Chapter 2: A Ghost in the Hardware Aisle

Ten years later, Elara Vance stood in the driveway of her childhood home, staring at the peeling paint and sagging front porch with the critical eye of a professional architect. The two-story Colonial that had once seemed so grand now looked tired, worn down by decades of Lake Michigan winters and her parents' well-meaning but amateur maintenance attempts.

"It's not as bad as it looks," she murmured to herself, pulling out her tablet to make notes. The bones were good—solid foundation, decent proportions, classic lines that just needed some TLC to shine again. This renovation would be straightforward. A few months of work, then she could return to Chicago with her conscience clear and her parents' retirement dream secured.

The October air carried the scent of burning leaves and impending snow, achingly familiar after a decade in the city. Northwood Creek looked exactly the same as the day she'd left—tree-lined streets, well-maintained lawns, the kind of small-town perfection that had once felt suffocating but now seemed almost quaint.

She'd built a good life in Chicago. Her firm was thriving, her minimalist downtown loft was featured in Architectural Digest last year, and her calendar stayed booked solid with projects that challenged and fulfilled her. Coming back here was just a brief detour, a chance to give her parents the home they deserved before they moved to their Florida retirement community.

Nothing more.

The local hardware store occupied the same corner lot it had for fifty years, though the faded "Miller's Hardware" sign had been replaced with something newer. Elara pushed through the front door, breathing in the familiar scent of sawdust and WD-40, immediately transported to childhood memories of following her father through these same aisles.

"Can I help you find something?"

The voice came from behind her, deep and familiar in a way that made every muscle in her body freeze. No. It couldn't be. Not here, not now, not when she'd finally—

She turned slowly, and her tablet slipped from nerveless fingers, clattering to the worn wooden floor.

Liam Blackwood stood behind the counter, older now, broader through the shoulders, his dark hair shorter and his face carrying lines that spoke of hard years and harder choices. But those eyes—those impossible blue eyes—were exactly the same. They widened with recognition, and she watched the color drain from his face as if he'd seen a ghost.

Maybe he had.

"Elara." Her name fell from his lips like a prayer or a curse, she couldn't tell which.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence stretched taut between them, filled with a decade of unspoken words and unresolved hurt. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears, could feel the careful composure she'd built cracking like old paint.

"You work here?" The words came out sharper than she'd intended, but she didn't soften them. Let him hear the ice in her voice. Let him know exactly how little his presence affected her.

"I own it." He came around the counter slowly, as if approaching a skittish animal. "Bought it from old man Miller three years ago."

Of course he did. Of course he'd stayed in Northwood Creek, planted roots in the very place she'd been so desperate to escape. The irony would have been laughable if it didn't make her chest ache with something she refused to name.

"Congratulations." She bent to retrieve her tablet, using the moment to reassemble her armor. When she straightened, her expression was perfectly controlled—the same mask she wore in boardrooms full of men who underestimated her. "I need supplies for a renovation project."

"The Vance place." It wasn't a question. News traveled fast in small towns, and her parents had probably announced her homecoming to anyone who'd listen.

"You know about it?"

Something flickered across his face—guilt, maybe, or regret. "Your dad asked me to take a look at the project. Give him an estimate."

The words hit her like a blow. "You're the contractor?"

"Elara, I didn't know you'd be—"

"No." She shook her head, taking a step back. "Absolutely not. I'll find someone else."

"There is no one else." His voice was quiet, matter-of-fact. "At least, not anyone available. Mike Hendricks is booked until spring, and the crew from Millfield is tied up with the new shopping center."

She stared at him, trapped between fury and disbelief. This couldn't be happening. She'd planned everything so carefully—a quick, efficient renovation that would keep her interaction with the past to a minimum. She hadn't counted on the past refusing to stay buried.

"I'm sure there's someone—"

"I'm good at what I do, Elara." There was no boasting in the statement, just tired honesty. "Your parents deserve quality work, and I'll give them that. Whatever's between us... we're adults. We can handle it professionally."

Whatever's between us. As if ten years of silence and hurt could be dismissed so easily. As if the night that had shattered her eighteen-year-old heart was just some minor misunderstanding they could set aside for the sake of business.

"Fine." The word tasted like ashes. "But this is strictly professional. You do the work, I oversee the project, and we keep our interactions to a minimum."

"Understood."

She rattled off her supply list with brittle efficiency, watching as he moved through the store gathering materials. His hands were different now—more scarred, more weathered—but she remembered how gently they'd touched her face that night, how they'd almost trembled with restraint.

The memory made her furious all over again.

"This should get you started," he said, loading everything onto a dolly. "I can deliver it this afternoon."

"That's not necessary—"

"It's part of the service." His tone brooked no argument. "I'll be there at three to go over the plans with you. Your parents said you'd have the architectural drawings ready."

She wanted to refuse, to find some way to maintain distance, but he was right—they were adults, and this was business. She could handle being in the same room with Liam Blackwood for an hour. She'd survived worse.

"Fine. Three o'clock."

As she turned to leave, his voice stopped her. "Elara."

She looked back reluctantly, and the expression on his face made something twist painfully in her chest. He looked like he wanted to say more, like there were a thousand words trapped behind his lips.

"It's good to see you," he said finally.

The simple statement shouldn't have had the power to hurt her, but it did. It sliced through her defenses like they were paper, reminding her of the girl who'd once believed those blue eyes held promises instead of lies.

"I wish I could say the same," she replied, and had the satisfaction of watching him flinch before she walked out into the crisp October air.

But as she sat in her rental car, hands shaking too hard to start the engine, she had to admit the truth she'd never spoken aloud: seeing him again felt like coming home and losing everything all over again.

The worst part was how her treacherous heart had leaped at the sight of him, as if ten years of anger and hurt could be erased by one glimpse of the man who'd taught her that not all promises were meant to be kept.

She'd built walls to keep this feeling out, had convinced herself she was over him, that the successful, independent woman she'd become had no room for the heartbreak of her youth.

But now, sitting outside the hardware store where Liam Blackwood had become a permanent fixture in the town she'd tried so hard to leave behind, those walls felt as fragile as the eighteen-year-old girl who still lived somewhere deep inside her chest.

A girl who, despite everything, had never quite stopped waiting for him to come back.

Three o'clock couldn't come soon enough—and couldn't be delayed forever.

The game was about to begin all over again, and this time, Elara was determined to be the one who walked away unscathed.

Even if it killed her.