“Your papa’s back from his honeymoon,” I say, understanding. “That must make you happy.”
“Oui! Muy happy.” She claps her hands once, then immediately returns to her construction with the same intense focus as Mason.
I watch her work for another moment. There’s something methodical about her approach, almost scientific. Like she’s already inherited Callie’s precision along with Mason’s intensity.
A strange weight settles in my chest as I watch her. She’s so perfect, so complete in her small world of blocks and multiple languages and absolute certainty about what she’s building. The kind of clarity I haven’t felt in years.
Callie appears from the back patio with reusable grocery bags in hand, sliding the door closed behind her. “Wyatt’s here,” she announces, moving to the counter to unpack. “Marcella intercepted him the moment he stepped into the backyard and is now giving him the full botanical tour.”
My pulse kicks up at the mention of his name. I hope I can find the right moment to pull him aside for a chat.
“I should say hello,” I manage.
I walk toward the back door on legs that feel steadier than they should, wine glass in one hand and a wooden block Zoey pressed into my palm—apparently I’ve been enlisted as a construction consultant. Through the glass, I can see Wyatt and Marcella standing near the herb garden, her silver hair catching the late afternoon light as she gestures toward the basil. He’s listening with the focused attention he gives everything—hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, genuinely interested in whatever she’s telling him about companion planting.
He’s changed since I saw him last. Not physically—he still moves with that steady confidence, still fills out his clothes in a way that makes my mouth go dry. But there’s a careful alertness in his posture, like he’s bracing for impact.
I set the block on the small end table by the door—Zoey will find it later and probably incorporate it into whatever architectural marvel she’s creating. The door handle is warm under my palm. I step outside into air that’s softer than Denver’s ever was, carrying the green scent of Marcella’s garden and the rich, smoky aroma of meat on Mason’s grill. The temperature difference makes me aware of how tense I’ve been inside—my shoulders drop slightly as the evening warmth settles around me. Wyatt turns immediately, as if he felt me coming, and the familiar way his eyes find mine sends warmth flooding through me. Some of the heaviness in my chest lightens for the first time all evening.
“Nina.”
Just my name, but the way he says it makes my pulse skip.
“Wyatt.”
Marcella glances between us with shrewd eyes, then smiles and excuses herself to check on dinner preparations. She squeezes my shoulder as she passes, a gesture that feels like benediction.
And then it’s just us.
He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t reach for me. Just stands there, letting me set the pace, the boundaries, still obeying my need for space. It’s so typically him.
“How was the flight?” I ask, because it’s safer than anything else I want to say.
“Long. Nikita was displeased with the entire experience.”
“Where is she now?”
“The apartment over Mason’s shop. Exploring her new domain.” His mouth quirks slightly. “She’s already claimed a chair by the sunniest window.”
The small talk feels both necessary and absurd. We’re circling around the real conversation, the weight of everything unspoken between us. But I’m not running from this. Not today.
“Wyatt,” I start, then stop. Take a breath. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Something shifts in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or hope.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
We stand there for a moment, just looking at each other. The late afternoon light turns everything golden, makes the ordinary beautiful. His hair is a little longer than I remember, curling slightly at the ends. There’s a healing nick on one side of his freshly shaved jaw. I want to touch it, want to trace all the small changes that accumulated in the few weeks we’ve been apart.
But I also came here for a reason.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” I say quietly. “About what happened after the wedding. After that night.”
His attention sharpens immediately. “Okay.”
“Not here, though.” I glance toward the house, where I can hear Mason’s voice mixing with Marcella’s returned chatter.
