurements and consulting a sheaf of plans.

“Hello?” I grab the nearest guy in a work shirt. “What’s going on?”

“Renovation job,” he answers cheerfully, grabbing a bag of cement.

“But…this is my house!”

“Take it up with the boss,” he shrugs, before heading inside.

I look around, totally confused. Everyone’s working at breakneck pace; I can’t see anyone who might be in charge. Then I catch sight of a group of people clustered over by the side gate. Their heads are bent over papers, set up on a folding table, and they’re consulting the plans and pointing back at the house.

I head over, ready to give someone a piece of my mind. Then I hear a familiar voice rise above the noise, sounding full of authority.

“Once the water’s out, we’ll need to check the integrity of the whole structure. I’m thinking it might be safer to replace more of the area around the collapse.”

He straightens up, and our eyes meet across the yard.

Ash.

I stop dead. I don’t understand. I thought he left; that he hated me. So what is he going in my front yard with his sleeves rolled up and half the construction crews in the state at his beck and call?

The others disperse, and he comes to meet me. “Sorry about the mess.” He gives me a rueful grin.

“Heads up!”

Suddenly Ash grabs my arm and pulls me off the path as five guys haul some kind of steel beam into the house. “Watch out,” he warns me. “You should probably stay back while they’re working. There wasn’t time to set up a proper staging area, not on this tight schedule.”

“What schedule?” I finally cry, my head still spinning. “What’s going on here?” I pause, gripped with a sudden panic. “I said, I’m not selling. You can’t just march in here and rip the place to pieces—!”

“We’re not ripping anything apart,” Ash cuts me off. “We’re restoring it. All the damage, it’ll be fixed in a couple of days, I promise.”

Wait, what?

I stare at him in a daze. “Say that again?” I ask weakly.

He breaks into a broad grin: the kind of dazzling smile that would take my breath away if I wasn’t already having problems remembering to inhale.

“Rose Cottage is getting back to normal,” he explains. “I called my crews, and had them come straight out. They’ll work straight through if you want; you’ll be ready for guests again by next week. Oh, and your phone won’t stop ringing,” he adds. “Your voicemail is full, so I’ve had my assistant take reservation requests. It sounds like the article was a hit, you’ll be booked solid until fall.”

Ash passes me a stack of message slips, but I just stand there in disbelief. I still can’t understand; he tried to get this place razed to the ground, and now he’s doing all of this to help?

“I can’t afford any of this,” I protest weakly.

He shakes his head. “You don’t have to. It’s taken care of.”

“By…you?”

I blink. This is all too much. I’m missing something, I have to be. “But why?” I ask. “This morning, you wanted to buy the place out from under me!”

“Because I’m sorry.” Ash’s confident smile slips. He steps forward, as if he’s about to reach for me—then hold back, putting his hands in his pockets instead. “I screwed up,” he tells me, a plaintive expression in his eyes. “You were right, I got so lost in business, I didn’t see what was right in front of me. I’m sorry, Noelle, for ever hurting you. And the work you’ve done here with the house, it shouldn’t be in vain. So I’m fixing my mistakes—if you’ll let me.”

His words crash over me in a wave of genuine regret. He means it, every word. It’s not just a flashy speech for a crowd, or him turning on the charm to get his way.

Ash is sorry. He’s trying to make it up to me.

He wants to make everything right.

“I…I don’t know what to say,” I stutter. It’s all too much to take in. And even as I’m filled with relief over the house, my heart is still tied up in knots.

Does this mean he wants to fix our relationship, too?

A construction guy interrupts before I can answer, walking between us with a load of plywood. I duck out of the way.

“Wait,” Ash says, taking my hand. “I can’t hear myself think with all this.”