I nodded, emotion catching in my throat before I could answer.
After one more lap through the store—and one regrettable incident where, giggling like a maniac, I tried to scan a store employee’s barcode badge to “see what would happen”—Daddy suggested we get some lunch. I agreed, hunger finally catching up with me after a morning of impulse scanning and light emotional unraveling.
We were halfway to the restaurant when I stopped cold.
No.
No way.
It couldn’t be.
But there he was, clear as day, standing in the center of the rebuilt gazebo downtown, hands in the pockets of his jacket, head tilted like he was trying to memorize the architecture and beam length. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Viking-level red haircatching the winter light. Sam Heughan couldnever. My lungs forgot how to work.
“Daddy,” I whispered.
“Yes, darlin’?”
I didn’t answer.
Because the man I’d written a love letter to—the man I’d practically dared to come after me—was standing dead center in the heart of Newnan, Georgia, in the exact spot where he knew I’d find him.
Always waving.
And, finally, he’d come ashore.
“I’ll meet you at home,” I muttered to Daddy, eyes locked on the gazebo, and the man I loved, one foot inching off the curb.
“How will you get home? Where are you—oh,” he said, squinting. “Is that him?”
I nodded, finally turning back toward my father.
He gave a soft, knowing smile. “Go on, doll. I’ll see you at home.”
As I crossed the street, one cautious step at a time, the thought hit me like a sucker punch to the ribs.
Home.
What a strange word.
It wasn’t that big, sterile house I’d grown up in, all echoey halls and pristine carpets. It wasn’t Doyle’s posh penthouse with its spa-like details and overly plush furniture. It wasn’t New York City, or Australia, Los Angeles, or the coast of New England—none of them ever quite fitting the way I’d hoped they would.
Homewas standing in front of me, in the rebuilt gazebo, with that unreadable expression on his face, as I climbed the three small steps that separated us.
We stood there in the hush that settles over a small-town square once the holiday magic dies down. No music from the bandstand. No chatter spilling from the diner across the street.Just a lone car easing past and the wind shifting through the winter-bare oaks.
I’d imagined this moment a hundred times. Charlie would read my letter, cross every mile between us, and find me somehow stronger. Stitched up, but with enough to let him fully in.
I wasn’t even sure if I was there yet, if I was ready, but he was already here, filling the doorway of the folly—copper curls, steady eyes. And I had no script for that.
“We really do have a thing for gazebos, huh?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
A slow, reluctant grin tipped one corner of his mouth, the rare kind that actually reached his eyes and made the corners crinkle like warm, worn leather. “Seems we do.”
He stepped closer, boots scuffing the old pine boards. He took my hand, wove our fingers together, and pressed them gently over my heart. “You gave me this once,” he said, “And made me promise not to break it. And I’m a man of my word.”
My throat tightened. I lifted a shoulder, half shrug, half shield. “I don’t know if I’m whole enough to love you back the way you deserve. I’m a wreck, Charlie. I come with baggage and a baby and a raggedy poodle and, well, Dig.”
He gave a quiet huff, almost a laugh. “You think I don’t know that? I counted every piece before I got in the truck, Tally. The baggage. The sequin-covered best friend. The hurricane that you are.”
