Lila opened the door before they reached the porch.She looked different than the last time Caleb had seen her—tanned, the lines around her mouth softer, the coiled tension that had lived in her shoulders for most of the Caldwell investigation finally gone.The honeymoon had been good for both of them, but it showed on Lila in ways that were harder to hide.
“You’re late,” she said.
“Traffic,” Caleb said.
“There’s no traffic in Blossom Springs.”
“We took the scenic route.”
Lila’s gaze moved past him to Harper, standing just behind his shoulder with her hands in the pockets of a sundress she’d bought at the thrift shop on Main Street two days ago.She’d tried it on in the living room and asked his opinion, and he’d said it was fine, and she’d told him that “fine” was a word men used when they didn’t actually look.He’d looked.The dress was more than fine.
“Come in,” Lila said.“Ronan’s on the deck pretending to supervise the grill, which really means he’s drinking beer and watching the water.”
They followed her through the cottage.It was warm and unguarded in a way Caleb’s place had never managed—photos on the walls, books stacked on every flat surface, a throw blanket draped over the couch that had clearly been used for its intended purpose instead of folded for display.A framed wedding photo sat on the mantle, and Harper paused in front of it.
“Beautiful dress,” she said.
“I almost didn’t wear it.”Lila glanced at the photo.“I changed three times.Ronan finally told me I looked perfect in the first one and to please stop making him nervous.”
Ronan was exactly where Lila said he’d be—standing at the grill with a beer in one hand and tongs in the other.
“About time.”He set down the tongs and pulled Caleb into a one-armed hug.“Starting to think you’d gone feral in that cabin.”
“It’s a cottage.”
“It’s a bunker with better windows.”Ronan released him and turned to Harper.His gaze sharpened briefly before settling.“Harper.Good to see you again.”
“Likewise.”Harper shook his hand.“Thank you for the assist with the story.”
“That was all Caleb.I just made sure the right people saw the final product.”Ronan gestured toward the deck chairs.“Sit.Steaks are almost done, and Lila made something with potatoes that she claims is edible.”
“It’s au gratin,” Lila called from inside.“And it’s more than edible.”
“She’s been taking cooking classes,” Ronan said, lowering his voice like he was sharing classified intelligence.“Online.From a French chef.There have been experiments.”
“One soufflé.One.”
Harper’s mouth twitched.Not the guarded, almost-smile Caleb had gotten used to over the past weeks.Something less controlled.She pressed her lips together like she was trying to hold it in, and then she stopped trying.
The laugh was quiet and a little rusty, like a hinge that hadn’t been turned in a while.But it was real, and it changed her entire face, and Caleb had to look away from her before he did something stupid like tell her that in front of people.
Dinner was good.
Better than good.The steaks were charred on the outside and pink in the center, and Lila’s au gratin was layered with something she refused to identify beyond “herbs from Quinn’s garden.”They ate on the deck with the inlet going dark beyond the railing, and the conversation moved the way it does between people who are testing the edges of a new configuration—careful at first, then less so.
Ronan told the honeymoon story about the rental car that had died on a mountain road outside Positano, and Lila corrected every detail he got wrong, which was most of them.
“It wasn’t a mountain.It was a hill.”
“It had switchbacks.”
“Three.Three switchbacks.You’re describing the Amalfi Coast like it’s the Himalayas.”
“We had to carry the luggage,” Ronan said to Harper, as if appealing to a jury.“Two miles.Uphill.”
“Eight hundred meters,” Lila said.“Mostly flat.I timed it.”
Harper was watching them the way she watched everything—with the focused attention of a woman who cataloged details professionally.But the set of her shoulders had dropped over the course of dinner.She’d stopped checking the tree line every few minutes.She’d accepted a second glass of wine, which was one more than her usual operational maximum.
