37. WADE
WADE
Cinnamon Toast and Second Chances
T he scent of the vineyards hit me the moment we stepped onto the path to the cottage—fresh earth, blooming life, the kind of quiet I’d missed without even realizing it. Spring had finally shoved winter aside, and everything about the air screamed renewal. I hoped, maybe, being here would spark something in Cal, help him shake off the weight he’d been carrying.
Back at the airport, I’d been sure he’d bolt. His face was tight, confused—like he couldn’t make sense of what was happening. I’d seen that look before, in worse places. It was the first time I thought maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Plane rides rarely were. Too many trips lately had left me hauling baggage that wasn’t in my carry-on, but first class made this one bearable. Cal had a chance to breathe, to relax, and I wasn’t about to complain when the flight attendant handed him champagne. Let him have a moment of sparkle if it brought some life back into him.
The real test came when we landed, though. My family’s welcome wasn’t just warm—it was overwhelming. I’d worried it would freak him out, but he surprised me. He smiled, let them hug him, even joked with them in that soft, hesitant way that made it clear he wasn’t used to this kind of care. Watching him settle into their affection eased something in me. He needed this. I saw it in the way his shoulders loosened, the faint smile that didn’t feel forced. But I knew my family—if they turned the full Rossler charm on him, he’d be calling for a getaway car.
By the time we reached the cottage, I could see my mum’s touch in every detail: a ramp where stairs used to be, furniture arranged so Cal wouldn’t strain his leg. She’d thought of everything. Even the walls were different—photos of my exes gone, replaced by black-and-white shots of family through the years. Cal stopped in front of them, his gaze lingering.
“These are beautiful,” he said quietly, almost like he was afraid to disturb the moment. His fingers brushed one of the frames. “I wish I had something like this.”
His words landed like a punch to the gut, but I stayed quiet, just watching him as he moved through the room, taking it all in. It wasn’t until he sank into one of the armchairs, his legs stretched out, a tired sigh slipping past his lips, that I let out the breath I’d been holding. He tipped his head back, eyes on the ceiling, and let out a long, low groan like he’d been holding it together for too long.
I busied myself with the little things—grabbing a blanket, checking the fire—anything to give him a moment to just be . When he fell asleep mid-afternoon, I didn’t have it in me to wake him. Instead, I sat nearby, a book in hand, stealing glances at him as his face softened into something I hadn’t seen in weeks: peace.
By morning, the sound of birdsong drifted through the open window, blending with the faint crackle of the fireplace. The room was bathed in soft light, I hadn’t left him in the armchair all night. When his head had lolled to the side, his neck craned at an awkward angle, I’d scooped him up despite his half-hearted protests. “You’ll thank me when you don’t wake up with a crick in your neck,” I muttered, carrying him to the bed. He hadn’t put up much of a fight, already too far gone, mumbling something I couldn’t make out before settling into the pillows like they were made just for him.
Now, as he stirred and rubbed at his face, I leaned against the doorway, watching him wake.
“Morning, darling,” I said, keeping my voice low. His lips twitched, somewhere between a groan and a smile.
“What time is it?” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep.
“Seven.”
His eyes flew open, panic creeping in as he bolted upright. “Seven? We missed dinner with your family! Oh god, they’re going to hate me. I—how could I—”
“Stop,” I said sharply, crossing the room in a few strides. I placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “No one’s mad. You needed sleep, and they’re just happy you’re getting it. This isn’t something you need to fix.”
He groaned, scrubbing his hands over his face. “All I do is sleep lately. It’s like I can’t do anything else. I feel so…” He trailed off, shaking his head.
I crouched in front of him, catching his gaze. “You’re not a screw-up, and you’re not broken. You’re recovering. That’s it. End of discussion.” My voice softened, but the steel stayed behind it. I wasn’t about to let him spiral over something so small.
He didn’t argue, but the line between his brows didn’t ease. Then, suddenly, his head snapped up. “Wait,” he said, his tone more determined now. “I can make breakfast. Your mum’s done so much—this is the least I can do.”
I raised a brow. “Darling, it’s seven in the morning. You’ve barely got two good legs to stand on, let alone enough energy to feed this lot.”
“I can do it,” he insisted, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Just point me to the kitchen.”
With a resigned sigh, I helped steady him as he grabbed his crutches. “Fine, but if you pass out mid-omelet, I’m leaving you there for dramatic effect.”
He huffed, clearly unimpressed with my sarcasm, but I caught the flicker of amusement in his eyes as we made our way to the main house.
