Page 98 of Hearts on the Line

That’s the thing that undoes me.

It’s not the fire. Not the sound of the roof starting to collapse, not even losing the place my family built, the one I thought I could save.

It’s her saying she’s staying. I’ve lived the version of this story where she does go. Where she walks away and leaves me standing in the wreckage alone.

I cradle the back of her skull in my palm and pull her close. The kiss starts rough, like the first inhale after you’ve been underwater too long, until the frantic need to touch her fades, and the kiss slows. We’re pressed together under the spray, my chest to hers, my heartbeat a heavy thud against her ribs.

It shifts slowly. Heat curls under the edges of grief, and it’s not like the back seat weeks ago. This is slower, steadier.

Her fingers trace down my ribs, over the curve of my hip, but she doesn’t push for more. She’s waiting for me. And, god, I want her.

I lean my forehead to hers, breaking our kiss. “Last time I lost everything, I lost you too.”

She presses her lips to my chest. “Not this time. I’m not going to let that happen.”

It’s not a promise. It’s a choice.

I kiss her again, deeper this time, my hands sliding to her waist, then lower. My lips find her jaw, the curve of her throat, the hollow beneath her ear where her pulse hammers. She tilts her head to give me more, her fingers curling into my hair. My hands map the slope of her back, the swell of her hips, before she hooks one leg around my waist.

When I push inside, I seal my mouth to hers to quiet her soft moan. My parents’ house is full of people desperate to help. We move together, the steam curling around us, the water pattering against our bodies. She whispers my name against my ear. I hold her tighter, bury my face into her neck, as my release races up my spine. She grips my hips, holding me to her, and I breathe her in. The water keeps running, rinsing away the last of the smoke and soot.

Neither of us says anything for a long time. There’s nothing to say that wouldn’t feel small.

Finally, she pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. “We’ll figure it out.”

She means the restaurant. My future. Us. All of it.

I nod because I want to believe her. And because right now, with her here, I almost do.

Chapter 33

Sloane

The drive out to Ruth’s farmhouse is the kind you don’t hurry. Even if you tried, the road winds upon itself, past salt marshes gone gold in the late summer haze, the scent of brine overwhelming when I roll the window down.

After lunch, I left Ethan curled up on the couch in his parents’ living room, Wally at his feet. We stayed in bed for most of yesterday, piled onto the old twin mattress, and he slept, his limbs heavy over me, exhaustion settling over both of us.

Richie and Kathleen woke us up when they returned from Europe early in the morning. Now the house is full of bickering and crying and laughing, and the usual Murphy chaos. He’s in good hands.

And besides, I need to see Ruth.

Her place sits where the paved road runs out on top of a picture-perfect green hill. The white clapboard Federal home is huge and desperate for paint and repairs. The shingles are weathered to silver, limelight hydrangeas spill over the fence, heavy with blooms.

Ruth’s on the porch when I pull in, a walker in front of her, a stubborn tilt to her chin that tells me she hates needing it. She squints into the sun and waves.

“You’re late,” she snaps, but her mouth curves, and I know I’m already forgiven.

I navigate the stone pathway and climb the large granite steps to join her on the porch. “You didn’t know I was coming.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re not late.” Her eyes flick over me, sharp and assessing. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“Stick to the truth, Sloane. You’re a shitty liar.” She grips the walker, turning to lead me inside. “Come on. I made lemonade.”

The farmhouse smells like tea leaves and the faintest hint of her lavender hand cream. Sunlight spills through the big windows upon piles and piles of books and enough plants to start her own botanical garden. I follow her to the outdated kitchen before she motions for me to sit in the chair beside the entrance to the old butler’s pantry.

She pours lemonade into two mason jars, sets one in front of me, then lowers herself into a chair opposite me.