Years ago, Asha Williams fled her hometown, leaving everything—and everyone—she loved behind.

Now she’s back, and what should have been a celebration of her parents’ love turns into a tragedy that thrusts her right back into the arms of the man she abandoned without a word.

Zane Parker, now the revered fire chief of Peaceful, has only gotten better with age. In every possible way. The flame that once burned bright between them reignites instantly, threatening to consume Asha if she isn't careful.

But Zane isn’t quite ready to forgive Asha for breaking his heart all those years ago. And unless she can find the courage to tell him the real reason she turned her back on their love, she risks leaving their second chance in ashes…

Prologue

Fifteen Years Ago

The lights of Peaceful High School’s gym cast a soft glow over the makeshift dance floor. Zane Parker adjusted the lapels of his rented tuxedo, his palms sweating despite the crisp spring evening. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, while scanning the doorway for any sign of Asha.

She’d been in the bathroom for a long time.

He checked his watch again, the minutes stretching like hours. Asha wasn’t the kind of girl to hang around fixing makeup and whatever girls did in the bathroom. She was always practical, the kind of person who planned her life down to the minute. But tonight, she was taking her sweet time, and Zane was left standing by the punch bowl, trying not to look like an idiot.

The gym doors swung open, and all his frustration evaporated. Asha stepped in, her pink dress catching the light like the first bloom of spring. Her dark hair was swept into soft curls, a few strands teasing her cheeks, and the smile she gave him made everything else in the room blur into nothingness.

“You’re staring,” she teased. Her mouth curved into a smile that didn’t seem to reach her eyes.

“Can you blame me?” Zane grinned, his voice faltering. He cleared his throat and managed to utter a more normal-sounding, “You’re stunning.”

Her smile turned brighter than the string lights overhead, but when she got closer, Zane frowned. Her eyes looked somewhat puffy, the skin around them faintly smudged, as though she’d been wiping away tears.

“Have you been crying?” He lowered his voice.

“What?” Asha blinked. “Of course not. I’m just not used to having mascara on.” She waved a hand dismissively, but the slight crack in her voice betrayed her.

Zane opened his mouth to press further, but a group of his teammates came crashing past, laughing and slapping him on the shoulder as they headed toward the punch table.

“Parker, looking good, man!” one of them shouted, a little too loudly.

Instinctively, Zane stepped closer to Asha to shield her from their rowdy jostling. She gave him a small, grateful smile and brushed his arm with her hand as the group passed.

“Want to dance?” She tilted her head toward the floor.

“Yeah,” he said, still distracted by the idea of her crying, but when she slipped her fingers into his, it was hard to think about anything else.

They swayed awkwardly at first, the tinny beat from the gym’s old speakers doing little to mask the shuffle of feet and the occasional nervous laughter around them. Zane felt like every move he made was too big, too clumsy, as if his broad shoulders and large frame didn’t belong on a dance floor. He kept his hand on Asha’s waist, the silky fabric of her dress fragile beneath his rough palm while he tried to focus on not stepping on her toes.

Her hand rested in his, her fingers soft and delicate like a bird, but his grip was too tight. What if he held her wrong? What if she thought he was trying too hard—or worse, not hard enough?

Zane cleared his throat and adjusted his grip, loosening his fingers. He stole a glance at her, trying to gauge her reaction, but Asha’s face was serene, her lips curved in a faint smile, her dark eyes glinting.

The faintest hint of her perfume lingered in the air—adding to her own sweet scent rather than overpowering it. It reached him in waves, grounding him in her presence.

God, she is beautiful.

His heart thudded painfully, but it wasn’t only nerves. Holding her this close, feeling the gentle press of her body against his, was overwhelming. The softness of her curves, the warmth of her hand, even the way she at first moved tentatively to the beat—it all made his head spin.

Then there was the other part that had his body reacting in ways he wished it wouldn’t. He shifted his posture, keeping his movements deliberate and careful, hoping she wouldn’t notice how much she affected him.

He forced himself to concentrate on the steps, trying to remember what their gym teacher had shown them in class. One-two-three, one-two-three. But even that felt unnatural. Zane Parker could throw a perfect spiral, run a fifty-yard dash, and tackle an opponent twice his size, but when it came to dancing, he was hopeless.

Until Asha leaned in.

