“Someone stole your trailer,” he said, then gave a small shrug. “I wanted to work the case.”
Time slowed around her as she stared into the warm swirls of his eyes. “You went back for…me?”
Something sweet and soft crossed his expression before he pulled her closer, until he lay back on the pillows, tucking her into his side. She stared up at the twinkling lights above them as he ran his fingers through her hair. She swore she could still smell the timothy hay up here, even though it’d been years since they’d had any.
“It’s in my nature to fix problems,” he explained a moment later. “Sitting on the sidelines wouldn’t have worked for me. Last night, I went and saw my father. To work the case, I had to promise six months of my service.”
She wasn’t even sure what to make of that. He’d just said the other day that going back to the force wasn’t on the table. She leaned up enough to get a read on his expression. “Are you sure this is what you want to do?”
Of course, he was locked up tight, his face revealing nothing. “Yes,” he said firmly.
Aghast, she blinked at him.
He chuckled softly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I’ve surprised you.”
“Dumbfounded me is more like it,” she muttered. “Just the other day you said being a cop was part of your old life.”
“It was, until someone hurt you.”
She reeled at that statement. At the meaning in that statement. She slowly shook her head, the ground dropping out from under her. “You’re telling me that because someone hurt me, you’re now breaking all of your rules and going back to your job on the force?”
He inclined his head. “It’s really that simple.”
She stared at him as he slid his fingers through her hair, lost in those strong eyes of his. This was anything but simple. Her head spun as she lay back in the crook of his shoulder while his fingers continued to slide over her hair again. “Have you told Nash?”
“I called him on the drive over and explained the situation.”
“Is he upset?”
“Of course not. He’s got access to a few good guys that can fill my place easily enough.” His voice softened. “But I enjoy working for him, so on my days off, I’ll put in a few hours at the farm.”
“It won’t be too much for you?”
“Nah. It’s either spend that time at the farm or the gym.”
“True.”
“Besides, it’s not like once my six months of service are up, I can’t go back to the farm full-time.”
She knew the answer to her next question but wondered if Hayes did. She sank into the heat of his hold, and asked, “Why do you think your dad asked for six months of your service?”
“He thinks I’ll remember how much I love being a cop and decide to stay.”
She blew out a quick breath, relieved he knew it too. His father’s insistence to get Hayes back on the force didn’t surprise her. Everyone knew that’s where Hayes belonged, but what confused Maisie was why, if he’d been so adamant to stay away from the force, he’d gone back. For her. “Today you worked my case, then?”
His deep voice filled the empty space. “Unofficially at the moment, until all the documents go through. The perks of working in a small town, where the chief of police is your father.”
She lifted her head again, gazed into the softness of his eyes. “It’s incredibly sweet that you’re doing this for me. I’m not sure what to say.”
He brushed his knuckles against her cheek and smiled tenderly. “You’ve been there for me in times when anyone else would have turned away. You don’t need to say a damn thing.”
She leaned into his touch, aware of a truth she never really saw until he’d rejoined the force. Probably also because of her conversation with Luna this morning about Hayes keeping a secret. Before now, Maisie never questioned his motives, thinking it all had to do with Laurel. She thought he couldn’t be a cop anymore because he’d lost his wife in a violent crime. That he couldn’t care deeply again, because his wife had died. That no one else mattered beyond his own pain. But his actions blew those theories apart.
Her world spun away from her. “Are you keeping something from me?”
He went still. “Like what?”
She sat up again to watch his expression. “I went to see Luna Whittle this morning—”
His brows shot up. “The psychic in town?”
“Yup, her.” Maisie hesitated then forced the words from her dry throat. “She told me that you’re keeping a secret from me.”
His expression did the cop thing. It went blank, hard. “You’re actually listening to a psychic?”
She nodded without shame. “I’m getting all the help I can right now. And don’t dodge the question. Are you?”
He watched her for a long moment. His lips parted like he was about to admit a truth that, by tightness of his jaw, was difficult. But then he shook his head, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Your psychic is wrong. I’m not hiding anything.”
Maisie’s internal alarms sounded. She wasn’t sure if she should be thrilled to know that Luna was correct, or annoyed that Hayes was keeping something from her. “Really? Nothing to tell me?”
His gaze averted to the twinkling lights above them. “No, nothing.”
In that hollow tone of his voice, clarity hit Maisie. That nothing, whatever it may be, was the very thing keeping them from having everything.
12
The next morning, Maisie sat on her narrow bed, the same bed she’d had for more years than she dared count. Her bedroom consisted of a desk, a chest of drawers, a mirror, a chair, and a nightstand. She’d matched it with soft lilac bedsheets and a white duvet. Her room caught the morning sun, and she looked over at her dresser, finding her tote bag. Her heart reached for her paintbrushes and canvas, but the splint on her finger remained, even if the pain had diminished, and drawing anything polished was definitely not in the plans. It felt like forever since she’d created anything. She hopped out of bed to grab her sketch book, which was about the only thing she could do with a broken finger, when her grandfather’s letter fell out onto the floor. She froze midstep and then laughed softly at herself. Luna had her thinking Pops was following her all over the place. She grabbed the letter from the floor and then returned to her bed.
Beams of sunlight shone on her duvet as she took out her sketch pad and pencil. She opened the letter and read the quote again: The greatest danger for most of us is not that our aim is too high and we miss it, but that it is too low and we reach it.
She never really understood that quote before, but for some reason it resonated now. Maybe because of what Clara said the other night about the broken mug. “He told you no one was like you. That most people would have thrown it out. But you looked at something broken and made it beautiful. That was your gift to the world.”
Every day since the brewery opened, Maisie had been trying to fit into Clara’s box and do things her sister’s way. She’d failed miserably. Over and over again. With Luna’s advice humming in her ear, Maisie wondered what would happen if she did something her way, in her style. And that, instead of setting her aim so low that her only wish was to survive the festivals and fulfill Pops’s final wish, maybe she needed to set the bar higher. To do things in a way that was true to herself. To figure out what the brewery needed from her. And a little bit of beauty never hurt anyone.