“We are proud of you,” Dad adds, simple and final.
Janice claps again. “Hear, hear.”
Ryan leans back, tosses a ribbon at my head and aims his satisfaction at Nate. “What’d I tell you, man? She was always the CEO. You just got smart enough to invest early.”
“Ryan, cut it out for once,” Leo bites out, and it lands harder than a shout. Ryan freezes for a breath. Everyone in the room notes it, then looks anywhere else.
“Speaking of investing,” Antonio booms, the human deflector shield, “who wants pancakes? I made three batters. Chocolate chip, blueberry, and cinnamon.”
The kids scream “yes” in chorus. Adults lift hands as if they’re bidding at an auction. Everyone moves toward the kitchen, and I force my lungs to keep working as Leo’s attention cuts to me, then to Nate, sharp enough to leave marks.
We sit at the crowded table with warm plates and syrup.I cut pancakes for a small person who has no interest in waiting and sneaks a blueberry off my own plate. Nate slides the syrup closer without looking, which should be a nothing gesture and somehow isn’t.
Ryan plops down across from us with his plate piled to reckless heights. “So, who’s coming down to the beach after breakfast? Tide-line football. I demand carnage.”
“I am,” a kid yells from under the table.
Meghan hauls him back into a chair by the hood. “Boots, hat, mittens. Then we talk.”
Antonio points a spatula. “Wind’s perfect. I’ll grab the kites.”
“Leo?” Ryan asks, butter-knife smile aimed at his brother. “You in?”
Leo’s gaze drags over me, then Nate. His mouth barely moves. “We’ll see.”
Ryan lifts an eyebrow. Everyone else pretends to chew.
My stomach clenches. The storm Leo’s been building all weekend is ready to break, and I’m caught right in its path. I focus on my plate and the warm spread of syrup, on the small weight against my chest, and the man next to me who knew exactly which word to give me and when.
Janice’s phone flashes again. She’s capturing everything—the kids in paper crowns, Antonio pretending to swordfight with a spatula, Mom laughing with her head thrown back, Ryan tormenting a gingerbread man cookie. There will be a picture of me touching the pendant without realizing, of Nate watching me, expression unguarded.
For now, it’s loud. It’s messy. It’s perfect in the way only a Christmas morning with family can be. Under the roar, there’s an invisible current running between us, humming through breakfast chaos and family noise. It holds whenLeo pushes back from the table and stalks to the sink to rinse a plate with too much force. It holds when Ryan sends me a look that says he saw the word on the back of the pendant and approves. It holds when Janice presses her cheek to mine and whispers, “He chose well.”
I breathe. The compass warms again, a pulse against skin. When I look up, Nate’s there, attention steady, a faint curve at his mouth that promises time later to say the rest without words.
Christmas roars on around us. Leo’s storm waits at the edge of the day, and I’m wearing Nate’s claim against my heart where everyone can see.
33
THE KINGDOM (EDEN)
Ilook around my little kingdom and breathe in eucalyptus and fresh paint. The good kind of new. The kind that says, “You did this with your own two hands.”
The last month has been a sprint—permits, paint, deliveries, midnight edits to the website, intake forms written and rewritten, insurance calls, a fire inspection that ate my lunch break. Somehow, it all landed here.
Blue tape marks zones across the floor: intake, movement, treatment. I peel each strip away, rolling them into a sticky ball, claiming my space. Shelves line the wall with labeled bins that satisfy my need for order: cups, floss bands, tape, wipes. The washer hums in the closet, swallowing the last load of linens. The mini-fridge ticks once and settles. The diffuser hums softly.
I swipe my palm across the treatment table, checking for wobble. It’s solid, set to my height, not a hypothetical body. Another treatment room waits down the hall. Carts are stocked, shelves labeled, calendars built. Tomorrow themassage therapist starts, and this place stops being an idea and becomes real.
Liz breezes in from the hallway with her tote and a roll of painter’s tape she refuses to surrender. “Front table needs to move a quarter-inch to the left,” she declares, already nudging it. “Greeting flow matters.”
Lukas is behind her with the iPad and a portable card reader. “Your kingdom awaits, Your Majesty. Let’s make sure it takes tribute.”
He perches at the desk and blitzes through his checklist. “Bookings work, confirmations read clean, directions are crystal. Basically flawless—just like you, gorgeous.”
Liz rolls her eyes and fans the stack of consent forms so the corners align. “Pens where humans actually reach them.” She moves the cup three inches. “There.”
I straighten a frame on the wall—THE CARVER METHOD in crisp sans serif—and breathe. “Tell me we’re not missing anything.”