She rested her head against his shoulder, and the soft weight of her trust calmed his nerves. Zane exhaled through his nose, the tension melting from his shoulders as he pulled her closer. His steps stopped feeling forced, his body finding its rhythm as he let himself move with her.

It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t matter. Asha fit against him so effortlessly, like she belonged there, and every movement seemed to blend them together. She flexed her hand on his shoulder, her trust in him palpable, which hit Zane in a way he couldn’t explain.

He drew her nearer, the world around them fading into the background. The chatter of their classmates, the creak of the gym floor, even the cheesy pop song—it all disappeared. It was only them now.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Sometimes, words weren’t necessary to make a profound connection, to feel a clarity that cut through all the noise. Holding her in his arms, Zane felt it—knew it.

This girl was everything, and as they swayed, perfectly in sync, he allowed himself to believe they could stay like this forever.

She tipped back her head, her dark eyes meeting his. She was stunning, yes, but it wasn’t just that. She was smart, sharp in ways that both impressed and challenged him. How the hell had he gotten so lucky?

Even with her heading to college soon, two hours away, Zane wasn’t worried. They’d make it work. Asha was his girl. Nothing was going to change that.

Chapter One

Present Day

Asha Williams stood at the edge of the front porch, her polished leather heels clicking faintly on the wooden planks as she adjusted the strap of her rolling suitcase. The house loomed before her, steadfast in its white-picketed simplicity. The porch swing to her right oscillated in the morning breeze, the chain creaking with a sound that felt like a whisper from the past. The air carried the faint scent of lavender, likely from the rows of the purple flowers her mother tended religiously.

Fifteen years hadn’t dulled the memories rooted here. If anything, they seemed sharper now, each detail like a thread pulling her back to a version of herself she believed she’d outgrown. The porch railing, worn smooth by years of leaning elbows, the faint smudge of green paint near the steps from her own clumsy hand as a child—all of it was unchanged. It was as if the house had been waiting for her, preserving its quiet charm while her own life rushed ahead at breakneck speed.

She glanced down, smoothing the lapels of her tailored navy blazer, the sharp angles of the fabric contrasting starkly with the weathered boards upon which she stood. Beneath the blazer, her ivory silk blouse hugged her frame, the kind of perfection she’d cultivated throughout years of corporate boardrooms and courtroom floors. Her hair was swept back into a sleek bun, not a strand out of place.

It was armor. She could admit that much to herself. A shield against the vulnerability that seemed to seep out of every crevice of this house.

“Mom?” she called, stepping into the foyer.

Cinnamon and warm spices greeted her like an embrace, filling the air with familiarity. She paused, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. This house—this town—had always smelled of something comforting, something safe. Until now, she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it.

The creak of the floorboards under her heels was a quiet reminder of how long it had been.

“In the kitchen!” Her mother’s voice rang out, as bright and welcoming as ever.

Asha followed the sound down the narrow hallway, her heels tapping against the wooden floor. She glanced at the faded floral wallpaper, its edges starting to curl with age. It was the same pattern she’d stared at as a teenager, willing herself to believe that the world outside Peaceful was bigger, brighter, and more exciting than the one inside these walls.

The kitchen came into view, a snapshot of a life she’d left behind. Her mother stood at the stove, a wooden spoon in hand as she stirred a pot. Her gingham dress was cheerful, yellow-and-white squares punctuated by the starched whiteness of her apron. She looked over her shoulder, and when she saw Asha, her eyes lit up like the sunrise.

“There she is! My Asha.” Her mother set down the spoon with a gentle clatter and opened her arms wide, her warmth as unchanging as the house itself.

Asha stepped forward, letting herself be drawn into her mother’s arms. The familiar scent of rosemary and lavender wrapped around her, a comforting mix from her mother’s favorite hand lotion and the herb pots that lined the windowsill above the sink. The hug was warm and firm, a quiet anchor in a sea of emotions, and for a moment, Asha let herself sink into it. Her throat tightened, and she swallowed hard, the ache of nostalgia pressing against her ribs.

“It’s been too long.” Her mother pulled back just enough to study Asha’s face. Her gaze was sharp, the kind that didn’t miss much, as if she could see straight through the polished veneer to the girl who used to sit at this very table, arguing about curfews and SAT prep.

Asha tried for a laugh, but it came out thin. “I know.”

