“Yeah.” He took a sip. The lemonade was tart and sweet and cold, exactly right. “Thanks again. For the tires. For... everything.”
“You’re family. That’s what family does.”
He’d heard those words before, from people who hadn’t meant them. But Tara meant them. Will meant them. This whole patchwork group of people who’d somehow decided he was worth keeping—they all meant it.
His phone buzzed. Jake, in the group chat.
Yo, Ryan—want to hit the game store Saturday before we play? Marcus found this new co-op game, looks sick
Ryan typed back, grinning.
Saturday works. I’ll drive over
Wait, since when can you drive??
Since today. Just passed my test
The typing bubbles appeared immediately.
DUDE, pick us up We need to see the car
“Friends?” Tara asked, nodding at his phone.
“Yeah.” The word felt good in his mouth. Natural. “They want me to pick them up Saturday.”
“I’ll bring snacks over for all of you.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” She smiled at him over her lemonade. “I like your friends.”
Ryan looked back at his phone, at the group chat exploding with messages about Saturday’s plans, wishing him happy birthday and congratulations on passing his test. Behind him, through the window, he could hear Evan arguing with Christina about something, Ally laughing, the comfortable sounds of family.
He typed one more message.
Fair warning—my mom is going to make us cookies and snacks And no, I will NOT be demonstrating my drone
Then he pocketed his phone and stayed on the porch a while longer, watching the last of the sunset fade over the mountains, Angus warm against his legs, the taste of chocolate cake still sweet on his tongue.
CHAPTER 8
TARA
Who would have guessed that the smell of sawdust and fresh paint would have become Tara’s favorite perfume?
She stood in what would be the inn’s front parlor, the morning light streaming through the windows that Will had installed yesterday. The glass was still spotted with fingerprints and construction dust, but she could already imagine guests gathered here—curled up in armchairs with books, sipping coffee while watching the lake, finding the peace she’d found when she first arrived in Blueberry Hill.
“Penny for your thoughts.” Will appeared in the doorway, a measuring tape in hand and sawdust freckling his dark hair.
“Just imagining.” She gestured at the empty room. “Overstuffed chairs there, maybe. A fireplace with a mantel for photographs. Bookshelves.”
“We could do built-ins.” He crossed to the far wall, running his hand along the freshly painted surface. “Floor to ceiling, with a rolling ladder. Very classic.”
“Very expensive.”
“Totally worth it.” He turned back to her with that smile that still made her stomach flip, even after everything. “This is your dream. We’re not cutting corners.”
She opened her mouth to argue—old habits, leftover from years of Harry scrutinizing every purchase—but stopped herself. Will was right. This was her dream. Their dream now.
