“Just like hers. You did good, Tessa.” His voice sounded rough.
“Thanks, Dad.” She offered a cookie to Beckett, who accepted it with a grateful nod.
“These are amazing,” he said after taking a bite. “Best cookies I’ve had in years.”
She took one for herself, the warm spices filling her mouth, transporting her back to Christmas mornings and snow days and quiet evenings around the kitchen table. Her mother might be gone, but this small piece of her remained, preserved in a handwritten recipe card and the memory of flour-covered hands.
As she watched her father take another cookie, his eyes still suspiciously bright, she felt something shift between them. Not forgiveness, not yet. But perhaps understanding. And for now, that was enough.
Chapter 6
Beckett’s shovel cut through the fresh snow with a satisfying crunch. The early morning sun spilled across Stan’s driveway as he worked, his breath clouding in the crisp air. He’d been up since five, with thoughts rambling through his mind, unable to fall back asleep. Worries about Stan’s recovery—though the man was doing remarkably well—and then the tension between Stan and Tessa.
Tessa.
He paused, leaning against the shovel for a moment. Her presence in the house had shifted everything, like someone had rearranged all the furniture just enough to make him bump into things. He wasn’t sure if it was a good change or not, but it was definitely a change.
Yesterday had been something. The way her face had softened when she found that cookie recipe, and how Stan had actually volunteered to help instead of grumbling about resting. For a brief moment, the three of them had existed in the kitchen without all the tension that usually stretched between father and daughter like a tripwire.
He resumed shoveling, working methodically down the driveway. The physical labor helped him think. It always had. Prison had taught him to find clarity in routine tasks and use the repetitive motion to sort through whatever was on his mind.
And Tessa Grant was definitely on his mind.
She surprised him the other day at the Bookish Cafe. He’d expected her to hang back, maybe even refuse to come altogether. Instead, she’d thrown herself into organizing the Christmas baskets with the same focused efficiency he imagined she brought to her nursing. The way she’d quickly assessed what needed doing, then quietly taken charge of the sorting system without making anyone feel ordered around or inadequate.
He’d watched her hands while she worked, noting how steady they were when handling the donations, and how gentle they were when showing a child how to arrange items in a basket. Nurse’s hands. Capable hands.
But he’d also seen how those same hands trembled slightly when she thought no one was looking. How she’d flex her fingers and take deep breaths when she thought she was alone.
Something was off. He recognized the signs because he’d lived them himself. The careful control, the hidden moments of vulnerability, and the way she sometimes seemed to retreat inside herself even while standing in a crowded room.
Tessa Grant was hiding something. Not just from her father, but maybe from herself too.
He scooped up another shovelful of snow, tossing it onto the growing bank beside the driveway. The physical exertion felt good and felt productive. Unlike his thoughts about Tessa, which were getting him nowhere he had any business going.
It wasn’t his place to wonder about her secrets. He was here to help Stan, to fulfill his obligations to the reentry program, and rebuild some semblance of a life. Getting tangled up in family drama between Stan and his daughter wasn’t part of the deal.
But he couldn’t help noticing things. Like the haunted look that sometimes crossed her face when she thought no one was watching. The way her smile never quite reached her eyes. The careful distance she maintained, not just from her father but from everyone.
He recognized that pain because he carried his own version of it. The difference was, he’d earned his through his own poor choices. What was Tessa running from?
“You’re out here early.”
The voice startled him. He turned to find Tessa standing at the edge of the garage, bundled in a heavy coat, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug.
“Morning,” he said, nodding toward her. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. I’m usually up early.” She handed him the insulated mug. “Thought you might want this.”
He took the mug. “Thank you.”
She stepped off the steps, her boots crunching in the snow. “You don’t have to do this every day, you know. The driveway.”
“I don’t mind. It helps me think.”
“About what?”
He considered how much truth to offer. “About yesterday. Those cookies seemed to mean a lot to your dad.”