She took in the kitchen, catching all the little details that had stayed the same. The ceramic jar stuffed with wooden spoons sat next to the stove, like it always had. The fridge was still covered in magnets holding up faded coupons and a marked-up calendar, each square filled with her mother’s neat handwriting. Even the smudges on the cupboard doors, worn into the paint by years of use, tugged at something deep in her chest.

Asha slid her hand to her heart, rubbing absently at the sudden tightness there.

“You’ve lost weight,” her mother said, her hands lingering on Asha’s shoulders, as if unwilling to let go just yet.

“And you’re still the same,” Asha replied, softer than she’d intended. Her words held a note of wistfulness she hadn’t meant to betray.

Her mother’s smile crinkled the corners of her eyes as she turned back toward the stove. “Well, corporate life must be treating you well.”

Asha didn’t answer right away, her gaze snagged on the polished brass kettle resting on the stovetop, her own reflection staring back at her. The sleek lines of her blazer and the sharp parting in her hair were so out of place here, among the chipped mugs and cluttered countertops.

“Something like that,” she murmured.

The rhythmic scrape of her mother’s wooden spoon against the pot filled the brief silence, and a familiar pang settled deep in Asha’s chest. Longing, maybe. For what, she wasn’t entirely sure. It wasn’t simply the past she missed—it was the simplicity of it, the certainty. The kitchen, with its mismatched tiles and worn-by-time countertops, seemed to hold a kind of permanence she had spent years trying to outrun.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” her mother said. “Why don’t you sit and rest?”

Asha shook her head, grateful for the excuse to retreat. “I need to unpack first,” she replied tightly.

She grabbed her suitcase and rolled it down the hallway toward the stairs. The floorboards creaked under her heels, each step heavier than the last as the memories pressed in around her.

When she reached her old bedroom, she hesitated, hovering her hand over the doorknob before she gathered the courage to push it open. The sight inside stopped her in her tracks.

The space was frozen in time. The bed was neatly made with the lavender comforter she’d begged for on her fifteenth birthday, the fabric still soft but now faded. Posters plastered the walls in uneven rows—pop stars she’d once adored, motivational quotes in bubble letters, and a collage of photos that had captured her teenage life.

On the dresser a single framed photo sat in the center, drawing her closer like a magnet. She picked it up, brushing her thumb over the glass and tracing the faces.

The image was of her and Zane, taken the summer after high school graduation. They stood shoulder to shoulder, Zane’s arm slung casually around her, both grinning like the world was nothing but endless horizons. Asha caught her reflection in the glass and froze. The polished woman staring back at her—poised, composed, and distant—was a far cry from the carefree girl in the photo.

Zane Parker.

His name came to her like a whisper, unbidden but impossible to ignore. She hadn’t let herself think about him in years—no, she’d forced herself not to. But now, with the photo in her hands, the memories rushed back, vivid and insistent. His laughter, his hand brushing hers, the promises they’d made so easily and broken as fast.

She exhaled sharply and set the photo back on the dresser. This wasn’t the time to get lost in the past.

Asha crossed to the window, her footsteps soft against the worn wooden floor. She pushed aside the curtain and looked out at the backyard. The garden, once her mother’s pride, now bore the unmistakable signs of neglect. Weeds had crept into the flowerbeds, and the hydrangeas along the fence line drooped as though forgotten. The old swing set leaned to one side, its rusted chains swaying faintly in the breeze, contrasting with the memories of her father pushing her higher and higher as a child.

Had her parents been too preoccupied with their anniversary to notice the creeping decline? Or was it something else—the weight of age, maybe? Her father would be turning seventy next winter, a fact that hadn’t seemed significant until now, with her standing here in the house where she’d grown up. She released a slow breath and brushed her hand against the cool glass as a flicker of worry settled in her chest.

Asha couldn’t remember the last time she’d thought about her parents growing older. They had always seemed so steady, like the house itself—unchanging, dependable, always there. But now, the overgrown garden and the rusty swing set painted a different picture, one she wasn’t ready to face.

The house’s quiet pressed in around her—the kind of quiet that invited thoughts she didn’t want to consider. The weight in her chest pressed harder, no longer simply nostalgia but something closer to guilt. Maybe if she hadn’t been so focused on running forward, she would’ve noticed the small signs earlier.

“Asha?” her mother called from downstairs.

She blinked, startled back to the present. “Coming!” she replied.

As she turned toward the door, she skimmed her thumb over the photo on the dresser one last time. It was a fleeting touch, along the edge of the frame, before she pulled away and left the room.

Continue Reading