Take This Heart (Windy Harbor Series Book 1), page 1
TAKE THIS HEART
THE WINDY HARBOR SERIES
BOOK 1
WILLOW ASTER
CONTENTS
Note to Readers
Content Warnings
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
Coming Soon
Acknowledgments
Also by Willow Aster
Follow Me
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Willow Aster
www.willowaster.com
Copyright © 2025 by Willow Aster
ISBN-13: 978-1-964527-08-6
Cover by Kira Sabin
Photo by Wander Aguiar Photography
Map by Kira Sabin
Edited by Christine Estevez
Formatted by Natalie Burtner
NOTE TO READERS
*A list of content warnings are on the next page, so skip that page if you’d rather not see them.*
CONTENT WARNINGS
The content warnings for Take This Heart are sexual content, profanity, cancer diagnosis, loss of parent in the past (off page).
CHAPTER ONE
BEAUTIFUL DEVIL
GOLDIE
Minnesota is in my bones.
Apparently, the cold hands, warm heart myth was debunked by scientists, who said that how toasty your body is has a direct correlation to how nice you are to others.
I beg to differ.
On some winter days in Minnesota, it doesn’t matter how nice you are—you, your hands, and the rest of your body parts are going to be cold.
But the cold is familiar, like a cantankerous grandma who pinches your cheeks too hard but knits you colorful half-finger gloves because she knows you love them…Grandma Donna. The kind who always smells like Vicks VapoRub and who, no matter how much you eat, thinks you don’t like her food because you didn’t have three helpings…Grandma Nancy.
I’ve missed that. The mercurial seasons. The lakes—there are more than 10,000, no matter what the license plates say. The fact that (some) people say “doncha know” without irony…both Grandma Donna and Grandma Nancy.
It’s not always cold; in fact, in the sweet days of summer and fall, you can almost forget that winter is around the corner. But the consistent 70-degree sunshine in California was delightful, as were the palm trees and delicious food and people whose whole personality was yoga pants. Traffic, I didn’t enjoy so much, and after I had a horrible car accident on the 405, something inside me shifted. Eternal sunshine didn’t seem so important anymore. I wanted roots. Comfort. The kind of sky that makes you wonder what craziness is rolling in next.
So I came home.
I’m an interior designer by day—farmhouse kitchens, cozy cabins, the occasional baby nursery—and I paint by night. Oils, mostly. I’ve worked nonstop for the past four months getting ready for my art installation at MIA—the Minneapolis Institute of Art—a place I never imagined showing my artwork. I’ve thrown everything into it. Late nights. Early mornings. Meals scarfed in front of half-finished canvases. I love creating, that feeling of bringing an idea to life. I get some of that creativity out through interior design, but that’s breathing life into someone else’s ideas. It’s the most rewarding feeling when I paint a piece that’s all me and watch it transform with each layer of paint.
For a long time, any form of creating energized me, but the exhaustion is catching up.
The last thing I feel like doing right now is attending a gala at the Walker Art Center. I love the place, but a room full of intimidating people on a night when I just want to be painting at home? No, thank you. But I’ve heard I need to put myself out there and get acquainted with the art community if I want to be part of it.
I miss Addy like crazy. We met in California. She was my roommate in college and remains my best friend, the one person who always knows what I need. FaceTime calls are never enough. She lives in Silver Hills, Colorado, with the love of her life, Penn Hudson—who happens to be a pro football player and is the running back of all time—their kids, Sam and Winnie, and a baby on the way. Oh, and she also houses a family of Sphynx cats whom I get daily pictures of…insert full-body shudders here. They’re super sweet. And so ugly they’re almost cute. Almost.
I’ve made a few friends at work, but I don’t see any of them here yet. So I’m clutching a glass of champagne like a security blanket and sipping more than I should on an empty stomach.
I smile at people I don’t know and compliment a woman’s earrings, wondering how long I have to stay.
“There you are.” Luna puts her arm around me. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to a few people.”
I sag into her. “I’m so glad to see you. I needed to see a friendly face.”
Luna has taken me under her wing. She’s the one who got me into MIA, and she thinks I will need to quit my job and paint full-time after my show. That’s the dream. We’ll see.
