My breath catches. "Which one?"
"Ours," he says simply. "The quarterback and the novelist."
The word 'ours' sends a thrill through me that I try desperately to temper. It's been one night. Incredible, yes. Possibly life-changing, yes. But one night nonetheless.
"I think it's too early for a plot summary," I tell him.
Something like disappointment flickers in his eyes before he masks it with a smile. "Fair enough. We're still in the first act."
After breakfast, we clean up together, hips bumping in my tiny kitchen, hands brushing as we pass dishes. When he catches me around the waist and kisses my neck while I'm loading the dishwasher, I allow myself to lean into the fantasy that this could be every Sunday morning.
"What are your plans for today?" he asks, arms still wrapped around me from behind.
"I should probably work," I sigh, letting my head fall back against his shoulder. "Those three chapters aren't going to write themselves."
"Hmm." His lips find my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "Sounds boring."
"Some of us don't have trust funds from NFL careers," I tease, turning in his arms.
His expression shifts, just slightly. "Actually, most of that money is gone. Medical bills, bad investments. Another reason I'm back in Whitetail Falls."
I blink, surprised by the confession. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"It's okay." He brushes a strand of hair from my face. "It's not something I advertise. But I want you to know the real story, not whatever version the town is probably telling."
The vulnerability in his admission makes my heart ache. "Thank you for telling me."
"I'm hoping to stay a while," he says, gaze steady on mine. "Not just passing through."
The implication hangs between us, weighted with possibility. Before I can formulate a response, he continues, "How about we take a walk? Get some coffee from that place you love? I promise to return you to your manuscript by noon."
"The Enchanted Bean?" I smile, relieved at the slight shift in mood. "Their pumpkin spice lattes are legendary."
"Sold." He kisses me quickly. "Let me grab my shirt from your bedroom, and we can head out."
Watching him disappear down the hallway, I press a hand to my chest, where my heart is performing Olympic-level gymnastics.
Thirty minutes later, we're strolling down Willowbrook Lane, the neighborhood quiet in the Sunday morning lull. Overhead, maple trees form a canopy of gold and crimson, leaves occasionally drifting down to crunch beneath our feet.
Devin's hand is warm around mine, his thumb absently stroking my knuckles as we walk. I'm secretly pleased at the obvious morning-after evidence, even as part of me wonders what the neighbors must think.
"Mrs. Finch is watching through her curtains," I murmur, nodding toward the Victorian house on the corner.
Devin chuckles. "Should I wave?"
"Only if you want to be the subject of the Ladies' Garden Club meeting tomorrow."
"Would that bother you?" he asks, voice casual but eyes watchful.
I consider the question as we turn onto Foxglove Lane, where storefronts are just beginning to open for the day. Paper leaves and miniature pumpkins decorate windows, and Harvest Festival banners flutter in the breeze.
"No," I say finally. "It wouldn't bother me."
His smile is slow and warm. "Good to know."
The Enchanted Bean sits on the corner of Foxglove and Acorn Circle, its windows steamed from the heat inside, the scent of coffee and spice wafting out whenever the door opens. A brass bell jingles as we enter, and warmth envelops us immediately.
The coffeehouse is my second home. The weekend barista, Lily, waves from behind the counter.
