“Believe me, you’re doing just fine.”
“You’re incredible,” he murmurs into my hair.
“So are you,” I whisper.
He chuckles softly. “You make it easy to want to be.”
We sway like that—slow, close, wrapped in silver light and ocean breeze—until I lose track of everything else. When I finally lift my head,he’s watching me with an expression so tender it nearly steals the breath from my lungs.
Nash brushes a thumb along my cheekbone, slow and reverent.
“Ready to head home?” he asks.
I nod, even though a big part of me wishes we could stay right here forever.
He keeps my hand in his as we walk back down the pier, and when he helps me inside and closes the door, I realize something quietly, profoundly true:
Tonight didn’t feel like a date.
It felt like the beginning of something more than just a bubble.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Nash
Today was a bad day at the hospital. The waiting room was full from the moment I walked in and was still full when I left. A stream of patients in need of help. Not enough doctors and nurses to cover them all. Tempers were high, patience was thin, and Admin only wanted to talk about patient satisfaction scores instead of how to actually care for the people who needed us.
I’m tired.
More than tired.
Something inside me is screaming that this is not how it’s supposed to be and I don’t have the first clue how to fix it.
There was a time when, after a day like today, I’d come home to a house that felt like a war zone. Jadelyn, angry at my fatigue, jealous of the hours and energy theemergency room demands, either stonily silent or pick, pick, picking at every little thing as she expressed her displeasure. Fire or ice, never anything in between.
I pull into my driveway and the lights in my house blaze from the windows like a beacon. Tonight, Lucy waits for me inside with her comfort, her bright smile and easy conversation. Her willingness to allow me to quietly decompress from the day without blaming me for the weight I carry—the accumulated gravity of holding other people’s lives in my hands, of making split-second decisions that ripple through families I’ll never see again. Twelve-hour shift turned fourteen.
With a deep inhale, I close my eyes, then release it all, scrubbing a hand over my face before killing the truck engine and heading inside. The scent hits me first—garlic, butter, maybe lemon. Something warm and real and meant for me. Candlelight flickers from the kitchen, and I catch the soft sound of Lucy humming under her breath.
I round the corner.
She’s there, barefoot in one of my flannel shirts, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. The shirt hangs loose on her frame, and candlelight catches the gold in her hair. Two plates sit on the table, roasted chicken and vegetables, simple but beautiful. Comfort food that looks like it was made by someone who knows exactly what I need.
Lucy looks up, and her expression shifts immediately. “You look like you’ve been through a war.”
“Feels like it.” The words come out rougher than gravel, scraped raw. “But coming home to a beautiful woman and dinner on the table helps.”
Lucy smiles, a brilliant remedy to the exhaustion weighing me down “Well good. I like helping. Do you need a minute or are you ready to eat?”
That simple question says so much. Lucy sees me. Lucy cares. Lucy wants what’s best for me.
“I am so ready for dinner,” I say, clapping my hands and rubbing them together. “But, I think it’s in everyone’s best interest if I decontaminate first. Hospitals are dirty, germy places.”
“Alrighty, shower first. Then get in here and eat.” She gestures to the table. “Doctor’s orders. Or... well, chef’s orders.”
I shower quickly, then join her for dinner, the weight of the day receding as I reach for the fork. Lucy talks about nothing important, and it’s everything. The neighbor’s dog who won’t stop barking, Stella’s latest event-planning disaster, a text from Gabby about a puppy she wants to adopt. With Jadelyn, dinner was stony silence, heavy sighs, the awareness I could never do enough to give her what she wants. Lucy’s happy conversation means I can finally breathe.
Every bite feels like it’s stitching something back together. The soft clink of her fork against the plate, the way she gestures with her hands when she tells a story, the candlelight dancing across her features, it’s all so normal, so perfectly wonderful, that it feels revolutionary, especially after the end of my marriage and the lonely years between then and now.
