Jamie
June
The coworking space had that particular Friday quiet, the kind that settled in around four o'clock when everyone started watching the clock more than their screens.
Brandy was at her desk, emerald reading glasses perched on her nose, shuffling through a stack of folders with the focused energy of someone who'd already mentally started her weekend. Marceline and Bubblegum had claimed their spot under my deskhours ago, Bubblegum curled into a tight ball while Marceline sprawled with her belly up, paws twitching through some dream.
I was pretending to work on website mockups for a boutique hotel in Aspen. The client wanted “elevated mountain aesthetic” with “approachable warmth,” which meant I'd been staring at the same color palette for twenty minutes, trying to decide if sage green read as sophisticated or dated.
Four-fifteen. Holden would close the shop at five.
The door opened.
Marceline was on her feet before I registered the footsteps, her whole body vibrating with recognition. Bubblegum lifted her head, tail already going. I turned in my chair and felt my heart beat faster.
Holden stood in the doorway with flowers in his hands.
Not a big arrangement. Something small and perfect—sweet peas in shades of lavender and white, a few stems of dusty miller, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. Gratitude. Pleasure. His grandmother's language, spoken fluent. They smelled like summer, faint and sweet.
“You're early,” I said.
“Jake's covering.” Holden crossed the room, the dogs circling his legs in frantic greeting. He bent to scratch behind Marceline's ears, then Bubblegum's, before straightening and holding out the flowers. “For you.”
I took them. This was our Friday now. Every week since Valentine's Day, Holden showed up with flowers he'd made for me.
Brandy made the same delighted noise she made every time, a sort of sighing coo that she probably thought was subtle. “You two are disgustingly adorable. You know that, right?”
Holden's ears went red. Same as every time.
I lifted my head up for a kiss.
The kiss was brief. We were in public, Brandy was watching, the dogs were trying to insert themselves between our legs, but it still made my pulse kick. His arm wrapped around my waist, and when I pulled back his eyes were soft in that way they only got when he looked at me.
“Holden, you're spoiling him,” Brandy said.
“That's the plan.”
I laughed, and Holden's mouth curved into that rare smile that still felt like a victory every time I earned it.
“Speaking of plans.” Brandy stood, gathering something from her desk—a folder, manila, with a stack of papers inside. Her manicured nails tapped against the edge as she crossed the room. “This came through while you were working.”
She set the folder on my desk. I opened it and grinned.
A lease agreement. Year-long, starting next month. The address I'd been hoping for since I toured the place three weeks ago: white clapboard with a porch and a yard that backed up to the foothills.
“The owners finally got back to you,” Brandy said, reading glasses sliding down her nose. “Everything's ready. Three bedrooms, fenced yard for the girls, mountain view from the kitchen.” She paused, and her mouth twitched. “High ceilings.”
“Interesting feature,” I said, flipping through the pages. My hands weren't quite steady.
“Very practical.” Brandy looked at Holden. “For tall guests who might visit frequently.”
“Brandy.”
She produced a pen from somewhere—she always had pens, they multiplied in her presence—and pressed it into my hand. “Sign, hon. Before you overthink it.”
I looked at the lease, at the address, at the line waiting for my signature.
A year. Not month-to-month, not keeping my options open, not one foot out the door. A year in Prospect Ridge, in a house with room for the dogs and space for us to grow into.
