Chapter 36
Chapter thirty-six
Abigail
Istand on the front steps of the main house with two grocery bags full of ingredients from my cupboards cutting into my fingers, the porch light casting a soft glow over the worn wood dusted with snow beneath my feet.
This is stupid.
I should just go home.
They can make their own damn dinner, Abigail.
I could turn around right now. Walk back to the guesthouse. Heat up something easy and pretend I don’t hate the quiet when I’m alone with my thoughts.
Shifting the bags in my arms, I exhale slowly. “Good Christ. You’re being ridiculous,” I murmur to myself.
My knuckles lift toward the door, but before I can knock—or chicken out again—the door swings open.
Jasper stands there, filling the doorway.
Baseball cap pushed back, black hair curling at the edges, bright green eyes already smiling like he caught me doing something adorable.
“Well?” he says, grin spreading wider. “You gonna knock, or were you just plannin’ on standin’ out here all night in the cold? ”
I blink. “I—umm—”
Smooth, Abigail. Very smooth.
“I just… didn’t want to sit in the guesthouse alone tonight,” I finally work up the courage to say, the words tumbling out softer than I meant them to.
“And I was thinking that, after everything, you guys have been so good to me. I thought maybe instead of you cooking for yourselves, I could make Sunday dinner?”
I hold up the bags like a buffoon, and for half a second, something unreadable flickers across his face. Then his smile softens into something warm. “Yeah,” he says easily, stepping back. “Come on in.”
As I pass him, he leans down and presses a quick kiss to my lips. It’s brief, but confident. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And I freeze.
Just for a beat.
Then a small laugh bubbles up as I look up at him, and he winks like he knows exactly what he’s done.
The living room opens up in front of me, fire crackling low in the hearth. Beau is sprawled on the couch, feet kicked up, and hands behind his head.
“Hey, Darlin’,” he says easily, dimples flashing like he didn’t just witness one of his best friends kissing me. “How you feelin’?”
“I’m better,” I answer honestly. I’m not going to pretend this morning didn’t jar me.
But after a slow day inside my house spent taking a hot shower, snacking, and watching movies, the heartbreak of not finding my sister in that alleyway feels slightly less jarring.
“I just wanted some company for the night if you guys don’t mind. ”
“Not one bit,” he replies before footsteps sound behind me.
Lawson comes down the stairs, makes his way directly to me, and presses a gentle kiss to my cheek. “Hey,” he murmurs.
“Hi,” I say breathlessly. For a second, I want to do a double-take of the room to make sure I’m not in some sort of twilight zone, but the confidence pouring from one of his rare but genuine smiles tells me I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Lincoln follows his brother a moment later but stops short. His smile is slower but genuine nevertheless. “You cookin’ us dinner, Sweetheart?”
“If that’s alright with all of you?”
“Well,” Lincoln says. “This just became my favorite night of the week.”
I explain myself again—about town, about yesterday, about not wanting to sit alone with everything spinning in my head. And no one interrupts. No one questions it. They give me space to say whatever it is I want to say.
Lucy barrels through the room like she’s been waiting for me specifically, tail wagging hard enough I’m surprised she doesn’t take flight. She circles my legs before plopping down right next to my foot.
“Well, guess my day of being her favorite is over,” Beau grumbles.
Laughing, I make my way to the kitchen and start cooking, all while the prettiest girl in the world sticks to me like glue.
Lawson chops vegetables beside me while Jasper leans against the counter, stealing bites when he thinks I’m not looking.
Their arms occasionally brush mine and wandering hands land briefly at my waist to pass behind me.
Neither of them shies away from showing me physical affection around the other.
It’s different from anything I’ve ever experienced, but it’s easy. Comfortable.
Glancing over my shoulder, I catch Beau and Lincoln talking quietly from their spots in the living room, glasses of whiskey in hand.
But Lincoln isn’t really listening.
His eyes are on me.
His stare isn’t annoyed or angry. It’s as if he were studying me.
There’s a small smile on his lips, but before I have a second to drink it in, it fades just as quickly as it appeared. Then he straightens suddenly.
“I’ve, um… I’ve got a contract I forgot to finish,” he says, already moving toward the hall, leaving Beau looking around as if he’s missed something.
The door to his office closes softly behind him, and a flicker of unease twists in my stomach. Then, Lawson leans in, voice low. “Give him time,” he murmurs against my ear. Clearly knowing what’s going on in his brother’s head and the thoughts that are starting to spiral in mine.
Dinner’s loud and warm and full of teasing. I make pasta from scratch, and Beau insists it’s a life-changing dish while Jas swears he could eat this every night and die happy. Lawson sits back the entire time and smiles as he watches his two best friends light up from the inside out.
Lincoln never joins us.
When we’re done, while the boys clean up, I fix a plate for him. My hesitation shows in the way I rap my knuckles against the office door. “Yeah?”
I open the door and smile at Lincoln as he sits behind the desk. He smiles back at me for a moment before—almost as if he catches himself doing it—it disappears again.
“I brought you some dinner,” I say, holding out the plate.
“Thanks,” he replies, clearing off a spot on his desk. There’s a distance in his tone now. It feels controlled. Professional.
I set the plate down, and the silence stretches. It’s not long before I can’t take it anymore. “You okay?” I ask quietly.
