“Dinner,” I said firmly.
And it was enough to carry me through the day.
By midmorning, I was at the edge of town, hard hat under my arm, blueprints tucked into a leather folio. The storm that had swept through Wisteria Creek a few months ago had left scars everywhere. Roofs peeled back like open tin cans, windows shattered, and porches sagging with water damage. Half my job was drawing plans for repairs. The other half was convincing anxious homeowners that time and patience would see them through.
I walked to a job site where a crew was tearing off shingles, the air thick with the smell of tar and dust. The hammering echoed through the humid air as I spread the blueprints across the hood of my truck and pointed out reinforcement beams to the foreman.
“This section will hold,” I said, tapping the paper. “But don’t cut corners. We’ll brace the joists before you set the new trusses. If we do it right, this roof won’t budge in the next storm.”
The man nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. I gave a few more instructions before moving on, but my mind wasn’t just on load-bearing walls and waterproofing. It kept drifting back to Madison in her sundress on my porch, to Olive’s innocent questions at dinner, to the way the guesthouse no longer felt like a separate building but part of my home.
By the time I wrapped up the meeting with the adjuster in the afternoon, my patience was fraying. Another delay, another stack of forms. Madison’s house would be at least a few more weeks, if not more, before she could even think about moving back in. I should have been frustrated for her, and I was, but another part of me wasn’t ready to let them go. Not yet.
When I pulled into the drive that evening, the sky was washed in orange and violet. Madison and Olive were walking back from town, Olive skipping in uneven circles while Madison carried their tote. Olive spotted me first, bolting across the yard.
“Uncle Seth!” she cried, waving a cookie like a trophy. “Evie said I’m the best helper ever!”
I caught her mid-run, careful not to crush the cookie. “I don’t doubt it.”
Madison reached us, her hair loosened from the day, her smile tired but genuine. “Long day?”
“Too long.” I looked at her, letting the weight of the words soften. “I’m glad it’s over now.”
She held my gaze for a beat, the corner of her mouth curving in that way that made my pulse trip. “Me too.”
Dinner was simple: grilled chicken, sweet corn, and the blueberry scones Evie had tucked into their tote. Olive chattered between bites, her words spilling like marbles across the table while Madison and I found each other’s hands beneath it, fingers brushing, resting, curling together. Little touches, secret and grounding, like anchors thrown in quiet water.
Later, when Olive started yawning mid-sentence and Madison tucked her under a blanket on the couch, we drifted to the porch. The cicadas droned, fireflies blinking in the dark. Madison leaned against the railing, and I stood beside her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
She looked at me, her voice low. “You said today was too long. But you don’t look tired.”
“Not anymore,” I said.
Her breath caught, and when I kissed her, slow and certain, she melted into it, her hand pressing against my chest.
For years, work had been everything. But tonight, standing there with her, I realized Wisteria Creek wasn’t just a town I wasfixing. It was a place where I could finally put down roots of my own.
Chapter 47
Madison
The week slipped by faster than I expected. Work at The Beanery blurred into long mornings behind the counter, Olive perched on a stool, coloring, while Evie teased me about smiling too much. Evenings were slower, softer. Dinners with Seth became routine, not special events, though every time his hand brushed mine under the table, it still felt like something new.
Sometimes he helped Olive with her drawings at the coffee table, his head bent low as if the crooked flowers she sketched were as important as blueprints. Other times, we sat on the porch after she had gone to bed, watching fireflies glow across the lawn. We didn’t always kiss, though we could have. Sometimes we just sat close, sharing the quiet the way other people share conversation.
By the time Saturday came around, it felt almost dangerous how natural it all seemed. Like we had been living this way for years instead of weeks.
I was folding laundry at the guesthouse when my phone buzzed on the counter. I answered without checking the number, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder as I smoothed one of Olive’s dresses.
“Ms. Cole?” The voice was brisk, professional. “This is Andrew Lewis from the insurance company. I wanted to give you an update on your claim.”
My pulse kicked up. “Yes, of course.”
“The repairs on your home are nearly complete. We had a few delays with materials, but the crew wrapped up most of the work yesterday. The roof is secure, interior patching has been finished, and the painting crew is scheduled for Monday. Realistically, you should be able to move back in by the end of next week.”
I froze with the dress half-folded in my hands. “That soon?”
“Yes,” he confirmed. “We’ll schedule a final walkthrough midweek, but unless something unexpected comes up, your home will be ready for occupancy.”
