Rose raised a brow.“And?”
“AndIcame to say congratulations.”
It was flat, forced.
“And to let you know,”Brianaadded, voice slipping toward venom, “that one day he’ll leave again.Justlike last time.Youmay have won the town, but people don’t really change,Rose.”
“Maybe not,”Rosesaid calmly.“ButIhave.Idon’t need to win anymore.Ijust need to live honestly.Somethingyou might try sometime.”
Briana sneered.“Youalways did like the moral high ground.”
“No,”Rosesaid, opening her car door.“Butit turns out, it has better views.”
She climbed in and shut the door, leavingBrianastanding there in her designer shoes and shrinking pride.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Rose foundAcenwaiting on her porch with two sweating glasses of sweet tea.
The sight stopped her in her tracks.
He sat on the top step like he belonged there, elbows balanced on his knees, the glasses catching the last shimmers of sunlight.Condensationpooled in rings on the porch rail where the glasses sat.
“I figured after the week you’ve had you might want some quiet,” he said, offering her the glass.
She smiled, heart swelling at how well he knew her.Notjust the outer version of her, the woman who plastered on a brave face for the town, who kept her shop running and her chin high.No, he knew theRosewho craved stillness after the storm, who found healing in silence and a glass of sweet tea on a porch swing.
“Quiet sounds about right,” she said softly.
He rose easily, handing her one of the glasses, and the cool condensation pressed against her palm as welcome as a blessing.Theymoved together toward the porch swing, falling into step like they’d been doing it for years.
The chains creaked as they settled onto the wooden slats, and the swing swayed gently beneath their weight.
The evening sky was painted lavender, streaks of rose and indigo stretching across the horizon.Honeysucklecurled along the fence line, its sweetness drifting on the breeze.Theair held that soft heaviness particular to southern summers—the kind that wrapped around you like a quilt, both comfort and weight at once.
Rose took a sip of tea, the hint of lemon sharp and soothing all at once.Shefelt her heartbeat begin to slow, the day’s ache loosening in her chest.
“Declan andItalked,” she said, breaking the hush.
Acen didn’t flinch, didn’t bristle.Hesimply turned his head, one brow lifting slightly.“Ifigured.Everythingokay?”
“Better than okay.”Shewrapped her fingers tight around the glass, condensation dripping onto her jeans.“He’sa good man.Justnot my man.”
The relief of saying it aloud surprised her.Shehadn’t realized how much she’d carried until the words fell free.
Acen leaned back, his shoulder brushing hers as the swing rocked.Hegazed at the tree branches, their leaves rustling in the evening breeze.Hisprofile caught the fading light.Strong, steady, softened by something she couldn’t name.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said slowly.“Aboutstaying.”
She turned to him, startled.Thewordstayingrang in her chest like a church bell.
“You’d stay?Reallystay?”
He set his glass down on the rail beside the swing and laced his fingers together, as if steadying himself for the truth.“Igot an offer to coach the high school’s boys’ baseball team.It’snot glamorous.Butit’s steady.Andit’d meanI’mnot just… passing through again.”
Rose felt her throat tighten.Shestared at him, her glass forgotten.Memoriestumbled through her mind.Theboy who left, the man who’d walked back into her life, the years she’d spent convincing herself she was fine without him.
And here he was, offering something she had secretly longed for but never dared hope.
