“All right,” she declares, raising a knife. “Moment of truth.”
I watch her cut into it. The crust crumbles in sad little heaps. She serves me first.
I take a bite and chew with care. “It’s ... really good, Els.”
Her eyes go wide. “Honestly?”
I hesitate. It’s my job to make her happy, but is lying through my teeth really the best way to do it? Maybe I should—
“Wells!” She swats my arm, scandalized. I must have waited too fucking long to answer.
“It’s . . . edible.”
“Oh, my God. It’s not that bad, is it?” She takes a bite of her own, chews once, and then promptly spits it into a napkin. “It’s fucking terrible.”
I nod, solemn. “Unspeakably. But ... I like it. I’ll eat the whole damn tray if you want me to.”
She snorts, loud and unexpected. It bursts into full laughter she can’t seem to stop—shoulders shaking, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. She bends over her plate, completely undone.
I watch her, chest tight, heart hammering. The chandelier above us sways with a gentle creak, the lights flickering like they’re laughing, too. The parlor windows shimmer in the soft glow, and the house seems to hum in time with her.
When she finally catches her breath, there’s a smear of cherry on her lip. I swipe it away with my thumb, then lean in and kiss her. She tastes like sugar and something much sweeter.
We kiss again. And again.
Until Hemingway leaps onto the table, tail twitching, and digs his claws into my shoulder in protest. I wince, then let him settle beside the plates. From my coat pocket, I draw the fox candle and set it in front of her.
Her laughter dims. She picks it up gently, cradling it like something sacred. “She used to call you her fox. Clever. Hard to pin down. Kind, but you sneak it in sideways.” Her eyes lift to mine. “Will you finally let me read the letter?”
My heart stumbles. I reach for my wallet and pull out the worn page—creased, softened at the edges—and place it in her hands.
“I want you to know,” I say quietly, “this isn’t why I love you. Not because she said I should. Not because she gave us some kind of blessing. You’re not Elspeth’s choice for me. You’re mine.”
She unfolds the letter and reads, silent but steady. I shift beside her, unsure where to look.
When she finishes, she doesn’t speak right away. She closes her eyes, lets out a breath, then folds the paper and slips it back into my hand.
“She knew you,” she says. “She knew me, too. And she saw this coming, I think. Not because she forced it, but because she hoped for it.”
I clear my throat. “You’re not ... weirded out? That she tried to orchestrate something even after she was gone?”
“I’m honored,” she says. “It’s exactly the sort of thing she’d do. And I love you, Wells. The rest is just cinnamon on top.”
I strike a match and light the candle. The crooked flame flickers between us, catching the gold in her hair. The quilt slips down from the back of the couch, and I tug it over our laps. Hemingway stretches and settles in the space between us, warm and purring.
The house sighs into stillness around us.
With her knee against mine and our fingers knotted beneath the quilt, I kiss her—soft and slow. I kiss her until the quiet hum of the inn folds around us, until I can’t tell where the house ends, and we begin.
And for the first time, it feels like everything that came before led us right here.
Home. Together.
35
ELSIE
The next morning,Wells leans against the kitchen counter, sleeves shoved to his elbows, the last curl of steam rising from his coffee mug. I steal a piece of toast from his plate.