She flits around confidently and introduces me to so many people, I don’t retain the names, and then she’s called away to talk to someone else. I’m near an exhibit that’s caught my eye, so I tell her I’ll catch up with her.
The exhibit is intriguing—it’s an architectural model of a park with sculptures integrated with nature. I study it for a while, but when I realize that it’s actually a proposal to rehaul the sculpture garden I love across the street, I frown.
“You don’t like it?”
The voice is low and husky, and when I look up, I struggle not to gasp. The beauty of the man in front of me is…wow. Holy buckets. I swallow and try not to appear as shaken as I feel. His black hair falls over his forehead, firelight eyes cool and assessing beneath thick curly lashes. Perfect lips. He’s also tall. I’d put him at 6’5” like my youngest brother Dylan.
He blinks and tilts his head, like he’s waiting for my response.
“Oh. Well, it’s an interesting concept, but is it really meant to replace Spoonbridge and Cherry? That sculpture is iconic! It’s been part of the landscape of Minneapolis since before I was born. Why would anyone want to bulldoze it or anything else in the sculpture garden?”
He’s smirking until I say bulldoze, and then his eyes narrow.
“I’m sure it wouldn’t be bulldozed, more like moved to another location,” he says.
I turn to face him and shake my head. “Part of the beauty of it is the skyline in the background. It would be a travesty to move it.” I nod toward the model and make a sweeping gesture with my hand. “This is a travesty.”
He snorts derisively, and now, I’m really annoyed. I cross my arms over my chest and stare back at him. He’s snorting at me now?
“Art is evolving,” he says. “We preserve it, yes, but we also make room for the new.”
“And you think that,” I point at the sculpture replicas in the model that are admittedly very cool, even though I will never admit that now, “is worthy of booting out the old, I take it?”
He steps closer and leans in, his breath skittering over my skin. “Yes, I do.”
When I look up at him, we’re about an inch apart.
I poke his chest. “You are what’s wrong in America.”
Poke, poke, poke.
He arches an offensively perfect brow, and if it’s possible, moves even closer. “Is that right? And how does wanting to move a few sculptures make me so wrong?”
It’s hard to think straight when he’s this close and smells so good. Like cedar and honey.
Those eyes make me want to cuddle up to him and enjoy the fire.
Focus, Goldie.
“We don’t appreciate history here,” I say—somewhat breathlessly, but I soldier on. “We build things and tear them down when we’re tired of them. Massive structures that cost millions to build become rubble if someone gets tired of them and wants to put something else there. It doesn’t even have to be better, just new. Different. Why can’t we appreciate our rich history and preserve it? At least the beautiful things?”
“Like Spoonbridge and Cherry,” he says dryly, his lips lifting as he mocks me.
“Like Spoonbridge and Cherry,” I say emphatically.
“Why not let someone else enjoy it for a while?”
“Why mess with perfection?” I volley back.
I had no idea I felt this passionately about Spoonbridge and Cherry, but it is really cute.
“Perfection?” he scoffs. Scoffs!
“It’s the principle of the thing!” I say, louder than I intended.
He rolls his eyes and takes a step back, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Wonderful! You’ve met Milo,” Luna says, appearing at my side.
Milo? Ugh. Even his name is cool.
Luna beams up at him. “The man of the hour.”
“Man of the hour?” I say under my breath. Man of the hour, my big, fat toe, my brain shouts.
“Yes! He’s the architect who designed this model. What do you think of it? Isn’t it incredible?” Luna says, grinning between Milo and me.
I feel unsteady and then hot all over. My eyes narrow again, and I look around Milo to find the museum label next to the park model.
Milo Lombardi.
Oh my God. The Milo Lombardi? I can’t believe it. World-renowned architect. Ridiculously talented.
Ridiculously hot.
Hmm. They say Satan was pretty too.
“She thinks it’s a travesty,” Milo tells Luna, while still staring me down.
I tilt my head as if to say, you’re not wrong.
Luna gasps and turns to gawk at me. “What are you—”
“There’s someone over there I need to see,” I say, pointing behind them.
Milo nods—smug and with the kind of confidence that suggests he invented air. And maybe also a little smug because he sees right through me and knows I want to get away from him as fast as I can.
