Page 91 of The Pumpkin Pie Book Nook

Emma’s shoulders shook again, and she surged forward into him, jumping into her father’s arms.

Tyler held her tightly to his chest, and Robyn watched them, her throat tight.

And in the middle of Zoe’s flower shop—surrounded by petals and ribbon and two fur babies—she felt it with sudden clarity: Emma. Tyler. This town. This almost-family.

This was her life, her heartbeat, and she was going to fight for it.

FORTY

TYLER

It was later that night at Tyler’s house, and the whole place had that post-crisis stillness as if the walls were holding their breath.

Emma had taken a bath, hair damp and smelling like strawberry shampoo, and Tyler had read to her longer than usual. Longer than she technically needed. Longer than he technically could manage without his voice going rough.

But he couldn’t stop. It was almost as if words could stitch the evening back together. As if he could build a fence around her fear.

When he finally tucked the blanket up to her chin, Emma’s eyes tracked his face instead of the book.

“Are you gonna make her stay?” she asked, voice small.

Tyler’s chest tightened.

Emma swallowed hard, clutching her teddy bear tighter. “I don’t want her to leave…”

Tyler didn’t need her to add like Mom did to know that’s what she meant.

He sat on the edge of the bed, picking the right words.

“I can’t make anyone stay,” he said gently. He hated the truth even as he offered it. “I can’t promise you that.”

Emma’s face pinched, and Tyler hurried on before the fear could swallow her.

“But what I can promise you is this,” he said, leaning closer. “I love you. And I will always be here. Always. No matter what.”

Emma blinked fast, then nodded once, like she was filing it away in the place she kept all her emergency truths.

“I hope she stays,” Emma whispered.

Tyler brushed a kiss over her forehead. “Me too.”

Emma rolled onto her side, teddy tucked under her chin. “Night, Dad.”

“Night, kiddo.”

Tyler turned off the lamp, left the door cracked the way she liked it, and walked down the hallway with his mind a tangled mess.

He knew he’d reacted badly to Robyn’s news.

It had hit something deep and ugly, a trigger he hadn’t expected to still have teeth. A visceral reaction he’d barely been able to stop once it started—his body already bracing for loss before his brain could catch up.

He headed to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed a beer he didn’t actually want. Then he carried it out to the front porch and lowered himself onto the wooden swing.

The night air was cold enough to clear his head, but not cold enough to scrub away the guilt.

He’d been doing well. He was doing well. He’d built a good life for Emma. A stable one. A safe one.

But he hadn’t built much for himself.