“He has every right to dig. He wants answers. I know what that’s like. My mom died because of people getting back at my father. I remember the crash like it was yesterday. I remember the guilty look on my father’s face. He hasn’t been able to lookme in the eyes since. My mom was a good woman. She didn’t know what she signed up for.”
“I’m sure, but still, this is dredging up a lot of feelings for a lot of us,” he replied.
“Maybe some secrets don’t stay buried,” I replied.
He met my gaze. “You’ve lived with enough of them. You deserve peace.”
“Peace doesn’t come easy for people like us,” I said. “We just learn to breathe around the noise.”
He smiled faintly. “You remind me of the orchard after a storm. A little bruised, still standing.”
I let out a soft laugh. “You always know what to say.”
“Maybe I just know how to see you.” His gaze locked with mine. There was a familiar electricity in the air cutting between us like a connection, making my skin feel warm. I thought he might reach for my hand, but instead, he stood and placed his mug in the sink.
“Get some sleep,” he urged quietly. “You’ve done enough for one day.”
I walked him to the door. He paused in the frame, eyes holding mine.
“Lock this,” he said.
“I will.”
He lingered for a breath, then nodded once and left like it was taking everything in him to keep boundaries between us, and that made sense. Eric didn’t trust easily, but he trusted me and I left.
Through the window, I watched his truck pull away, its taillights glowing red in the dark. The street was still wet, but the rain had finally stopped. The scent of thistle drifted across the small loft since I had purchased some today in the shop. I inhaled the sharp, stubborn, beautiful scent like it was air. It was the kind of flower that survived everything, even the stormsthat tried to bury it. I turned back to the counter, where the lemon tarts he’d brought sat untouched. My mother used to say, “Lemon carried both the sour and the sweet like life, you needed both to make it whole.” I pressed my hand to the cool glass and whispered into the quiet, “Goodnight, hero.” Because Eric would never stop being that for me, even if he was fighting everything inside him to stay away from me.
CHAPTER 11
Eric
The main house smelled like cinnamon, polish, and too many people talking at once. Elyna had declared it “wedding central” for the weekend, and there wasn’t a single surface untouched by flowers, fabric, or one of her color swatches. Braden’s toys were scattered between boxes of décor, and Dad had retreated to the porch hours ago under the excuse of “letting the women run things.”
“Dad said to clear the attic while we’re at it. Elyna wants the old photo boxes for the wedding video she’s putting together,” I said to my brothers.
Asher groaned from where he sat on the stairs, tying new laces into his boots. “You mean before she completely takes over the main house. There’s tulle in the damn pantry.”
Phoenix grinned, balancing Braden on his hip. “You’re lucky she hasn’t moved into your cabin yet. She’s got me hanging fairy lights between the trees.”
Since Sandy had practically moved in with Dad, Asher decided to take one of the vacant cabins we usually give to our seasonal workers. I had been too busy to leave the main house, but I planned to meet with contractors about building after theweekend. That way the wedding and all the hoopla would be behind us.
“You love it,” I said, grabbing the broom and heading toward the attic stairs. “All this chaos suits you.”
“Maybe,” he said, kissing his son’s head. “But if she changes my brewery tap handles to match the wedding theme, I’m eloping.”
I laughed, though part of me envied the way he looked at Elyna, like nothing in the world could shake him.
The attic door creaked open, and the smell of dust and cedar hit hard. Light spilled through the narrow window, slicing across boxes stacked in uneven towers. The air was thick, untouched since Mom disappeared. We’d come up here over the years to grab Christmas ornaments or camping gear, but the deeper corners—the ones labeled “Helen” stayed closed. Becket was already there, flashlight in hand, brushing dust from a stack of old police files. “Dad kept everything,” he muttered.
“Of course he did,” I said. “He’s allergic to throwing things out.”
“Or maybe he was still hanging on to the past in his own way,” Becket added.
He said it like an accusation, not an observation. I knew where this was going before he even found the next box. It was labeledHelen–personalin Dad’s tidy handwriting. The kind that never wavered, even when everything else did.
Asher climbed the last step. “You guys find the photos yet? Elyna’s threatening to come up here herself, and you know she’ll reorganize everything by color.”
“Almost,” I said. “Help me with this one.”
