“That’s what I was hoping.”
She stopped at the bottom of the porch steps and turned to face him. “I can’t move in with you. Not yet. We need to actually date first, like normal people.”
“I know.”
“And my greenhouse. I’m not moving my whole operation until I know this is going to work.”
“I know that too.”
“But—” She took a breath. “I’m ready to give up the tiny house. I think Sam wants to move in after she finishes school. I want to try. Building something together. If you’re sure this is what you want.”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” Colton pulled her close, pressing his forehead to hers. “Not baseball, not any of it. This is what I want. You’re what I want.”
The wind chimes she hadn’t noticed before sang from the porch corner—the same kind her mother had at the inn. The chickens clucked contentedly behind them. From somewhere in the barn, she heard the soft whicker of a horse.
“Show me the honey house plans,” she said.
Colton grinned and led her up the steps, through the front door, into the beginning of a life she’d stopped letting herself imagine.
CHAPTER 29
CHRISTINA
Christina stood near the fireplace, Violet warm against her chest in the cream-colored christening gown that had been Tara’s, then Ally’s, then Christina’s own almost twenty-four years ago. The lace had yellowed slightly at the edges, soft from decades of careful storage, and it smelled faintly of lavender sachets and something older—history, maybe. Family.
The minister had finished the blessing an hour ago, but no one seemed ready to leave. Guests drifted between the great room and the garden, carrying plates of Tara’s appetizers and cups of warm cider. Through the windows, Christina could see Patty’s Garden in full autumn display—the rosemary tall and fragrant, the chrysanthemums blazing bronze and gold, the little bronze plaque catching the afternoon sun.
“She didn’t cry once.”
Marco appeared at her shoulder, two glasses of cider in his hands. He’d worn a suit for the ceremony—Italian-cut, probably cost a fortune—but he’d shed the jacket somewhere, rolled his sleeves to his elbows. He looked less like a fashion heir and more like a man who’d been helping Will carry folding chairs all morning.
“She never cries during important things,” Christina said, accepting the cider. “Only at three in the morning when there’s no apparent reason.”
“She’s dramatic. She gets it from my side of the family.”
Christina almost smiled. Almost. But the weight of what they still hadn’t said pressed against her chest, heavy as the baby in her arms.
“Can we talk?” Marco’s voice dropped. “Somewhere quieter?”
She nodded and let him guide her through the French doors onto the side porch. The October air bit at her bare arms. Below them, the lake glittered silver through the trees.
“I spoke with my father yesterday,” Marco said.
Christina’s stomach tightened. Alessandro Castellano—the patriarch, the CEO, the man whose approval Marco had spent his entire life chasing. “How did that go?”
“Better than expected. Worse than hoped.” Marco leaned against the porch railing, his eyes on the lake. “He’s not happy about how this happened. The secrecy, the scandal potential, the fact that I’m standing in North Carolina instead of Milan.” A pause. “But he wants to meet her. He wants to meet you.”
“Marco—”
“I told him it would be on your terms. When you’re ready. If you’re ever ready.”
Christina looked down at Violet, who was gnawing contentedly on her own fist, her green-gold eyes—Marco’s eyes, his grandmother’s eyes—tracking a bird that had landed on the porch railing.
“I love you.” The words came out before she could stop them, quiet and certain and terrifying. She’d known it for weeks now, maybe longer, but saying it out loud made it real in a way she couldn’t take back.
Marco went still. “Christina?—”
“I love you, and it scares me.” She made herself look at him, made herself be honest. “Your world—the money, the expectations, the people who photograph everything and judge everything—I don’t know how to exist in that. I don’t want to. And I’m terrified that if I try, I’ll lose myself. Or worse, I’ll lose her.”
