"Sell the shop," he repeated carefully.
"Mmm." She seemed oblivious to his sudden tension. "It's her standard approach. Find a shiny new opportunity, convince someone else to fund it, move on when she gets bored. I've watched her do it a dozen times."
"And you said…?"
"No, obviously." She tilted her head back to look up at him, her green eyes warm and slightly puzzled. "You didn't think I'd actually consider it?"
The relief that flooded through him was embarrassing in its intensity. He covered it with a smirk, resuming his gentle stroking of her hair. "I've learned not to make assumptions about anyone's choices."
"Well, you can make assumptions about this one." She reached up and touched his jaw, her fingers soft against the stubble there. "I'm not going anywhere. This is my home. The shop, the town, the—" A faint blush colored her cheeks. "The people I care about."
*The people I care about.*
He wanted to press. He wanted to ask if he was one of those people and hear her say it explicitly. But he'd promised himself he wouldn't push. She'd come to him last night. She'd stood up to that harpy Rachel on his behalf this morning. She was here now, warm and soft against him, looking at him like he was something precious.
That was enough.
For now.
"So Daisy left?" he asked instead.
"No, she's staying until the festival. Hopefully she won't cause any major chaos before then." Her voice was affectionate despite the eye-roll implied in her tone. "And after that she's going to visit a 'lovely man' in Chicago. I give it three months before she's married again."
"That seems pessimistic."
"It's realistic. My mother collects husbands like other people collect stamps." She sat up, stretching her arms above her head in a movement that made her shirt ride up just enough to reveal a sliver of bare skin. His attention snagged on it like a fish on a hook. "But that's not my problem anymore. I told her I wasn't going to keep cleaning up her messes, and she actually… accepted it. Sort of."
"Sort of?"
"She said she'd try to do better. Which for Daisy is practically a blood oath." She turned to face him, tucking her legs beneath her. The afternoon light caught the red highlights in her dark hair and turned them to copper. "I think something actually got through to her. Maybe seeing me with you—seeing that I havemy own life now—made her realize I'm not just an extension of her anymore."
There was something in her voice when she said *with you.* Something soft and wondering and entirely too vulnerable. It made him want to pull her close and never let go. It also made every protective instinct in his body flare to life, because that kind of openness could be used against her.
He'd learned that lesson the hard way.
"I'm glad," he said, meaning it. "You deserve to be seen as your own person."
"I'm starting to believe that." She reached for the wine bottle and poured herself another glass—her third, though she was pacing herself. "It's strange. All these years I thought I was the mature one, the responsible one. Turns out I was just enabling her. Letting her avoid consequences because it was easier than dealing with the fallout."
"That's not an easy pattern to break."
"No." She took a sip of wine, her eyes distant. "But I think I finally have. For the first time in my life, I feel like I'm living for myself instead of in reaction to her."
The words settled into his chest, warm and bright. This was what he'd wanted for her—not just her body in his bed (though that was certainly a significant benefit) but this. Her standing on her own feet. Claiming her own space.
*Beautiful. Stubborn. Mine.*
The last thought surprised him with its ferocity. He'd spent so long telling himself not to get attached, not to invest too heavily, not to set himself up for the kind of disappointmenthe'd experienced before. But watching her bloom—pun intended—over these past weeks had worn down his defenses until they were nothing but rubble.
He loved her. Completely. Terrifyingly.
And he had no idea if she felt the same.
*One step at a time,* he reminded himself. *Don't push. Don't demand. Let her come to you.*
"So," he said, forcing lightness into his voice, "now that you've conquered your mother, what's next on the agenda?"
Her smile turned sly. "Well, there's still the matter of the festival. And a certain opening dance I'm woefully unprepared for."