He exhales heavily. “I’m fine, Abigail. Just busy.”
The words aren’t unkind. But they’re firm. He’s building a wall.
“Oh,” I say, nodding. “Okay. Good night, Lincoln.”
“Night.”
I pace the length of the guesthouse for what has to be the hundredth time, bare feet scuffing against the worn wood floor, hair haphazardly thrown into a bun, and wearing nothing but the T-shirt Lawson dug out of the hall closet for me a couple of days ago.
I keep walking. One end to the other and back again.
Like if I keep moving, I’ll shake whatever the hell this feeling is loose from my ribs.
I shouldn’t have left so fast.
I rushed out after I left Lincoln’s office, barely letting the other guys protest, muttering something about being tired. Which wasn’t a lie. Just… not the whole truth.
The truth is, Lincoln threw me so far off balance that I still don’t know which way is up.
Dragging my hand through my hair, I stop near the small kitchen counter, leaning forward and bracing my palms against the granite. “Jesus, Abby,” I mutter to myself. “Get it together.”
Because who am I to be upset?
The thought comes next, sharp and guilty all at once.
Who am I to be annoyed—no, pissed—that Lincoln suddenly went cold when just hours ago he was warm and teasing, looking at me like he saw something worth wanting?
After everything that’s happened with Lawson.
With Jasper. With Beau hovering somewhere in that dangerous, tempting middle ground.
Three men already. Three complicated, intense, undeniable connections.
And yet…
Lincoln is different.
He always has been.
It’s the way he watches instead of acting.
The way his words are careful, measured—like he’s constantly weighing the cost of letting himself feel anything at all.
And just when I think I understand him, just when I think I’ve found the rhythm between us, he pulls back and builds another damn wall with distance in his eyes.
Back and forth.
Hot and cold.
Yes and no, and maybe, and never mind.
I push away from the counter and start pacing again, frustration buzzing under my skin. “You don’t get to do that,” I say aloud, pointing to absolutely no one. “You don’t get to make me feel welcome one minute and like an inconvenience the next.”
I understand he’s got scars. God, I do. I understand that his ex-wife wrecked something inside of him. I understand fear. Hesitation. How decisions of others can alter the course of your life.
But that doesn’t give him the right to treat me like an inconvenience. Not after he was one of the people who assured me I had a place here.
My steps slow, my anger tangling with something softer.
Because the worst part, the part I don’t want to admit even to myself, is that it hurts.
Not because he rejected me outright, but because I felt something there.
A pull. A quiet connection that felt steady and deep in a way that clearly scares us both.
But I’m tired of the whiplash.
Stopping near the front door, I rub my arms like I’m cold even though the room is warm. “I’m allowed to be upset,” I murmur to myself. “I’m allowed to want consistency.”
A sudden, sharp banging at my front door nearly makes me jump out of my skin. “What the—” I gasp, heart slamming into my ribs.
Another knock follows, but this one is harder. More insistent.
I freeze, then move toward the small front window. Of course.
Lincoln.
He’s standing on the porch, jaw tight, shoulders rigid, chest heaving, looking like a man who’s been pacing just as much as I have—only with far worse results.
I scoff under my breath. “Oh, now you wanna talk.”
Straightening my spine, my irritation flares back to life. Fine. If he thinks he can march over here after acting like that and just—what? Smooth it over with a warm smile and a Sweetheart? Pretend as if nothing happened?
Absolutely not.
I yank the door open. “What do you want, Lincoln?” I snap, words ready, sharp and loaded. Ready to—
His hands are on my face.
Warm. Calloused. Desperate.
He grips my jaw, gentle but firm. And before I can even inhale properly, he’s pushing me backward over the threshold. The door slams shut behind us with a solid thud as his foot kicks it closed.
“Jesus—” I start.
“Abigail,” he breathes, voice rough and unsteady in a way I’ve never heard before. His forehead presses to mine, his grip tightening just enough to ground us both. “Just—just shut up for a second.”
Shut up? Shut. Up?!
My pulse is roaring now, every nerve ending coming to life.
“I tried,” he continues before I get the chance to ream him out.
“I tried to be the reasonable one. The careful one. I walked away because I thought it was the right thing to do, because I don’t get to want you the way I do without screwing everything up.
I saw how happy you were tonight with them.
I saw it, and I wanted it so fucking badly that it physically hurt to look at you.
Because when I looked at you, I remembered how easily that want, that happiness, can just disappear. ”
My mouth opens, but he shakes his head, thumbs brushing my cheeks.
“But seeing you walk out of my office with that look on your face…” His words trail off before he utters a single word that rocks me to my core. “Please. Just… just let me kiss you.”
The anger, the confusion, the guilt—it all fractures to a million pieces at our feet. “Lincoln—”
He doesn’t wait.
He kisses me like a man who’s starving, the last bit of his restraint snapping clean in half.
The smell of cedarwood wraps around me as his mouth crashes into mine.
The scent is clean and warm, solid and steady.
And when his lips crash into mine with an all-consuming fierceness I could have never expected from him, I make a soft, startled sound before melting into him, fingers fisting the front of his flannel.
He spins us around, backs me up until he’s pressing me against the wall, kissing me like he wants to consume me body and soul.
And for the first time since I’ve met Lincoln, I don’t overthink. I don’t pull away. I just give him everything.
And I kiss him back.