Page 62 of Suddenly Yours

“I’ll make a salad,” she said, brightening instantly, like she’d been waiting for an excuse to claim a task.

Before she could escape into the kitchen, I caught her wrist and tugged her back gently, pulling her into my arms. I kissed her slow and unhurried, the kind of kiss that didn’t need to go anywhere because it already was everything.

“Today was amazing,” she whispered against my mouth. “Just what I needed.”

“You also have tomorrow off,” I reminded her, smiling when she groaned softly.

“Yes,” she said, pointing at me as we headed toward the kitchen, “and I plan on helping you paint. Don’t think I forgot.”

I laughed and grabbed the garlic bread from the freezer. “I wouldn’t dare.”

The kitchen was still half-finished, with open shelving instead of cabinets on one wall. The new countertops looked amazing, even though the rest of the space wasn’t finished yet.

Missy moved through it like she’d always been there, washing her hands in the new farmhouse sink that I’d installed. For a moment I watched her pulling greens from the fridge and hunting down a bowl without asking where anything was.

That hit me more than I expected. No matter what she thought of this place, she felt at home here, and that tugged at my heart strings.

I turned on the oven and set the spaghetti on the stove to warm. Within minutes, the familiar scent of tomato and garlic filled the space. Outside, the late afternoon light faded, replaced by the soft amber glow from the overhead fixture I’d installed last month. Every little improvement I’d made suddenly felt like it had a purpose beyond just me.

We worked side by side without bumping into each other, without awkwardness. She chopped cucumbers and tomatoes as she chatted about some story her brother had told her earlier that day. I leaned against the counter, watching her for a second longer than necessary, thinking about how easily she fit here. How natural it felt.

When she was done with the story, I smiled.

“So,” I said casually, maybe too casually, “I was thinking that if you move in for real, you’ll probably need more space than just room for a toothbrush and a razor. I can turn one of the rooms upstairs into an office for you.”

She froze for half a second, knife hovering over the cutting board. Then she glanced at me, eyes soft, searching.

“Are you sure?” she asked quietly.

I didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I’d been thinking three guest rooms was more than I needed anyway.”

For a moment she tilted her head and I knew that she was thinking about it, then she smiled slowly. “Okay,” she said simply, like it wasn’t terrifying and wonderful all at once. “I was really liking having a full office space. Not that I’d set it up fully yet, but the thought of having one was nice. I need a space to do all my business.”

“You mean it?” I asked, and the words felt heavy, like I was trying to hold a mountain in place with just my lungs. “You’ll really move in here?”

I watched her closely. Her chin rose, that stubborn little tilt I’d known since we were kids, and then she laughed, the sound bright enough to cut through the nerves knotting my stomach.

“Yes, I’ll move in here,” she said, her eyes softening. “If you’re sure you want to put up with me. I remember a lot of complaints one summer on a trip to Greece when we had to share a stateroom.”

I let out the breath I’d been holding in a burst as a laugh rumbled out of my chest, and the memory of that trip hit me. The heat, the salt, and twelve-year-old Missy, whose suitcase was like an exploded grenade. “You’ve changed. You’re not nearly as messy as you were back then.”

“We’ve both changed,” she countered, a mischievous glint in her eyes as I stepped into her space and pulled her against me. “You no longer have stinky boy cooties like you did in junior high, for one.”

I laughed, the sound muffled against her lips as I kissed her.

Dinner was a blur of quiet perfection. We sat at the small table by the window and talked about the trim, the tile, the paint colors that I’d been obsessing over for the place. “I was leaning toward a slate blue for my bedroom,” I said, then caught myself. “Our bedroom.”

“Oh, that will look nice. Dark, rich, warm,” she agreed. We mentally moved from one room to the next, talking colors and details.

After dinner we did the dishes together. I tried to wave her off, since she spent most days on her feet in a professional kitchen, for God’s sake, but she just nudged me aside with her hip. “This is teamwork, Cade,” she said firmly, rolling up her sleeves. “Besides, in culinary school, you learn to find the Zen in the suds.”

I leaned against the counter and just watched her for a moment. Her hair kept slipping its anchor, soft curls falling against her cheeks as she worked. This was it. The dangerous thought I usually tried to keep locked in a box in the back of my mind came roaring to the front.

Her. Here. Every morning. Every night.

The mental image of her coffee mug next to mine, of her chef’s knives on the magnetic strip, of kids’ muddy boots by the door ten years from now, it hit me like a physical wave of heat. The kitchen suddenly felt ten degrees hotter, and my heart was hammering a rhythm that felt like “finally, finally, finally.”

When the last plate was dried and tucked away, she leaned back against the sink, drying her hands and studying me with a small, knowing smile.