“I know what she means,” I said, cheeks flaming.
I looked around the room again. At Isabel’s steady eyes and Claire’s sharp ones. At Anna’s quiet strength and Hallie Mae’s tender courage. At Vivienne’s fire, Sloane’s humor, Portia’s steel, Meghan’s competence, Camille’s calm, Natalie’s resolve, Lexi’s feral loyalty.
I’d spent so long convinced I didn’t belong anywhere. That every room was temporary. That every connection came with an expiration date.
But right now, in the middle of the night in a leather museum of a living room, wearing someone else’s clothes and someone else’s restaurant logo, surrounded by women who’d had their lives exploded and rearranged and still stayed?—
Right now, I felt something I hadn’t in a very, very long time.
Rooted.
A sound drifted down the hallway then—low voices, a door opening and closing, the faint echo of boots on polished wood. The men making their way out of the war room, finally.
My heart did a weird, lurching thing. Fear and anticipation and something softer tangled together.
I looked out at the harbor one more time. The water was still dark. The boats were still bobbing. But the reflection in the glass had shifted.
For the first time since my grandmother’s lawyer read her will and dropped that year-long sentence in my lap, I knew exactly what I wanted.
I wanted all of it.
The inn. The man. The chaos. The family I hadn’t asked for and the one I was choosing, anyway.
29
GIDEON
Ifound her in the main living room, curled into the corner of a massive leather sofa like she'd been there for hours. She was wearing clothes that weren't hers—black leggings and an oversized T-shirt with PROMENADE written across the front in delicate script. Her hair was damp, pulled back loosely, and her face looked scrubbed clean.
She looked young. Fragile. And somehow stronger than I'd ever seen her.
The other women were scattered around the room—some on sofas, some on the floor, mugs in hand, voices low and soft. They looked up when I appeared in the doorway, and something passed between them. A silent communication that ended with most of them finding reasons to drift toward other rooms.
Portia paused on her way past me, hand briefly touching my arm. "She's good," she said quietly. "We've got her."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
Then it was just Hazel and me and the too-big room and the weight of everything that had happened.
She stood when she saw me, unfolding from the sofa with careful movements, like her body still wasn't sure it belonged to her. Our eyes met across the space, and something in my chest unlocked.
I crossed to her in three strides and pulled her into my arms.
She came willingly, melting against me, her face pressed to my chest, her hands fisting in the back of my shirt. I held her like she was the only thing keeping me upright. Maybe she was.
"You okay?" I murmured into her hair.
"Getting there," she said, voice muffled against my sternum. "You?"
"Same."
We stood like that for a long moment, breathing together, finding our rhythm again after the chaos had scattered it.
Finally, she pulled back just enough to look up at me. Her eyes were clear—tired, but clear. "What happened in there? With your dad?"
"He talked. We listened. There's a lot I still don't understand." I touched her face, needing the contact, needing to confirm she was real and here and safe. "But I need to talk to him. Just him and me. Not in a room full of people."
"Of course," she said immediately. "Go. I'm—" She glanced back at the doorway where voices drifted from somewhere deeper in the house. "I've got a lot of catching up to do with the Dane women, apparently."
