Chloe’s eyes snap to mine. “You think so?”
“I know so. They already asked me this morning if you were going to stay forever.” The words hang between us, heavier than I meant them to be. “I mean, of course I told them six months. That you have plans. A teaching job waiting for you.”
Something flickers across her face. Regret, maybe, or disappointment, but it’s gone before I can identify it.
“Right. Six months. Just temporary,” she says slowly.
“Just temporary,” I echo, ignoring the way my chest tightens around the words.
Because she’s leaving. She’s already told me she’s leaving. And I need to remember that, need to keep my distance, need to protect my daughters from getting too attached to someone who’s only passing through.
Even if part of me —the part that hasn’t felt anything close to attraction in three years— is already failing at that resolution.
Chloe slides off the counter, brushing flour off her jeans. “Well then, boss, you’d better teach me how to make those cinnamon rolls. If I only have six months, I want to learn everything I can.”
I hand her an apron, trying not to notice how the wordbosssounds in her voice. Trying not to think about how right she looks standing in my kitchen, flour-dusted and smiling, like she belongs here.
Like she could stay.
But she won’t.
And I need to remember that.
Even as I step closer to show her how to create the dough, my hands covering hers, every warning bell in my head ringing… and I start to ignore every blaring signal.
Chapter 3
Chloe
“And this is your room,”Jonah says, pushing open a door at the end of the upstairs hallway. “It’s not huge, but it has its own bathroom, and the closet’s pretty decent.”
I step inside, immediately charmed by the space. It’s painted a soft sage green, with white curtains that filter the late evening light into something gentle and warm. There’s a full bed with a quilted comforter, a dresser that looks handmade, and a reading nook by the window with cushions that are calling my name.
“It’s perfect,” I say honestly. “Way better than my friend’s couch.”
Jonah’s mouth quirks— not quite a smile, but close. “That’s a low bar.”
“You’d be surprised. Sarah’s couch was basically a medieval torture device disguised as furniture.” I set my duffel bag on the bed, running my hand over the quilt. It’s beautifully made, tiny stitches forming a pattern of interlocking stars. “Did someone make this?”
“My mom.” He lingers in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets. “She likes to keep busy.”
There’s something in his voice— affection mixed with something else. Gratitude, maybe, or guilt. Like he’s too awareof how much his mother does for him and doesn’t know how to repay it.
“It’s gorgeous,” I tell him. “Please thank her for me.”
He nods, then gestures back toward the hallway. “Of course, the twins’ room is across the hall. They’re pretty good sleepers, but Ava sometimes has bad dreams and sometimes I’m bushed, so she might need a little calming. She really just needs someone to sit with her for a few minutes.”
“Got it.” I follow him back out, and he points to the other doors as we pass.
“Bathroom’s there— you’ll share it with the girls. They have their own little step stool and toothbrushes. Linen closet. And this...” He stops at the last door, his hand on the knob but not turning it. “This is my room. You shouldn’t need to go in there, but just so you know where everything is.”
He opens the door.
And I make the mistake of looking inside.
The room is beautiful.
No…beautiful is the wrong word.
