Chapter Two
The Past Changes Nothing ...Or Does It?
Zora
The second his eyes meet mine, it is like the years fold in on themselves.
Six years of silence.Six years of building walls brick by brick.Six years of convincing myself I am stronger without him.And all it takes is one look across the shop floor for the cracks to show.
I walk past him like he is a stranger.Like my pulse isn’t hammering so hard I can barely breathe.Like my body hadn’t betrayed me with that familiar ache, the one I thought I’d buried long ago.My feet carried me toward the door with a steadiness I didn’t feel, and the second the hot Louisiana air hits my skin, I suck in a shaky breath.
Maverick fucking Hall is back.
I lean against my car, pressing my palms flat against the sun-warmed metal.My chest feels tight, my stomach twisted.Of all the places he could’ve landed, of all the shops in the damn country, why here?Why Franklinton?Why House of Ink, the one place I thought I could breathe without ghosts pressing in?
I close my eyes, forcing myself to focus.This doesn’t change anything.I’m not that girl anymore.The one who would’ve dropped everything just to follow the sound of his laugh.The one who mistook chaos for love.No, I’m Zora now—single mother, business owner, woman who survived heartbreak and came out the other side tougher.
I have Ivy.I have a life.And I have Ethan.
Ethan, with his easy smile and steady hands, who never once made me feel like I was standing on shifting ground.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.Speak of the devil.
Ethan:Made it into town earlier than I thought.Dinner tonight?
I stare at the screen for a long moment.My heart still hasn’t slowed from seeing Maverick, and here is Ethan—timely, safe, and offering me exactly what I should want.Normalcy.Stability.
My thumbs move before I can overthink it.
Me:Sure.Seven?
Ethan:Perfect.Can’t wait.
I shove the phone back in my pocket and climb into the car, telling myself the tremor in my hands has nothing to do with the man I’d just seen.
By the time I pull into the driveway of my little house on the edge of town, the tightness in my chest has dulled into a heavy throb.The white shutters need a fresh coat of paint, the flower beds are overrun with weeds, and Ivy’s bike lie abandoned in the grass.But it is home.Ours.Built with sweat and stubbornness and the kind of fierce love that keeps me moving even when the nights are long and the money is short.
Ivy’s laughter meets me before I even reach the porch.High, bright, and bubbling like the clearest stream.It’s impossible not to smile, no matter how burdened I feel or how bad my day was.
“Mommy!”she squeals the second I open the door.She barrels toward me, curls bouncing, crayons still clutched in her fist.“Look what I drew!”
She thrusts the paper into my hands with all the seriousness of a gallery presentation.A house with a big sun overhead, a stick-figure version of her with wild hair, and me beside her with what I assumed are arms but look suspiciously like octopus tentacles.
“It’s beautiful, baby,” I say, crouching down to kiss the top of her head.She smells like fruit snacks and washable markers.My entire world condensed into this tiny person with gray eyes too much like his.
“Mrs.Carter said I’m really good at coloring inside the lines,” she announces proudly, bouncing on her toes.
