Page 43 of Big Package

“That leaves us with forty. A lot can happen in forty. Maybe a lot can even happen twice.”

I nuzzled my nose against his neck and inhaled his scent, already knowing I’d give in.

We still had separate addresses, at least according to the postal service. He had keys to the shop and to my parents’ house, where I was still living. I had a key to his place, and he’d somehow acquired a shelf of shower products he insisted were all mine, even though I’d caught him using my conditioner twice. Neither of us had given up anything important. We’d just made room.

Cole closed the laptop. “Get your shoes.”

“I’m wearing shoes.”

He looked at my sandals. “Real shoes.”

“If this involves hiking before I’ve eaten my cinnamon roll, we’re going to have our first major relationship crisis.”

“You already ate half of it.”

“What happened to the idea of a lot happening in forty minutes? Maybe even twice?”

He grinned and held up the keys to his truck. “We’re down to thirty-nine. Are you coming?”

I switched out my shoes and followed him to the truck, bringing my coffee and the other half of the cinnamon roll with me.

He turned off near the Visitor Center and parked at a small gravel lot under the trees. Six months ago I’d driven this road on ice, convinced I could retrieve my big package and make it back to town before the weather turned.

That hadn’t worked out so well at the time, but looking back, I was beyond grateful for the way things had gone.

A short trail opened onto a rocky overlook with Big Wood spread out below us and green mountains rising beyond Main Street. I could pick out the block where Wrapped on Main sat.

“Do you lure all your girlfriends here?”

“Nope. You’re the first one.”

“Good answer.” I sat down on the rock and took a sip of my coffee.

Wrapped on Main had made it through January and February and the spring slump everyone warned me about. I’d added monthly craft nights and turned the wishing tree into a year-round display. In March, I’d finally sold the wedding dress from my mother’s closet, and the bride two towns over sent me a photo from her reception that I pinned to the corkboard in my office.

I’d saved every wish tag from the festival, including Cole’s. Mine had disappeared at some point, and I’d decided not to think about it.

“I brought something,” Cole said.

He pulled a folded kraft-paper tag from his back pocket. I recognized my own handwriting before he finished handing it over.

Something I choose myself.

“You stole my wish.”

He shook his head. “I just borrowed it.”

“For six months?”

“Needed it.”

His expression made the joke I’d been about to make disappear. “Why?”

He pulled a blank tag from his other pocket, WHAT DO YOU WISH FOR? printed across the front, braced it on the railing, and wrote something. Then he handed it to me.

Four words.

For you to choose me.