She grins at me, cheeks flushed. “Whatever helps you cope.”
Despite our embarrassing loss, I can’t stop smiling as I pull her into my side, my ribs aching from laughter. We grab one more drink and eventually call it a night.
“So,” I say as Harper and I are walking to my car. “I was thinking maybe I could cook for you tonight.”
“Oh, so that’s the plan?” Her eyes sparkle with that caramel warmth that melts me every time. “Well, lucky for you, I never say no to a home-cooked meal.”
Harper
Baptiste’s charming townhouse is exactly what I thought it would be—cozy, lived-in, and understated in a way that doesn’t feel staged. Exposed brick makes up one wall, made more charming by framed photos and shelves packed with books. The whole place smells faintly of pine, citrus, and something unmistakably him.
“What did you think of my other friends?” he asks, dropping his keys into a ceramic bowl by the door.
I smile and lean back against the counter. “They’re nice. I liked them.”
I’m not going to lie. When Auston and Emma mentioned the new house, my jaw ticked. Nothing screamsI’m a celebritymore than a summer house in the Hamptons. But they sounded so excited for everyone to enjoy it, and they both seem very down to earth.
“Good.” Baptiste smiles, relief softening his features. “I’m excited to check out that vacation house. And the beach.”
Dang. I don’t even remember the last time I felt sand under my feet. “Me too.”
Baptiste turns some music on, the lazy rhythm carrying over the speaker, and starts grabbing pans and ingredients from the cabinets like he’s on a mission.
“Anything I can do?” I ask, leaning my elbows on the bar that separates the kitchen from the living area.
“Nope. Get comfortable,” he says easily. “I’ll whip up something in no time.”
I tilt my head. “Full of surprises, huh? I would have never guessed you knew your way around a kitchen.”
He flips the wooden spoon in his hand, catching it with a grin. “Oh, you haven’t seen nothin’ yet.”
I laugh and wander into the living room, my eyes roving the space. The couch looks plush and inviting, a throw casually folded on one arm. A coffee mug rests on the low table beside a neatly stacked pile of books, and a small tray holds three remotes placed in a neat line.
A person’s interior design says a lot about them.
Like the absence of clutter, but not of comfort, which tells me he values order without being uptight about it.
And the fact that the framed photos are placed at eye level instead of tucked away, which hints that people matter to him.
“Is this your foster family?” I ask, peering at a picture of a young Baptiste celebrating his birthday between two adults with glowing smiles.
Baptiste glances over his shoulder from where he’s manning the stove. “Yeah. My seventh birthday. Oh, did I mention I called her, by the way?” he adds, grabbing something from a drawer. “It felt good to catch up after so long. Told them all about you too.”
I freeze, but the butterflies that just fluttered awake don’t seem bothered by the tightness of my chest. He told them about me? What does that even mean?
A flicker of gold catches the corner of my eye, stealing my attention. It’s on the shelf beside the wall-mounted TV. I shuffle over to get a closer look, every other thought fading from my mind. It’s a medal—an old military award, I think. The ribbon is faded with age, a small bronze arrowhead pinned neatly onit. The words EUROPEAN–AFRICAN–MIDDLE EASTERN CAMPAIGN curve around the edge of the medal.
“What’s this?” I ask Baptiste.
“Oh.” He wipes his hands on a dish towel, his movements slowing, like he hasn’t thought about it in a while. “It’s a war medal. I’m pretty sure it belonged to my grandfather, but I can’t be certain. My foster mom said it was found in the blanket I was brought to the hospital in.”
I swallow hard, my eyes still fixated on the medal as Helen’s words echo in my mind. She said her dad had taken part in the D-Day landings. “Do you know why he got it? It doesn’t say much.”
“No clue.”
“Helen told me her dad was a soldier,” I blurt out, unable to keep the words from breaking loose. “Her story kind of checks out.”
A pan clatters against the counter. “Not again, Harper, please,” he says, turning to me with a tight jaw.
