I spun slowly, taking it all in. “You did this.”
Rhett nodded, tracing a palm over the glossy sheen of the stained wood as he stepped closer. “Suppose I should thank the storm, since it kept you out of here for a while.”
“But… why?” I turned back to him, breath catching in my throat.
He stood only a foot away.
“If you have to ask, I’m not sure I did my job well enough,” Rhett replied with a lopsided smile.
That flip-floppy, rollercoaster feeling returned.
Uninvited tears sprang to my eyes as I looked up at him. “Don’t say anything. I can’t—” I dragged in a shuddering breath. “I can’t hear it when you’re only going to leave.”
His eyes softened as they danced across my face. “Now where’s that relentless optimism I know and love?” He paused for one, suffocating second, close enough now that I could see the flecks of sawdust in his hair. “I’m staying, Wheeler. How could I leave when you’re here?”
The sentence should have been cathartic. Instead, it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever said. My chest went hollow and full at the same time. I swallowed and let the world narrow to the arc of his mouth and the golden hue of his eyes.
“Rhett—” I started, but his name snagged in my throat. I hesitated, then turned away before I could lose my nerve. “Wait here.”
In the backroom, my fingers found the paper bag I’d hidden days ago. The tissue crinkled softly as I pulled it free—a little wooden duck, no taller than my hand, smoothed and sanded until it gleamed. His uncle’s initials were carved on the underside. I meant to give it to him before everything fell apart. Before I thought I might never see him again.
When I stepped back out, the light caught the faint grain of the wood between my fingers. “I found this at the antique shop,” I said quietly, holding it out to him. “I think it belongs to you.”
Rhett’s expression shifted—something tender and unguarded passing through—as he turned the duck over in his palm. “Guess it’s only fair,” he murmured. “You’ve been reminding me of what matters since the day we met.”
He set the duck carefully on the table, then reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone. A single message glowed on the lock screen:Be safe. Call when you can. —M.His thumb smudged the glass as he closed it.
“I told them last night. I told them I’m not getting on that plane. It wasn’t pretty, but… that’s also the most I’ve gotten from her in years.”
He set the phone aside and rested his hands at my waist. I tried to focus on his words, and the serious lilt of his voice, not the warmth of his palms or how badly I wanted to wrap my arms around his neck.
“And I didn’t just set up shelves. I paid a deposit for a secondhand kiln, and got Frank to let me use his storage while the two of us set up your studio. I’m not here on holiday. This is it, okay? I’m staying.”
The evidence floated to the surface of his practical list: not a vow made under a floral arch, but a series of lost hours and payments and plans already set in motion. It made the promise impossible to argue with.
That old, mean fear curled at the base of my ribs. The one that had taught me to pack away my hopes and always stay ready for the goodbye.
He seemed to read it in my face. “You don’t have to decide anything now,” he murmured, gathering the tears on my cheeks with his thumb. “I’ll stick around while you figure it out. I’ll be here.”
That last sentence blew all the puzzle pieces into place. I didn’t say a thing. I closed the space between us, melting into his arms. When his lips met mine it was a steady, warm pressure—not fireworks meant to blind, but a quiet, unambiguous assertion. His mouth moved against mine with the slow assurance of someone who had made up his mind and meant it. When he pulled back for air our foreheads rested together.
“I don’t need time, Rhett,” I murmured breathlessly, fingers tangling in his hair. “You’re stuck with me.”
He smiled. “Good.”
The second kiss proved it.
Epilogue
A month later, I stood in that same shop, staring at the wooden sign that swung in the wind outside. Customers milled through the displays, chattering to each other every so often.
I still hadn’t gotten used to that—people wanted to buy somethingImade. Some days, it felt like I could barely keep up with demand. That was strange enough in itself, but it turned out, life in Bluebell Cove just seemed to get stranger by the month.
Margot strode through the door wearing loose trousers and a sweater. She paused, lowered her sunglasses with a single nail, and strutted toward me. “You’ve really gotta get rid of that sign.”
“Rhett made it,” I replied, glancing outside with a wistful smile. “It was a romantic gesture. I’m not just going to throw it away.”
Admittedly, it was bright yellow—an homage to our day in his workshop—and the lettering looked a little like a first grader was hopped up on sugar and broke into the paints. But every time I saw it, I remembered that night.
