She gave a hollow laugh.“Yeah, except moving on apparently means letting a new man waltz in and share my cinnamon roll in front of half the town.And, of course,Acensaw it.”
Riley choked on his tea.“Declan?Lordhave mercy, sis, you are really feeding the gossip mill around here lately.”
“It wasn’t like that,”Roseprotested, but her cheeks heated anyway.“Hejust sat down.Tooka bite.Butthe wayAcenlooked at me…”Sheshivered, remembering.“LikeI’dlet him walk into a gunfight without warning him.”
Riley studied her a long moment.“Sowhich way’s your heart leaning?Towardthe man who broke it, or the man who hasn’t had the chance yet?”
Rose stared out at the trees, the cicadas buzzing louder.“That’sthe problem.Onefeels like home - even with all the cracks and ghosts.Theother feels… easy.AndIdon’t trust easy.”
Riley rocked slowly, the creak of wood steady between them.“Maybeit isn’t about easy or hard.Maybeit’s about who shows up when the mess hits.Becauselife inPickwickBendisn’t ever gonna be neat, sis.Youjust need the one who’ll sit on this porch with you after the dust settles.”
She blinked back sudden tears, throat tight.“When’dyou get so wise?”
He smirked.“Aboutthe same time you started complicating your love life.”
Rose nudged his chair with her foot, laughing through the ache.“You’reimpossible.”
“Yep.Butyou’ll figure it out.Youalways do.”
For a while, they sat in silence, the night wrapping around them, both of them listening to the rhythm of the crickets and the lake.Rosedidn’t have her answers yet.Butat least, withRileysitting there, she didn’t feel like she had to find them alone.
But the silence didn’t stay comfortable for long.Rosecould still feel the knot in her stomach, the tug-of-war between past and future,Acen’sstorm-colored eyes andDeclan’seasy smile.Sheset her tea down on the porch rail and rubbed her palms against her thighs.
“You ever wonder,” she asked finally, “what our lives would’ve looked like ifBrianahad never come between me andAcen?IfI’dhad the chance to see what it might’ve been without all the lies?”
Riley rocked slow, thoughtful.“Allthe time.Notjust for you, but for him too.Heloved you,Rose.Thatwas plain.Stillmight.Butlife’s full of detours.Somefolks get back on the same road.Somedon’t.”
Rose’s throat closed up.“Isee him now, and part of me still aches.Butanother part just… doesn’t trust him.Likeeven if he’s here now, what’s to stop him from running again?”
“Only way to know is to let him prove it.”Rileytook a sip of his tea.“Declan, though… he’s not carrying that history.Doesn’tmean he won’t make his own mistakes, but at least you’d be starting on level ground.”
Rose bit her lip.“Hemakes me laugh,Riley.It’sbeen a long time since someone made me laugh just for the sake of it.”
Her brother smiled softly.“Thenmaybe don’t throw that out just yet.Lordknows, laughter’s harder to come by than good catfish around here.”
Rose thought about the wayDeclanhad leaned in at the coffee shop, bold enough to swipe the icing off her cinnamon roll with his thumb.Aboutthe wayAcen’sjaw had tightened when he saw it.
The porch swing creaked as she shifted.“Ijust don’t want to be the talk of the town again.Notlike before.Notbecause of them.”
Riley gave a low laugh.“Sis, you could bake a pie wrong in this town, and it’d be the talk for a week.Youthink dating drama’s gonna stay quiet?Nochance.Thequestion is - are you gonna let gossip decide your life?”
Rose let his words settle.Thetruth was, she didn’t know if she was strong enough to separate her heart fromPickwickBend’swatchful eyes.
But as the night pressed in and the fireflies blinked along the yard, she knew one thing for certain: both men,Acenwith his steady weight of history, andDeclanwith his bright new possibilities, were already tangled up in her future.
AndBriana?Brianawasn’t finished yet.Rosecould feel it, the way you could smell rain before it fell.
CHAPTERTWENTY
Rose found herself standing in her kitchen, nervously watching the clock as the sun dipped behind thePickwickhills, shadows stretching long and lazy across the yard.Theair was heavy with the smell of baking casserole and honeysuckle drifting through the open window.She’dvacuumed the rugs, wiped down the counters twice, and even polished the little ceramic salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like ducks that had belonged to her mama.
The house was clean.Thecasserole was in the oven.Andstill, butterflies danced in her stomach like a whole team of cheerleaders.
What unsettled her most wasn’tAcenhimself but the fact that she was wearing lipstick.Lipstick, of all things.Amuted berry shade she’d dug out of the back of her bathroom drawer, cap dusty, nearly forgotten.Shehadn’t bothered with lipstick in at least a year.
Not that she’d admit any of that toAcenWheeler.
When the knock came exactly at six o’clock, not a minute earlier or later, she straightened, smoothed her skirt, and tried not to sprint for the door like a teenager with a crush.
