Behind us, the restaurant still glittered—glass and gold and ambition, all sharp edges and show. Ahead, Honeybrook Hollow curved into itself, porch lights glowing, chimneys breathing smoke, streets leading toward something warm and real.
Toward a house that felt like a home. With a man who made it feel like choosing him was the easiest, bravest thing I’d ever done.
Chapter 23
Nate
The house felt like it had taken a deep breath and held it for me.
One lamp on in the living room. The soft tick of the hallway clock. The smell of coffee clung to the air from this morning, like the walls were reluctant to let it go.
Lois lifted her head from her round knit bed by the bookcase, blinked once, and thumped her tail in dignified greeting.
“Evening, ma’am,” I told her, giving the velvet spot between her ears a rub. She stood, pressed her head into my palm, and then shuffled over to greet Eliza. When she stepped in out of the cold, the whole room shifted, like it had been waiting for her. The black dress skimmed her curves in a way that made my pulse stumble, and that quiet, wary smile—soft mouth, knowing eyes—hit me low and slow, doing reckless things to my focus and reminding me exactly how much I wanted her. “Tilly is with my mom tonight,” I said, taking her coat. “Sleepover. Cookie baking. Sticker collection shopping. A bedtime that will be ceremonially ignored.”
“Here’s hoping the sticker gods are on her side,” she said, and something in me relaxed.
“Leftover spaghetti still okay?”
“Perfect,” she said, like the word had a little relief in it. She hung her purse on the peg by the door and glanced around as if to reacquaint herself with the familiar shadows. I watched her shoulders settle, the day’s weight easing off as she stepped further inside. It was the sort of evening where silence felt gentle, not empty, and the comfort of routine made space for something quietly hopeful between us.
Eliza bent down, her hand gentle as she stroked Lois’s ears, letting her lean into her touch. Lois’s tail thumped again, satisfied, before padding back to her bed. I watched her slip off her heels as she took in the familiar comfort of the room. She glanced toward the kitchen, her smile softening. “Can I help with anything?” she asked.
“I got it. Come with me, and I’ll get you a drink.”
She followed me into the kitchen, her footsteps quiet on the worn tile. I poured her a glass of red wine—the good kind I’d been saving—and handed it over, my fingers brushing hers just long enough to make my pulse kick.
“To sticker luck,” I said, lifting my glass, “ignoring bedtime rituals, and to you being here with me—exactly where I want you.”
Her laugh was soft, a little breathless, and when she looked up at me, she didn’t look away. Neither did I. The space between us felt charged.
I took a step closer—slow, giving her time to pull back if she wanted to. She didn’t. Her knee brushed mine, her warmth unmistakable, and for a second, all I could think about was how easy it would be to close the distance. Her gaze flicked to my mouth, then back to my eyes, and the look there made my grip tighten on my glass.
She took a sip, still watching me, and I knew—absolutely knew—that the night had shifted into something else entirely. I set my glass down before I did something reckless, turnedtoward the stove, and pulled the container of spaghetti sauce from the fridge, grateful for the excuse to give my hands something to do besides reach for her.
I reheated the sauce, boiled enough pasta for the two of us, and dished it up with ridiculous drifts of parmesan in the blue ramekins Tilly insisted were “fancy.” We curled on the couch with the knit throw over our knees, hip to hip.
We ate in companionable quiet, the kind that felt less like silence and more like understanding. Outside, the wind rattled the window a little, but inside everything was soft—lamplight spilling across the couch, the subtle aroma of garlic lingering in the air, and the easy way our knees brushed beneath the blanket. It was the sort of night that asked nothing extravagant, just the comfort of shared space and the certainty of being wanted.
Finished, she set her bowl on the coffee table and traced the rim of her wine glass with a finger.
I watched her for a moment—the way she tucked one leg under herself, the way her eyes moved around the room like she was taking it in, not judging it. I realized how much of herself she’d already let me see. The messy parts. The guarded parts. The parts she was still figuring out.
It felt right to let her see me, too.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
“Anything,” I said.
“What was it like?” she asked. “Raising a little girl on your own. When she was really little.”
I smiled before I could stop myself. “Chaotic,” I said. “Exhausting. Terrifying.” I shook my head. “I was constantly afraid I was doing it wrong. That I was missing something important.” I paused, then added, “I spent a lot of nights googling things at two in the morning. Normal things. Things I felt like I should’ve already known.”
Her mouth softened at that.
“I was still working a lot back then,” I went on. “Trying to keep everything moving—job, daycare pickups, doctor appointments, meals. I’d answer emails with one hand while bouncing her with the other. There were days it felt like I was failing at everything simultaneously.”
“And you kept going,” she said quietly.
