We also received good news. The mansion’s basement was the one thing that survived the explosion, and when they were able to reach it, they found Gale’s boxes untouched. Seeing her face light up as she heard the news felt like we might actually be okay.
“Might” being the key word.
I glance over at Gale as she steps out of the truck, wrapped in a light coat and scarf against the crisp breeze. Her cheeks are rosy, more from the walk to the truck than the weather, and loose strands of her hair dance around her face in the wind. Despite everything, there’s an ease in her steps, a subtle lightness that wasn’t there before. Finding her boxes—those last remnants of her mother’s life—seems to have lifted something invisible but heavy from her shoulders.
“Nice place,” she says, taking in the house with a small smile. “I can’t imagine living in a house this big while growing up.”
I shove my hands into my pockets, watching her reaction. “It’s got good bones,” I say, though it feels like an understatement. My mom’s house is a masterpiece—timeless, warm, and elegant without being over the top. She’d have liked Gale. Hell, she’d have probably tried to adopt her on the spot.
Gale walks up to the front door. “So, what’s the verdict? Is it as intimidating on the inside as it looks out here?”
I can’t help but grin. “Guess you’ll have to see for yourself.”
I unlock the door and push it open. Gale steps inside, her eyes widening as she takes in the vaulted ceilings and grand staircase.
“It’s . . . beautiful,” she says, her voice soft, almost reverent.
“It was my mom’s favorite place,” I tell her, my chest tightening at the memory. “She used to say this house was her one indulgence, the one thing she’d never give up no matter what.”
Gale turns to me, her expression thoughtful. “And now it’s ours—for a little while, anyway.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Yeah. For now.”
The security team moves through the house like clockwork, clearing every corner and checking every lock. Gale picks one of the guest rooms for herself, though we both know it’s just for show. She won’t stay there long—not with the rhythm we’ve fallen into over the past few weeks.
Shared spaces. Shared nights. Moments that feel like they’re walking the tightrope between necessity, pretending. Pretending we’re us. Pretending this could be real. There’s just so much more, a deeper feeling I don’t dare to name.
Naming it makes it real.
And if it’s real, it’s vulnerable. It’s hers to accept or reject.
Still, the thought won’t let go. Maybe I should say it. Maybe I should tell her this isn’t just a convenient arrangement. Not anymore.
But for now I’ll wait.
After settling in, we head to the kitchen. Gale strides in, her steps confident despite the exhaustion written on her face, and heads straight for the pantry. She swings the door open, her brows shooting up. “Oh, great,” she says, pulling out a lone box of saltines and a jar of peanut butter. “We’ve got the essentials.”
I try not to laugh. “What’s in the fridge?”
Her answer comes in the form of a dry, incredulous laugh as she opens the door. “Well, we won’t starve. We’ve got water and . . . ketchup.”
She turns to me, her lips twitching with a mix of disbelief and amusement. Her and that crooked little smile that makes me want to hand her everything I’ve got and then some. “Well, I’m sure I can pull a five-course meal with that, darling.”
She snorts, rolling her eyes. “You’re such a romantic.”
“You have no idea,” I shoot back. “You’ll be begging for my cock after the second course.”
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t back down. Instead, she leans against the counter, crossing her arms as she raises a brow. “Oh, is this your idea of seduction, Mr. Timberbridge? A ketchup picnic?”
I step closer, letting the jar hit the counter with a soft thud. “Gale,” I murmur, leaning down just enough so my words are meant only for her, “I could seduce you in a cardboard box with a can of tuna. It’s not the setting—it’s the execution.”
She rolls her eyes again, but her lips betray her, curling into a reluctant smile. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, you like me that way.” I grab the truck keys, the grin still lingering on my face. “Come on, let’s go make sure we don’t actually die of scurvy.”
Half an hour later, we step through the door of Birch & Brook General Store, the bell overhead jingling. Inside, the low murmur of conversation falters, and I can feel the shift in the room like a ripple in still water.
Heads turn, eyes flickering toward us, some subtle, others not so much. The hum of the store quiets, replaced by an energy that’s hard to miss—relief mixed with curiosity, as if everyone’s been waiting to see us again. Familiar faces glance our way, their expressions teetering between cautious smiles and questions they’re too polite to ask outright.