I walk away and grab another glass of champagne, downing it.
A few minutes later, my phone dings and I look at it, happy for something to distract me.
Dad
It’s pretty quiet. Everyone okay? Take a pic of what you’re doing right now, so there’s proof of life.
Tully
Camden
^ I don’t recognize anything but the mashed potatoes.
Tully
That’s what you think.
That’s what I KNOW because I don’t want to think of my brothers around naked women, thank you very much.
Dylan
Noah
What about me? Does anyone love me?
Tully
Can’t you feel the telepathic waves of twin love?
If I had, I wouldn’t have asked.
Noah
Grayson wants his Aunt Goldie to hurry up and visit. You are loved.
Camden
I just texted that I loved you an hour ago in another thread. But I’ll say it again.
…waiting.
Camden
OMG, the kitchen is backed up and I am texting my sister how much I love her.
Dylan
You’re needier than me, Golds.
And you know you’re all here for it. Love you guys. I’m at the Walker tonight and would much rather be with you.
Dad
CHAPTER TWO
CURATED
MILO
She called my work a travesty.
I’ve heard worse. Hell, I’ve read worse in published reviews. But not from someone who looked at my work with what I thought was such admiration. And then the way she looked up at me. There was a spark that crackled back and forth between us.
I’d noticed her before she said a word. There’d been a moment, before anything was said, when I thought she understood what I’d built. That she caught the vision of it all.
But that spark turned into acid when she spoke.
Now, she’s halfway across the gallery, standing beneath a sculptural light installation and looking like she owns the place.
She’s in a deep emerald green dress, the fabric off one shoulder and clinging to all the right places. Her long blonde hair falls in waves down her back. Even the way she holds her glass of champagne looks proper. She has the aura of someone important. She never introduced herself. Just dropped her opinion like a bomb and then walked away without an apology.
Wait a minute.
She just took a step, and instead of heels to match her fancy gown, she’s wearing black Dr. Martens.
That makes me smile.
Who is this woman?
I lean against a marble pillar, bourbon in hand, trying not to let my eyes drift back to her.
Futile.
I look.
God, help me. She’s gorgeous. And infuriating. She’s laughing now, her head tilted back just enough to let the man at her side believe he said something clever. He didn’t. I know because I’ve met him before. Seth Patterson. He’s a lightweight in design. Paper-thin ideas. No substance.
He leans closer to her and she steps back half an inch, graceful, practiced. She’s good at this.
It’s only after she takes another step back that I see her hand shaking just a bit. Maybe she’s not as calm and collected as she seems.
I want to step in and save her from the lackluster and uncomfortable conversation I know she’s having with Seth, but she called my work a travesty.
The gala is louder this year. Or maybe I’m just noticing more. The clinking glasses and carefully curated laughter—it’s sitting wrong on my skin, like a cat who’s petted in the wrong direction.
My model sits in the center of it all. This was actually a passion project. I’ve put all my efforts into designing a beautiful library in Duluth for what feels like forever and needed something else to focus on during the weekends or the nights I couldn’t sleep. What was just passing the time became something I now love and believe in.
Elevated on a white platform beneath spotlights, the installation looks pristine. Every detail precisely constructed.
But her voice echoes over it all. Travesty. You are what’s wrong in America.
Hell, I’m sure there are more scandalous things I’ve done than this park model of exquisite artwork and skill. I could dip her over the model and show her a thing or two that would truly be outrageous.
In fact, it’d almost be a travesty not to dip her back on the installation and show her just how wrong I can be. So wrong that it’d feel so right. The way she stared up at me, her big brown eyes with the gold specks gazing up at me with desire, her tongue sneaking out to wet those cushiony red lips, made me certain she wished I would.
I almost respect her honesty. Because she didn’t critique the materials or the execution. She critiqued the lack of soul, specifically my very own dark and twisted one.
And I have to admit that what bothers me most is that she struck a nerve. I’ve loved Spoonbridge and Cherry for as long as I can remember. She’s also right that it’s a part of the Minneapolis landscape that will be missed, but isn’t it worth it if more people around the country are allowed to enjoy it for themselves?
