Then, he gives me a lingering kiss, soft and sweet, that makes me forget everything around us.
***
“I think we need a new mailman,” I say, handing Cal a letter addressed toJackson & Co. Woodworks.
“Thank you,” he says, leaning in for a kiss—gentle and sweet, the kind that lets me know I matter to him.
“What’s the Woodwork Career Alliance?” I ask. “It’s the second letter I’ve seen this week.”
“The WCA is a national organization that sets the gold standard for woodworking, especially in trades and custom furniture. They hold a convention once a year, and this time it’s in Chicago.”
“Sounds fancy,” I say, raising an eyebrow.
He pauses, glancing at me. “It’s kind of a big deal. You’ve got suppliers, toolmakers, custom builders, even design schools. They run workshops, competitions, and showcase handcrafted pieces. Being invited means your work’s getting noticed. It’s not just about selling furniture; it’s about putting your name on the map.”
“So you’re going?” I say.
He shrugs like it’s no big thing, but there’s a flicker of pride in his eyes. “I got invited, but I can’t go.”
“Why not?” I ask, stunned.
“Hannah has school. I can’t leave her. Her mother was supposed to keep her the week I'd be gone, but she backed out.”
I nod, choosing not to say what I really think about that.
Cal reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a piece of paper that’s been folded and refolded so many times it’s soft at the seams, barely holding together.
“This is the invitation,” he says, trying to sound casual.
“That’s amazing, Cal!” I exclaim, studying the invite. “You have to.”
He glances toward the driveway, where Hannah’s crouched over the concrete, drawing hearts in chalk. A small smile of resignation touches his lips.
I step closer, drawn in by the blue of his eyes, and suddenly it’s hard not to imagine how easy it would be to fall in love with this man.
“I can stay with her,” I say, without hesitation.
“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” he says, crossing his arms.
“I don’t mind,” I reply gently.
“I’d pay you, of course—”
“I don’t want your money,” I say, cutting him off.
That raises an eyebrow. “No? Then what do you want?” His voice is low, steady, and the way he’s looking at me makes it hard to breathe for a second.
“I want you to make me something,” I say. “A keepsake box. Something special. Just for me.”
He blinks, surprised. “You serious?”
I nod. “I have… a few things. Memories. Some photos. I’ve never had a real place to keep them safe. I’d rather have something made by someone who actually puts their heart into what they build.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then nods slowly. “You’ll have the most beautiful box I’ve ever made. I swear it.”
I smile and hold out my hand. He takes it—but neither of us lets go. We just stand there, hand in hand, suspended in something that feels like the start of everything.
And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he pulls me into him and wraps his arms around me. I close my eyes, waiting for his lips to find mine, and when they do, I’m not disappointed.
