“There it is,” I murmur, my gaze fixed on her.
“What?”
“A smile,” I say, grinning down at her. “You look beautiful when you smile.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s no heat behind it, just that familiar spark she tries to hide. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re stubborn,” I counter, smirking. “It’s a good thing we’re stuck together for two years. I’ve got plenty of time to make you smile more.”
Her eyes narrow, but the corners of her lips twitch upward again. I tighten my hold on her waist, guiding her closer. “Two years, darling,” I add, my voice low but teasing. “Long enough to make you my best friend, at the very least.”
The music swells, a wave that crests and carries us with it. I spin her again, deliberately, and she stumbles slightly against me, her hand clutching my shoulder as she glares up at me.
But there’s something softer behind that frustration—something lingering, unguarded. Amusement. Maybe even trust.
I hold her firmly, my smile widening. Two years to figure out my feelings for this beautiful woman. I can work with that.
ChapterTwenty-One
Galeana
It’s past midnight,and the house is quiet now. The kind of quiet that only settles after a big event—when the music has stopped, the laughter has faded, and everyone has either gone home or well, I don’t know where Ledger is.
The point is that I have the place all to myself.
I’m perched at the massive marble island in the kitchen, still in my wedding dress but barefoot, my heels abandoned somewhere back in the hallway. My hair’s a wreck, a few pins barely holding the curls together, and I probably look like the less glamorous, slightly crumpled version of a bride you’d find on some “After the Party” picture.
But I don’t care. Because right now, it’s just me and the leftovers.
I stab my fork into the last bite of filet mignon, already eyeing the slice of wedding cake sitting in front of me. There’s something about sneaking into a pristine kitchen in the middle of the night to eat leftovers straight from the fridge that feels both rebellious and comforting. It’s a ritual I haven’t let go of—a habit passed down from my mother.
I was a teenager when it started. She’d come back from a date, kick off her shoes, and we’d curl up on the couch with the food she’d brought home. We’d split everything down the middle—especially dessert. Mom had a sweet tooth like no one else, and we’d fight over the last bite of tiramisu, laughing like two kids who didn’t have a care in the world.
The memory sneaks up on me now, and I have to blink quickly as tears well behind my eyes. I clear my throat, trying to swallow them down, but one escapes anyway. I swipe it away with the back of my hand, irritated.
Today, I miss her. God, I miss her so much.
Maybe if she were here, none of this would have happened. She’d sit across from me, a fork in hand, and say, “Don’t do it, Gale. Leave the money to those greedy assholes. You have it all.”
But did I? Did I really have it all?
The fork trembles in my hand as I stare at the cake, tears blurring my vision. I thought coming to Birchwood Springs would bring me closer to what I was looking for—a community, a family, a place to belong. And yet, as I watched the guests swirl around me today, smiling faces in borrowed happiness, I felt completely alone.
I don’t belong here. This town will never accept me and there’s no family left. No Doherty blood and Monroe . . . was that even a last name that existed in my lineage? I don’t know my father’s name so it’s not his. Who am I?
The thought pierces through me, sudden and certain, and I let the tears fall this time. They’re quiet, restrained tears—the kind you cry when there’s no one to hear you. My shoulders tremble slightly as I think of her—of the nights we’d sit together with takeout containers and stolen bites of dessert.
“Mom, where are you?” I wish this was like one of those times. Those were the nights we’d talk about love. Real love. The kind that makes you feel like you’re flying and falling all at once, the kind that shifts your whole world into focus.
“Gale,” she used to say, her voice soft but steady, “when you find it, you’ll know. And when you know, don’t let the noise of the world ruin it. Make it yours.”
I sniff, setting the fork down and brushing my damp cheeks with my hands. Her words feel closer tonight, like she’s here with me, sitting across the counter with her teasing grin and a forkful of cake.
But this isn’t her. This isn’t us.
And this wedding—no matter how beautiful, no matter how perfect it seemed—wasn’t mine.
I press my fork into the frosting of the cake, drawing patterns absentmindedly, when I hear footsteps.
