Page 23 of His for the Holiday

11

HAWK

Not having anything to do was a luxury I’d not had for a very long time. Since Dad was refusing to let me help him, however, I found myself at home, alone in the kitchen, and with absolutely zero plans for the day.

Emery was busy and the boys were at school. Everyone had rushed out this morning and it’d been darn weird not rushing right along with them.

Instead of hurrying to join the ranks of the productive, I sat at the breakfast nook, staring out the kitchen window and noticing for the first time that the leaves had already changed outside.

Vibrant reds and oranges dominated the trees. The last of the green was quickly disappearing. I was sure it had looked like this since I’d gotten here, but my mind had been so preoccupied with other things that I simply hadn’t consciously taken note of it.

Now that I had though, I realized with a start that Thanksgiving was coming up fast, but I’d barely heard a mention of it from anyone so far. Emery had always been obsessed with the holidays.

Thanksgiving and Christmas were her jam. She’d never cared much for any of the others, but during November and December, our house had always been a hive of activity with all of her preparations, decorations, and orders being yelled when she couldn’t reach high enough to attach hanging ornaments to the ceiling. This year, it was a hive of activity alright, but there were no preparations in sight.

I suddenly wondered when that had changed. Or even if it had changed at all. I supposed it was possible she still loved the holidays but simply hadn’t had the time or the energy to do anything about it.

As I pondered the question—and possible solutions—I grabbed my wallet and jacket and left the house for a coffee run. I slid my hands deep into my pockets after zipping up, tucking my chin into the collar.

Outside, the air was crisp this morning, a lot chillier than it had been so far. The bite of winter was definitely in the air as an icy breeze rustled through the dry fall leaves.

As I strode past the Ashbury house, I glanced over at it, but there were no signs of life around. Winnie would be at school too, and Sutton and her parents were probably all working at the bookstore.

Since she’d mentioned college the other day and said she’d gone to Scotland after graduating, I knew that she had to have earned a degree, but I had no clue what she’d studied. Either way, I wondered why she was working at the bookstore.

Is it because she wants to, or because she has to?

It killed me to think she might not have had any other opportunities. Since I also knew she’d stayed home to care for Winnie instead of getting work experience in whatever field she was qualified in, it was a reasonably safe bet that the bookstore hadn’t necessarily been a choice.

My heart gave a painful throb at the realization and I frowned. My footsteps even faltered a bit, and I wondered when I started caring so much about someone else that it affected me physically. For so long now, I’d thought my heart had turned to stone.

It had been years since I’d really felt anything. Obviously, since I’d been back in Portsmouth, I’d been wrestling with a lot of emotions, more than I’d had ever, but this was different. This was an actual, physical ache I couldn’t really explain.

Shaking my head, I picked up my pace and left their house behind me, intent on forgetting it’d even happened. It probably hadn’t even had anything to do with Sutton. I’d been under a lot of stress at work before I’d come here, and then that stress had turned personal once I’d arrived.

Stress about my dad. My sister. My nephews. The very house they lived in.

Plus, I’d been feeling so guilty so often that it had to have an effect on my body. The ache might just have been a delayed reaction to that.

Ducking into a little cafe at the edge of downtown, I inhaled the earthy, bitter aroma of freshly brewed coffee and finally withdrew my hands from my pockets, relishing the warmth of the cozy interior.

Decorated to be a harmonious blend of rustic charm and modern comfort, the walls were painted a deep burgundy, adorned with local art and vintage coffee-related posters. Wooden shelves lined with books and quirky knick-knacks took up one side wall, while a large statement fireplace took up the other. A crackling fire in it added to the warmth and the ambiance in here.

The mantel was decorated with seasonal accents, and for the first time, I actually got the feeling that Thanksgiving was right around the corner.

The seating arrangement featured a mix of plush armchairs, overstuffed sofas, and well-worn wooden tables with mismatched chairs. It was pretty nice, reminiscent of my favorite coffee shop near my house in LA, and it was surprising to stumble upon a place like it here.

Pendant lights hung overhead and the ceiling beams were exposed. The remote-work crowd seemed to have turned it into one of their haunts, since almost every seat was taken by someone typing away on their laptop. It gave me pause as I looked around, marveling that this kind of thing was going on in my hometown now.

I guess maybe Portsmouth hasn’t gotten left behind after all.

It was something I’d noticed more and more since I’d been here, but I was only consciously taking note of it now. Like with the leaves.

I shook my head at myself as I approached the counter. Then I grinned when I saw a familiar face there, waiting in line. “Luke?”

My high school friend and teammate spun at the sound of my voice, his black eyebrows shooting up. Then he laughed and extended a hand toward me. “Hawk Brunson. I heard you were in town. How are you, man?”

“I’m good.” I shook with him, genuinely happy to see the guy. “How are you? God, it’s been years. We got old.”