“Wait… have y’all ever heard of a restaurant called Stone?” Sara asked, suddenly alert.
No one answered.
Because just past the boulder, the trees cleared—and jaws dropped.
A pristine white Victorian cottage came into view, its wraparound porch glowing under warm lights. The grass was perfectly manicured, the flower beds sharp, and the balusters along the porch were hand-carved like they belonged in a Southern Living magazine.
“Oh my God,” Macie gasped. “This is his house!”
“This is stupid beautiful,” Sara added, barely able to blink.
Jaxon stepped out onto the porch as the SUV rolled to a stop. Claire opened the rear driver-side door and slowly stepped out, bare legs swinging down first, followed by a breath of nerves she couldn’t quite catch.
Jaxon didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
He was watching her—fully.
As Claire straightened up and closed the door, the girls watched from inside with the kind of intensity normally reserved for reality TV finales.
Sara rolled down the window. “You gonna be okay?”
Claire nodded, her voice steady but soft. “Yeah. I’ll call when I’m ready.”
Then she turned and walked down the stone pathway, each step crunching gently beneath her. Jaxon stepped off the porch to meet her at the base of the steps.
He took her hand.
“You are,” he said, voice low and reverent, “the absolute most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Claire flushed, lips curving into a smile. “Thank you… You don’t look so bad yourself.”
He grinned. “I hope you're hungry. I’ve got the table set out back.”
And just like that, Claire was speechless.
No one had ever treated her like this—like she was worth planning for. Preparing for. Like he wanted her here, not just wanted her.
The only thing she could come up with was, “Show me the way.”
Still holding her hand, Jaxon led her around the deck, down the side stairs, and across the lawn. As they turned the corner, Claire froze.
A honey-stained pergola stood at the edge of the property, wrapped in soft string lights that cast golden shadows across the lawn. Beneath it was a dining table dressed in linen, lanterns flickering softly, and a view that looked like it belonged in a movie—sun dipping low over the sound, water glinting like it was made of molten silver.
“Oh my God,” she breathed.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” Jaxon said as they reached the table. “So I made a little of everything.”
Claire blinked, taking in the spread. Grilled chicken, shrimp, salad, roasted veggies, handmade sides.
“You… made all of this?”
He shrugged, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Everything but the dessert. I’m not a baker. I know my limits.”
They sat. And for the first time since the plane, the nervousness between them melted.
They talked. They laughed. They traded stories like they were playing cards. But somewhere between the second beer and the third story, Claire tilted her head.
“You’ve asked about me, but you really haven’t said much about yourself.”
