He scrubs his hands down his face, but doesn’t say anything.
“Trevor said it wasn’t a way to make a living, so I only played with my camera as a hobby. By the time I had Phoebe, it was a lifeline—or looked like one, until I had to sell my first camera.”
His jaw tightens again. “Something tells me I don’t want to ask why.”
“Sometimes you sell what matters to buy what matters more,” I say. “I didn’t have to buy formula, but I did have to eat healthy to avoid the proteins that made Phoebe sick. It was a trade-off.”
“Then what? How did you get to the level you are now?”
I know it has to be killing him to hear all of this, to wait while I connect these dots. Probably as much as I hate saying all of it.
“I worked every odd job I could find.” I shrug. “Every spare penny that was left over from bills went into the camera jar. I lived with my parents for a little while so they could help with Phoebe, and I could work—childcare is painfully expensive. By the time I could buy a camera again and stop renting, I’d built an amazing community.”
“And you left it, and came here.”
“I left it and came here,” I whisper.
“Why?”
I’ve asked myself that question at least fifty times in the last month. More than the entire time I’ve lived in Storywood Ridge.
I wet my lips nervously. “A friend of mine, whom I grew up with back home, moved to Colorado. Her mom owns a pretty prestigious wedding planning business.” I shake my head. “Anyway, we reconnected, and she basically has her finger on the pulse of all these places. She casually mentioned a studioopening here. And the longer I hesitated, the more often it popped up in ads. Everywhere.”
“You think Storywood Ridge called you here?” he asks, awe dancing in his blue eyes. “I’m familiar with the nudges and the local matchmaking, but nothing of that magnitude.”
“I don’t know. Seems crazy, right?” I swallow. “All I know is that I couldn’t ignore it. And once I got here, it felt like I was meant to be here. Does that make sense?”
“That’s because you are. You’re meant to be right here, in the house, married to me.” His hands bracket my waist, then squeeze. “I don’t really care how you got here, Chloe. All that matters is that you made it.”
I made it.
Not just to Storywood Ridge, but in life. I fought and survived and somehow managed to land myself back with the person I never stopped loving. And this time we’re stocked with life experience and knowledge we didn’t have then.
“Are we okay?” I whisper. “I don’t want to dwell on all the mishaps that led us here. I want to focus on what’s coming.”
He pulls me closer, so I’m barely on the edge of the bed at this point. Silence stretches, soft and electric.
“More than okay.”
We sit there a heartbeat longer with everything humming between us: the fake vows (that I’m questioning were fake), the real kisses, the truths we keep unearthing and sharing with each other.
We’re building a life here, whether or not we ever intended to.
It’s messy. It’s ours.
And I’m not sure I want it any other way.
thirty-four
CHLOE
I’m bone-deep exhausted,but I doubt I’ll be able to sleep.
Only two days ago, I walked into Aiden’s office and told him my parents were coming, and we somehow agreed to let ourselves exist together. To fully let down our walls and stop pretending.
Which led to my husband handing me the key to one of the most precious places on this farm to him: his father’s Santa Barn.
I haven’t even had time to recover from any of that before my parents arrived. They brought a wave of emotional whiplash that I’ll feel until they head back home.
