Page 142 of In Your Wake

His face lights up with a wide, unrestrained grin. His eyes sparkle and his cheeks flush with pure delight. “Are you kidding? This is the best timing.”

He brings a hand to my face, running his thumb along my cheek.

I lean into his touch. I’ve missed this. I’ve missed his comforting presence, his solid frame by my side, making me feel safe. I’ve missed the swipe of his thumb and how it erases all my worries and leaves me wrapped in a peaceful bubble.

Excited, he stands up and holds out his hand. “Come on. Let me show you something.”

We drive along the coast, past the mansions of Lyndhurst Road, in the comfort of Mitch’s rental hybrid SUV. I’m impressed that he chose a more environmentally friendly rental this time around. Even so, between the millions of ways I’ve asked him where we’re headed, I’ve teased him incessantly about the car, too.

But he’s here, by my side, and he hasn’t run away. That brings me such a very welcome wave of relief.

Finally, we turn onto a rocky drive surrounded by a few trees, some overgrown grass, and by a long wall of cedar bushes. “What’s this?”

Without answering, but wearing that smirk, he steps out of the car, so I get out and follow.

We walk through a small opening between the bushes and find a rickety old cottage with worn-down wooden shingle siding and a wrap-around porch that’s seen better days. We round the house toward the back, down to the beach less than fifty feet away through yet another wall of cedars.

“It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it?” he asks.

All I can do is stare out at the expanse of ocean and the waves breaking off against a nearby bluff. It’s a gorgeous view, so why anyone would hide it behind a wall of tall bushes, I have no clue.

“It’s breathtaking.” I glance back at him. “Too bad the house is old as shit.”

“It’s not that old.” He steps up behind me. “Only about sixty years.”

“I think it’s lying about its age,” I kid, squinting up at him. “So, what’s up? You’re not buying this place, are you?”

He mimics my stance, crossing his arms and standing by my side, looking up at the house. “Actually, I just closed on it.”

Trying to gauge if he’s messing with me, I stare at him. “It’s yours?”

“Yep. All one-point-eighty-two acres of it.”

I’m not sure what shocks me more—that he’s bought a house in Oakwhite, or that this means he’ll be close by. That he’s coming home.

“Mitch! This is great!” I scream, jumping up, almost instinctively wrapping my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist.

At first, he freezes, and I cringe, realizing what I’ve done. But then his deep laugh vibrates into my body, and he tightens his embrace.

I surrender to the strength of his arms, letting it sink into my bones, then notice how gentler he seems, not squeezing me with as much force. It’s probably because he’s still hesitant around me—he isn’t sure what we are. The thought that it’s because he thinks he’ll hurt our precious cargo makes me smile as I pull away, that tiny spark of tension, the good kind, sizzling in the air between us.

I slide his sunglasses up onto my head so he can gaze into my eyes, growing very aware of his hands tucked beneath my ass. I clear my throat, and Mitch takes the hint, lowering me to the ground.

“Congratulations,” I say, rubbing his arm affectionately. “I’m happy for you.”

“Want to see inside?”

“Is it safe?” I joke.

We walk through the beach-facing door into a good-sized dining room with a tiny, but cute kitchen off to one side, and a slightly bigger den on the other. Mitch gives me the tour, shows me a small bathroom and bedroom tucked at the front, then leads me up the straight, but creaky staircase in the middle of the house.

The second floor has the main bathroom, a linen closet, and two more bedrooms—a smaller one and the master, which has an unobstructed, magnificent view of the Atlantic. Pale, faded sea-themed wallpaper covers the hallway’s walls, and the rooms are all painted in various pastel colors. A little rundown, the house has character, and I have to admit, there’s something that’s very cozy about it.

“It needs some work,” he states while I stand at the bedroom window and watch the seagulls fly by over the ocean.

“Nothing you can’t handle,” I answer, still wrapping my head around the fact that Mitchell is moving back. I can’t deny the wave of comfort running through me knowing he’ll be only a short drive away.

“Yeah, about that,” he begins, the wooden floor creaking beneath his weight as he steps closer. “We made such a good team working on the inn, so I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’d want to help me with this place?”