“I’m fine,” I said. “Or…hm.”
“Hm?”
“Hm like I’m not fine,” I admitted. “Or…maybe hm like I’m maybe fine. But I’m not falling apart or anything, I’m just…in Purgatory.”
Delilah made a soft noise of agreement. “You want him to talk to you?”
“Yeah,” I said, too fast. Then added, “But not if he’s gonna say he’s sorry for kissing me. I don’t wantanyoneto apologize for kissinganyone…except if they didn’t want to be kissed, of course. I don’t know.”
Delilah looked at me for a second, a smile growing on her face…then she laughed, loud and bright.
“You’re adorable when you like someone,” she said. “Never seen that look on you.”
“Don’t start,” I said, but I couldn’t help smiling.
“What? It’s cute!” Delilah reached over to shove my shoulder. “You’re over here all flustered and philosophical like you didn’t once tell a married couple they should ‘pray naked together’ to deepen their intimacy.”
“That was good advice,” I shot back.
Delilah snorted. “It wasgreatadvice, but I’m just saying: maybe take your own advice for once.”
“I’m not married to him,” I said.
“Yet,” she muttered.
I shoved her right back.
She grinned unapologetically and pulled into the long gravel drive that led up to the Ward house, a big, rambling farmhouse with twinkle lights all along the porch. I could hear music drifting through the screen door—an oldies playlist with Sam Cooke and Patsy Cline and Linda Ronstadt.
It was so welcoming it was almost suspicious.
Delilah started to get out, then paused, frowning at me. “Why’re you lookin’ at the house like it’s gonna bite you?” she asked.
I shrugged one shoulder. “Just feel like something’s gonna happen.”
“Hopefully a sexy somethin’,” Delilah said, wiggling her eyebrows.
“Hopefully one that isn’tsnake-related.”
“June, I’ve spent literal years of my life in this house and have never once seen a snake on the property,” Delilah said. “You’re safe here. Pinky swear.”
I lifted my hand, and we pinky swore right there in the glow of the porch lights. Delilah gave my hand a squeeze for good measure, then she grabbed her artichoke dip from the backseat and strode up the porch steps. I hopped out a second later with the pitcher of hurricanes, bracing myself for Milo’s inevitable mugging once I got inside.
Milo met me on the porch, just like I knew he would—half dog, half toddler. He launched himself at me with an eager whine, nearly knocking the pitcher from my hands.
“Hey, hey, whoa there, holy terror,” I laughed, bracing myself against the railing. “I brought snacks, not a chew toy.”
“Come on in, preacher lady,” Beau called from the living room. “We were about to send a search party.”
Delilah was already halfway through the door, dip in hand, hair catching the porch light like wildfire. I followedher in, and for a second the world smelled like warm wood, fresh cornbread, and baby powder. The house was alive with music and laughter—Rhett’s low voice from the kitchen, Hazel’s delighted squeals, Willow’s melodic baby talk. It was the kind of chaos I used to think I’d never be part of again, back when my family told me I didn’t belong with them anymore.
And then I saw him.
Silas.
He was standing by the far window, beer in one hand, talking to Whit and their youngest brother, Holden—but his eyes flicked up the second I stepped inside.
He’d cleaned up. Not church-formal, but definitely not Silas-in-his-work-boots either. Dark jeans. A crisp black button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His curls were still damp, like he’d only just showered, and there was a fresh nick on his jaw from shaving.
