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“Okay,” he says. He turns to leave, his hand reaching for the door.
“Wait!” I yell, and he turns around, his grin huge.
“I would love to go on that date,” I say. He fans out his elbow, and I take it. He covers my hand with his. “Papa, I’m leaving for the party!”
“Okay, girlie, have fun with Jackson!”
He sounds closer than the other room. I see him hiding in the faint shadow of the hallway, fifteen feet from where Jackson and I reconciled. We’ll have to have a talk later about eavesdropping.
“He was listening the whole time, wasn’t he?” Jackson asks.
“Yes, he was. I think he deserved it, though. He’s heard enough about you the last few months.”
“Does he want to fight me?”
“No,” I say. “But he might need to have a few words.”
“I get that,” Jackson says, pulling me closer. “I have one more surprise for you. Well, it counts as two.”
My stomach drops, and I get giddy at the same time.
“I love surprises.”
“Well, I really hope you like this one. Since they’re both kind of permanent and cost me a lot of money. Consider them both peace offerings.”
* * *
The light has settled into a golden glow as we drive some narrow roads through the wheat-colored hills to the outskirts of town, into the rural areas of Goldheart backing up into Nevada County. I’m so excited, I bounce in my chair, anxious to see the surprise.
I have no idea what it is.
Jackson holding my hand over the console is enough.
When we got into the car, I hoped I would be cool enough to pull my hand away, be an ice queen. Play a little hard to get for the months we did not talk.
That’s not how I function though.
I never fell out of love with this man. I am his, in every way possible. I really hoped with the passing time that the ache in my heart would dull to a manageable twinge, but it never did. Every day going into Woody Finch was torture, my hope to see him high. He always looked at me like he was begging for my patience.
Now, he’s here. He told me he loved me. He’s holding my hand and looking over at me, like I’m a dream that is not real.
“Here we are,” he says as we pull onto a gravel driveway, a property surrounded with tall trees and bushes. When we drive closer, I see a sign, and I blink several times.
It can’t be.
“Rory’s Rescue” is etched into the sign, nailed to two round posts in front of a log cabin-inspired, single-story home.
“What is this?” I ask, tears already filling my eyes.
“I bought this.” His grin is big as he turns off the engine and sprints around to my side to open the door. He points to the house and beyond. “It’s four acres, so there’s plenty of room for the dogs to run…”
“What?” I ask.
“Your rescue. You told me you wanted to save as many senior dogs as possible, so I got this place. I talked to my family and Dan, and we agreed that all the proceeds made from Rory’s Root Beer will go toward the rescue.”
I don’t know how I sink to the ground because the skirt is so tight, but my butt hits the ground, and my hands cover my mouth. Too many dreams are coming true. He picks me up so we can walk to the porch, one that wraps all around the house, with a swing, a perfect place to sit in the evenings, talking about everything and nothing.
“I can’t wait for you to see this,” he says, as he sticks the key in the door. When he opens it, the living room is bare, but the focal piece, the brick-laden fireplace, stands like it was waiting for me. It’s roomy, but not too big.
