I don’t turn around. “Your coffee maker has a mind of its own.”
“It’s a pour-over. It has one job.”
“And I’m letting it do its job,” I reply, gesturing at the slowly dripping chaos I’ve created. “I just refuse to micromanage it.”
Tex approaches from behind, wrapping one arm around my waist. His mouth brushes my temple—the same kiss he gives me every morning, like it’s a checkpoint in his routine.
Jane: alive, present, making terrible coffee.
Roger that.
I lean back into him, and my eyes land on the shelf across the kitchen.
He built that for me. He didn’t even ask; he just showed up one day with lumber and a plan, saying,“Your fidgets need a home.”
Now it holds my stress balls, the tangle toy Kitty gave me, three different spinners, and a small army of novelty erasers I’ve collected from who knows where. It looks ridiculous next to his pristine countertops.
He’s never once asked me to move them.
“Everyone’s coming at four,” he murmurs against my hair.
My stomach flips, partly from nerves, partly from excitement. “I know. I made pie. Kitty’s recipe. Don’t judge.”
“I never judge your pie.”
“You judged my pie last week.”
“I said the crust was interesting.”
“Interesting is a judgment.”
He chuckles softly, and the sound warms my chest. He’s been doing a lot more of that lately. I like to think I’ve helped him to lay some of his ghosts to rest too.
Today is the first time my brothers are coming to Havenridge since the showdown.
Well, that’s not entirely true. Weston drove out two months ago to “check on things,” which really meant standing awkwardly outside for twenty minutes while Tex and I assured him I hadn’t joined a cult.
But this is the first time all three of them are coming. Together. To have dinner with Tex and me, and his SEAL brothers.
My two families colliding in one cabin. No big deal. Totally fine. Not at all the reason I’ve stress-baked three pies and rearranged the living room twice since yesterday.
Tex’s hand slides to my hip. “You okay?”
Always grounding me. Always checking in. “Yep. Great. Excellent.”
“Jane.”
I sigh. “I’m nervous.”
He turns me to face him, his hands steady on my waist. His eyes are the same fierce green they were that first day, certain and unblinking, as if he’s already decided everything will be fine because he refuses to accept any other outcome.
“Your brothers are trying,” he says. “That counts.”
“I know.”
And theyaretrying. Caleb now texts me with more than just one-word check-ins; he sends real sentences. Last week, he asked what books I was reading. I nearly dropped my phone.
Weston calls every Sunday like clockwork, having learned not to ask if I’msureabout things. He simply listens. It’s strange. I kind of love it.
