Until he’d ruined it.
The shame of it settled in his stomach like lead. Heavy and cold and inescapable.
He'd done that to the woman he loved.
Tom pressed his palms against his eyes.
She'd given him five years of effort and love and devotion. She'd given him everything she had.
And he'd acted like it wasn't enough.
Likeshewasn't enough.
Tom ran his hands over the quilt. He let his fingers brush their story laid out in crooked stitches and mismatched fabric.
Lauren deserved better than him.
She'd always deserved better than him.
Tom let his fingers brush the stitching around the red door.
He'd keep trying anyway.
Because giving up was unthinkable to him.
CHAPTER 33
Lauren
Lauren was stillin her pajamas when the knock came, startling her out of her focus.
She glanced at the clock. Too early for deliveries.
Outside, frost clung to the windows in delicate patterns, and the bare trees stood skeletal against a sky that couldn't decide between gray and blue.
Another knock.
Lauren pushed back from the coffee table. Her living room was a chaos of sketches, scraps of fabric and old craft magazines she’d been thumbing through.
At the front door, she peered through the peephole.
Tom.
Bundled in a dark coat, scarf looped high.
It was one she’d knitted years ago—one of her early attempts. He must have found it at her parents’ house.
It was chunky, a little uneven. Gray with flecks of green.
She wondered if he knew she’d knitted it. If he’d chosen it on purpose. If it meant anything.
Maybe he’d just been cold.
She opened the door a cautious few inches. “Tom.”
“Hi.” His voice puffed out white in the January air. “I want to take you somewhere.”
Her pulse jumped. Traitor. “Where?”
