She hugged him, careful not to touch the wound. He hugged her back, tight and quick, then handed her off to me like he was passing a baton in a relay. I hated that it made sense.
I reached out and shook his hand. It was stupid, but it felt important. His grip was cold and a little damp, but strong.
“Thank you."
He just looked at me, eyes a little watery from the impact, but also sharp and clear. “Don’t let her out of your sight.” It seemed like a warning.
“Never planned to.” It was a promise as much to myself as to him.
He nodded again, then let Inez lead him away.
When they were gone, it felt like the world went quiet. The contractors continued to mumble apologies and clear away the mess. And then it was just me and Brie in the echo of all that nearly was.
I wrapped my arms around her, maybe too tight again, but she didn’t complain this time. Her face pressed to my chest, and I could feel herbreath even out, slow and sure. I stroked her back, up and down, until the trembling stopped.
I gave her hand a gentle pull. “Let’s get out of here. You’ve had enough art for one day.”
She nodded, silent.
We walked to my truck; her tucked under my arm. I helped her up into the seat, careful of her head, her knees, every inch of her. It was all I could do to still my hands enough to get her fastened into her seatbelt.
She noticed, of course. She always did.
“You okay, cowboy?” Her voice went back to its regular setting.
I looked at her—really looked at her—and felt the tight band around my chest start to loosen. I gave her a quick kiss on her forehead. “I am now.”
She touched my face, soft and gentle. “You’re such a mess, Finn Walsh.”
I laughed, low and rough. “Yeah,” I said. “But I’m your mess.”
She smiled, and the world made sense again.
I shut the door, circled to the driver’s side, and got us the hell out of there.
By the time we made it back to the house, the late sun had already started to turn the porch posts gold and set the shadows sharp across the gravel drive. I killed the ignition, then sat there a second, just holding the steering wheel and listening to her breathe. It felt like if I took my eyes off her for even a minute, the universe might pull some fresh stunt, and this time I might not get so lucky.
Brie reached over and poked my shoulder. “Are you going to carry me inside, too?”
I played along. “Would if you asked.”
She rolled her eyes but smiled, and the sight of it let me finally unclench.
Inside, the house felt different than it ever had—it belonged to both of us now. Her scent drifted everywhere; lemon and paint and that wild sweetness onlyIcould really smell. There were a pair of her boots in the hall, a half-read book on the arm of the couch, and her tote bag slouched against the wall, half its contents spilling out. Even this house knew she belonged here.
“Go shower, Maverick.” My voice was gruff and low. “Get that dust off you.”
She hesitated, scanning my face for some hidden meaning, then shrugged and headed for the back bathroom. I watched her go, memorizing every step.
While she was gone, I turned to dinner. The slow cooker had been going all day, and the smell of stew hit me the second I cracked the lid—rich and spicy, beef falling to pieces, carrots so soft they didn’t even need a knife. I gave it a stir, then tore open the loaf of French bread I’d picked up from Aspen’s bakery. I cut thick slices, arranged them in the basket, and set the table with the real bowls. It felt important, doing things right tonight.
Every minute or so I glanced down the hall, half expecting her to call for help, or to need something, or to just vanish. I caught myself doing it and tried to stop, but it was like my body wouldn’t cooperate.
Brie took her time in the shower, which was out of character. When she finally came out, she was wrapped in her silky robe, hair wrapped in a towel turban. She looked pink and scrubbed, like all the day’s terror had finally been washed away.
She leaned in the kitchen doorway, watching me work.
“You going to let me help, or just be your trophy wife tonight?”