The moment we stepped inside, the smell of breakfast hit us—rich, sweet, and entirely overwhelming. Cal froze, his plan unravelling as his eyes swept over the table. French toast, maple bacon, eggs, fresh fruit, and Mum’s beloved granola balls—it was all there, as if she’d known exactly what he’d needed before he’d even thought of it.
Mum bustled in from the kitchen, beaming. “Oh, my sweet boy, you look so much better after some proper rest,” she cooed, pulling Cal into a quick hug that he didn’t resist. “And don’t you worry about dinner—you didn’t miss anything important. This,” she gestured to the table with pride, “is what matters.”
Cal’s cheeks turned pink as he glanced between her and the feast. “I was, uh, actually coming to make breakfast for you all,” he admitted sheepishly.
Mum waved him off with a laugh. “Nonsense! You’ve done more than enough. Now, sit down and let me take care of you.”
Cal wasn’t quite ready to let go of the idea of making breakfast. I could see it in the way his eyes darted toward the kitchen every so often, like he was working out the logistics of hauling himself over there and taking charge. But for once, he sat back, sinking into his chair with a soft sigh as the warmth of the kitchen seemed to work on him. The tension in his shoulders eased, and I watched as he took in the room—the fire crackling low in the hearth, the scent of cinnamon and maple syrup, the worn charm of the table set perfectly by Mum’s hand.
He didn’t just glance; he lingered. His gaze moved over every detail like he was cataloging them, holding onto something he didn’t want to forget. I wondered if he’d ever had mornings like this—a kitchen full of life and care, breakfast made without the rush to grab and go. Just as I was about to say something, he let out a quiet hum, a sound full of something soft I hadn’t expected.
“This is amazing, Mrs. Rossler,” he said, his voice slow and sincere. “You wouldn’t believe—I never really had home-cooked meals growing up. Not like this. My days used to be microwaved scrambled eggs or protein bars on the way to practice.”
His tone was light, like he wasn’t trying to make it a big deal, but it landed heavy anyway. I glanced at Mum, and her knowing look told me she’d already decided to make it her personal mission to feed him until he didn’t know what to do with himself.
“Oh, darling, there’s no need to thank me,” she said, beaming as she placed another plate of French toast on the table. “This is what I live for—cooking, taking care of my babies. And that includes you now,” she added with a pointed look that softened just enough to make her words stick.
Cal blinked, his cheeks turning faintly pink. For a moment, he looked completely caught off guard, like he didn’t quite know what to do with the idea of being included in something so easily. Then he gave a shy smile, the kind that made my chest tighten.
“Now,” Mum said, brushing her hands off on her apron, “I’ve got a bit of a favor to ask. One of our country club
regulars—oh, you know the type, high-maintenance and expecting the world on a platter—has booked the winery for her birthday party. Of course, she waited until the last minute to drop all her grand plans on us, and my event planner is off on some European holiday.” She shot me a pointed look like I was somehow responsible for that, then turned back to Cal with a grin. “I could really use your help pulling it together.”
Cal straightened slightly, his fork pausing mid-air. “The planning part sounds great,” he said, polite but careful. “I’d be happy to help however I can.”
Mum beamed like she’d just won the lottery. “Perfect! I’ll show you the details after breakfast. It’ll be a breeze for you—just menus, décor, all the little things she’s convinced will make her party ‘iconic.’” She added air quotes with an exaggerated eye roll that had me chuckling under my breath.
As she rattled off the details—the guest list, the floral arrangements, the ridiculous number of champagne options—the lines in Cal’s face smoothed out. He leaned in, asking questions, nodding along like the whole thing was an exciting puzzle he couldn’t wait to solve. I stayed quiet, watching him come alive in a way I hadn’t seen in weeks.
This was his thing, wasn’t it? He didn’t just organize; he made things better, sharper, more meaningful. His eyes had that spark I remembered from the first time we met, the one that had pulled me in before I even knew what was happening. He was completely in his element, and for once, I didn’t mind sitting back, letting him take the reins.
By the time breakfast wrapped up, Mum and Cal were practically buzzing with plans. She had him out the door with her before I could blink, their voices carrying back to me as they headed toward the venue. Cal moved a little slower with his crutches, but his expression was lighter, more open. He looked... better.
I stood on the porch, watching the two of them disappear into the distance. He might not have his full balance back yet, but for the first time in a while, it felt like he was finding his footing in other ways. And as much as I’d brought him here to help him recover, it hit me then that maybe this trip wasn’t just about fixing him.
Maybe this was exactly what I needed too.