“So,” he says. “Now that you’ve made all your grand decisions, now that you’re stuck with me and this inn forever—what are you planning to do with your year of rest?”
I chew, pretending to think. “Aside from being with you?”
He tips his head, amused. “Yes. Aside from me.”
We’ve been good about it. Wells and I both agreed—I chose to stay, but I still need some time to recover. It’s been nonstop since I got here: the trust, the letters, the storm, the fight, the decision.
Even with peace in my chest, my body hasn’t caught up. I need time to breathe.
He lifts a brow. “Come on, Els. If you could do anything, what would you choose?”
“Maybe . . . lay around for a while,” I say, ticking it off on my fingers. “Read a lot. Go to the markets. Pick flowers with Winnie and Goldie. Drink wine with Isla. Help you fix things, because I like to feel a little useful, and I like you teaching me. Bake more, even though we both know I’m terrible at it. Sip coffee bythe hearth. Take long walks into town. Make love in every room of the house—except Elspeth’s because that would be fucking weird.”
His mouth twitches. “So, basically, you want to play house while I fix it.”
“That okay with you?”
“As long as you’re here, I’m okay.”
“Thank you, Wells,” I say softly. “For loving me while I’m still learning to love myself.”
He crowds me until the counter kisses my spine, hands braced on either side of my hips. I feel the warmth of him everywhere—chest to chest, breath to breath—before his mouth finds mine to kiss.
He lifts me onto the counter the same way he did the night we met—but this time, there’s no hesitation. No fear of what it might mean. Only want. Only us.
When we finally pull apart, breathless and a little unsteady, he rests his forehead against mine.
And I’m full. That’s the only word for it. Full of him, of this moment, of the house as it is now—no longer a question mark at the edge of my life, but something solid and sure. An answer I didn’t realize I’d been waiting for.
The kind of full that quiets the ache I’ve carried for so long. The kind that makes staying feel not just possible, but right.
I slide my hands into his hair and breathe him in—warm, steady, familiar.
“I like this version of us,” I whisper.
His smile touches mine. “So do I.”
LATE WINTER
The first time I try to bake after the cherry pie fiasco, I nearlypoison us both. The loaf comes out lopsided, underdone in the middle, the crust black as coal. Wells takes a bite anyway, valiant to the end. Then coughs so hard I have to smack his back.
“Swear to God,” he wheezes, eyes watering, “this is construction material.”
I throw a dish towel at his head. “You really don’t know how to lie to me.”
He grins through a mouthful of smoke-flavored crumb. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
“It is. But a little delusion would be nice while I’m still learning.”
“Yeah, well. You’re lucky you’re cute.”
Later,I sprawl in the garden-room daybed with cucumber slices on my eyelids, soaking up what little winter sun filters through the glass. Wells passes by with a tool belt, the hammer clanking at his hip.
“Need anything?” he asks, leaning on the doorframe.
“More cucumbers. A crown. Someone to fan me with palm leaves.”
He chuckles. “You’re getting crumbs on my upholstery.”
