And suddenly, I understood what lay beneath her words—a possessive protectiveness that went beyond professional concern. Mrs. Kowalski had been the woman of this household for over a year. She’d created order, managed everything I couldn’t handle.
Now Theresa threatened that entire world.
“Mrs. Kowalski,” I said gently, “I value your opinion more than you know. You’ve been a rock for this family through the darkest times imaginable. But I love Theresa. I need her.”
Her expression remained closed.
“I will always be grateful for everything you’ve done for us,” I continued. “But Theresa is my future. I hope you can accept that.”
Mrs. Kowalski’s mouth tightened into a thin line. She picked up her pen, clicked it once with finality. “I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?” she said, her voice cool and professional once more. She returned to her notepad, adding something to tomorrow’s schedule. “Will that be all, Mr. McCrae?”
I hesitated, wanting to bridge this sudden chasm between us but unsure how. “Yes,” I said finally. “That’s all. Thank you, Mrs. Kowalski.”
She nodded once, not looking up from her writing. I left the kitchen, troubled by the exchange. I’d expected joy from everyone at the news—or at least understanding. I hadn’t anticipated this resistance, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that Mrs. Kowalski’s opposition might prove more significant than I wanted to admit.
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
THERESA
I walkeddown the stairs enjoying the sound of a dozen people breathing and dreaming under one roof.
I pushed open the kitchen door and stopped.
The counters gleamed. The leaning tower of dirty plates was gone. Patrick stood by the sink, drying his hands on a towel. He looked like he’d gone ten rounds with a duvet and only narrowly won—shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up, hair sticking up on the left side—but he looked satisfied.
He looked up as I entered, tossing the towel onto the counter.
“They’re down,” I said, exhaling a long breath. “All of them. Even the twins, though I had to promise Carson we’d all go fishing next weekend if he stopped asking questions about salmon migration.”
He let out a soft laugh, leaning against the counter. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
“So are you,” I said. “You cleaned.”
“Nervous energy,” he admitted. “But I can’t take all the credit. Mrs. Kowalski helped, of course.”
“Speaking of... where is the General?”
“Pantry,” Patrick said, nodding toward the closed door where I could hear the faint clink of jars being rearranged. “Doing a final inventory. She can’t go to bed until the soup cans are perfectly aligned.”
I crossed the room to him, wrapping my arms around his waist. He felt solid and warm, smelling of soap and fatigue. “I spent twenty minutes negotiating with Paris about her nightlight. Apparently, if the shadow looks like a wolf, she can’t sleep. It has to look like a bunny.”
“A bunny,” Patrick repeated, a smile tugging at his mouth. He hooked his fingers through my belt loops, pulling me closer. “She’s a tough negotiator. Reminds me of her mother.”
I rested my head on his chest. “Is that a complaint, Mr. McCrae?”
“Never.” He kissed the top of my head. “Just an observation. You’re both formidable women.”
“I’m tired,” I admitted into his shirt. “The good kind. The kind where your bones ache but your heart is full.”
“I know.” His hands slid down to rest on my lower back. “Theresa?”
“Mm?”
“Come outside with me.”
I pulled back to look at him. His blue eyes were dark, serious in a way that made my stomach flip. “Now? It’s late.”
