Page 81 of Stuck with the Hero Next Door

When we broke apart, we were both breathing hard.

“You know what’s funny?” she said, her fingers playing with the collar of my clean shirt.

“What?”

“We’ve been dancing around this for months. All those careful conversations, all that polite distance, all those moments when we almost kissed and then didn’t. And then did.” She shook her head, laughing. “We could have been doing this the whole time.”

“I know. Took you long enough?” I laughed and poked at her side.

“Yeah, but I’m ready now.”

“Good,” I said, kissing her forehead. “Because I’ve been ready since day one.”

“Day one? Really?”

“The moment you stepped out of that tow truck, looking ready to fight the whole world but trying to be polite about it.” I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I looked at you and thought, ’There she is. There’s the woman who’s going to change everything.’”

“I was a mess that day.”

“You were perfect that day. Fierce and stubborn and trying so hard to be independent. I knew right then that if you ever decided to stay, it would be the best thing that ever happened to me.”

She was quiet for a moment, and when she looked at me, there were tears in her eyes.

“What?” I asked, suddenly concerned.

“I can’t believe it took me this long to figure it out.”

“Now, before we solve world hunger, can we eat?” My stomach was ready to eat its way to dinner.

The slow cooker in her kitchen smelled good, and the guest house glowed with soft evening light. Outside, I could hear the quiet sounds of Everwood settling down for the night. Car doors closing, voices calling goodnight, teenagers laughing as they walked home from whatever they’d been up to.

It was peaceful and ordinary and absolutely perfect.

“I should probably call the station,” I said eventually, though I made no move to reach for my phone. “Let them know I made it home safe.”

“Home?” she asked, a smile in her voice.

“Yep.” I knew exactly what I was saying. Home wasn’t my house anymore, or even Everwood specifically. Home was wherever she was.

She sighed with contentment. “I like the sound of that.”

“Me too.”

Eventually, we managed to separate long enough for her to plate dinner and open a bottle of wine she’d been saving for a special occasion. I gathered all my smoky things and placed them outside to air out a bit before putting them in the washer. When I emerged from her laundry room a few moments later, I found her setting the table by the window, and my heart skipped a beat. It was such a commonplace task, but it felt warm.

“Better?” I asked, running a hand through my still-damp hair.

“Much,” she said, though the way she was looking at me suggested she hadn’t actually minded the smoky, rumpled version either. “Although I have to admit, there was something appealing about the whole ‘heroic firefighter’ look. Kind of a yummy look.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for future reference.”

The food was simple but perfect: roast with potatoes and vegetables from the farmer’s market, bread from Dot’s bakery, and wine.

But the best part was the conversation. The easy way we talked. She told me about the phone call with her father and the moment she knew for sure that declining the Miller’s Pass job was the right choice. I told her about the barn fire, and why farmers shouldn’t run their own electrical. About the way the whole volunteer crew worked together with neighbors from down the road, and the Doc’s dog herding the cows away from the fire.

“That’s what I love about this place,” she said, refilling our wine glasses.

“What the Doc’s dog herding cattle?”