I pressed a kiss to her temple. “Me neither.”
She shifted and my gaze. “Powell?”
“Yeah.”
“This isn’t… temporary.”
Not a question. A truth she needed named.
I cupped her cheek with my palm. “Jess. I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you tell me to.”
Her eyes softened—really softened, in a way I’d never seen from her. She rested her hand over mine.
“I don’t want you to go,” she whispered.
And that single sentence did something to me I didn’t even have words for.
I pulled her closer, fitting her against my chest, and she settled there like she’d been doing it for years.
Outside, the lights blinked softly in the December dark.
Inside, she let herself rest against me—really rest—and for the first time in a decade, I felt the solid, anchoring certainty of what we’d just chosen.
We were doing this.
Together.
EIGHTEEN
JESS
The bell over Pie Hard’s door jingled as I pushed it open, a too-cheerful chime that matched the warm blast of air and the wall of scent—sugar, cinnamon, melted butter, that crisp edge of fresh-brewed coffee. It hit me square in the chest, cozy and familiar, and for a second, I almost forgot why I was here.
Then my brain conveniently supplied a replay of Powell’s sleepy, crooked smile when I’d slid out of his bed that morning, and my heart did a full cartwheel.
Focus, Donnegan.
Lola stood behind the counter in one of her novelty aprons. This one was covered in cartoon pies with speech bubbles (“You want a piece of me?”). Her silver hair was piled up in its usual messy bun with a pencil stabbed through like a flag of sovereignty. At the corner table, the usual suspects were holding court: Dorothy Bishop, Mrs. Atkins, Mrs. McKenzie. They all had coffee. They all had pie. They all had Opinions.
Lola spotted me and lit up. “Well, if it isn’t Miss Twelve Stops herself.” She waved me over. “Come here, sugar.”
“I’m just dropping off final notes.” I held up the folder like a shield. “Five minutes, tops.”
“Uh-huh.” Dorothy eyed me over the rim of her mug. “And I just eat salad for the taste.”
I made the mistake of glancing at their table. All three of them were staring at me with identical speculative interest.
Lola leaned her elbows on the counter, chin in hand, giving me a once-over. “You got a secret you’re not sharing, sugar?”
My cheeks heated instantly. It was ridiculous how fast they could do this. “My secret is that I haven’t had lunch yet, and I would like to leave with my dignity and a cookie order.”
“Mm.” Her eyes narrowed the way they did when a meringue didn’t behave. “You’re glowing.”
“I am not glowing.” I slid the folder across the counter. “That’s caffeine. And stress. And overhead lighting.”
“She is absolutely glowing,” Mrs. Atkins stage-whispered. “Take a gander at her. That’s a woman who’s been?—”
“Busy,” I cut in, before that sentence could go places I could never recover from. “With logistics. For the festival that is tomorrow.”
