Everyone had expected him to marry her, and wished him well on his own restaurant someday. Neither of those things had come true.

How many of them had done what they’d thought they’d do back in high school? Most of them were probably still right here in Bailey’s Fork. Kelly’s senior picture had a red heart around it. The yearbook was creased, as if he’d stared at that picture a hundred times. He probably had. She looked fresh and natural, and her confidence shone through even in that picture. Thinking about her, he could almost smell the fragrance of citrus and apple from the shampoo she used to use back then.

In the very bottom of the box there was another box. He opened it to find pictures of the two of them on their horses. At prom. A faded black-and-white strip of four pictures from the photo booth from the arcade. In the diner. In the kitchen downstairs making something, but mostly a mess from the looks of things. Four small frames held pressed fresh herbs Kelly had grown for him and framed as a gift on his nineteenth birthday. The actual plants had been behind the diner, where he could snip them for his recipes that day. Yellowed paper held more recipes the two of them had worked on together. Some had more scratch-outs than actual ingredients.

He flipped through them until he got to one all written in purple ink. She’d worked on it for weeks and couldn’t get it quite right. He’d thought it was perfect way before this final version, but she was going for something a little richer in taste. They’d spent an entire weekend messing around with this recipe. Finally, they’d added a little extra vanilla and he’d helped her come up with the mascarpone crème fraiche, and they’d made magic. She’d garnished it with thin slivers of almonds. He remembered that day so vividly, the way her hand had delicately sprinkled that final garnish across the top when she’d served it.

It was that day he’d been inspired and confident enough to really believe they would have the restaurant they’d always talked about.

And yet here he was seven years later, and he was still making someone else’s recipes in someone else’s restaurant.

He dropped the memorabilia back into the box and gave it a swift shove, sending it sliding across the smooth wooden floor of the attic. Enough of that.

Downstairs he changed into a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt with his boots, then went to the kitchen to box up the picnic lunch. He grabbed two apples from the fruit bowl for the horses. “You sure I can’t talk you into riding with us?”

“You and Dawn will have fun. The creek trail is gorgeous right now.”