June:Language, sweetheart.
June:And yes. Excuse you right into a relationship.
I stare at the screen, equal parts horrified and… annoyingly amused.
Me:I’m not in a relationship with Beau.
June:Not yet.
June:But you will be. I have eyes. And a working brain.
June:Now eat your soup. I’m not raising you to be reckless.
I blink at the last line.
Raising me?
Ma’am, I met you twenty-four hours ago.
And yet… something about the way she says it makes my throat go tight, like maybe being folded into someone’s orbit is exactly what I didn’t realize I was missing.
I set the phone down and try to focus on normal things.
Like unpacking.
Like eating.
Like not replaying Beau’s voice in my head when he said,Tell me to stop.
Like not imagining the way his hands felt on my waist—careful, like he was holding something precious and dangerous at the same time.
I dump my bags on the bed and start pulling out clothes.
Sweaters. Leggings. A single fancy dress I packed like I thought I’d attend a gala in the woods.
And then my eyes land on a lacy bra I threw in at the last second because… because I’m a woman, and sometimes we pack delusions for emotional support.
I stare at it.
Then I whisper, “Absolutely not.”
Because I am not dressing like that for Sunday dinner at a small-town grandmother’s house.
I am.
I’m not.
I don’t know.
The next two days pass in a weird haze of cabin coziness and emotional chaos.
I write a little. I make coffee that tastes like mountain air and rebellion. I take a walk down the drive—only in daylight, only with my phone, only with enough layers to survive a mild apocalypse.
I go into town for groceries and pretend I’m not scanning every truck that passes like I’m waiting for Beau to appear like some rugged Christmas miracle.
He doesn’t.
Which is rude.
