Chapter 19
Graeme
I knew before I opened my eyes what day it was.
The house felt different. Not louder, not quieter—just… thinner somehow. Like the walls were breathing a little shallower. Like the warmth had pulled in close, bracing.
Rudy had already run his last few errands—checking out of the inn, dropping off his key, stopping by Holly & Pine with me for a couple of hours so we could tidy up the front room and put the “See you in the New Year” sign in the window.
We didn’t linger.
By late morning, we were back at my house with the door locked, snow drifting lazily outside, and the entire world narrowed down to four walls, one couch, and the man who’d turned my life on its axis in under two weeks.
“We’re really not going anywhere?” he asked, barefoot in my kitchen, fingers curled around a mug.
“Not if I can help it,” I said. “World can survive without us for a day.”
He smiled, small and crooked. “Selfish.”
“Completely.”
He pretended to think about it, then shrugged. “Okay. One last selfish day.”
The words landed heavier than he meant them to. Last day. My chest tightened, but I kept my smile easy.
“Breakfast?” I asked. “Or lunch? We kind of missed the first one.”
He looked at the clock, then at the snow falling outside the window. “Brunch,” he decided. “Decadent, cozy, no rules.”
So we made brunch.
The kitchen filled with the sound of clinking bowls and the soft sizzle of butter. He whisked eggs in a too-big bowl, tongue poking out at the corner of his mouth in concentration. I sliced bread and dipped it into the mixture for French toast, the smell of cinnamon and vanilla warming the air.
“Do people do New Year’s resolutions here?” he asked, pouring orange juice into two mismatched glasses.
“Some do,” I said. “I prefer New Year’s intentions. Less pressure, more direction.”
“Like what?” He hopped up onto the counter, curls mussed, sleeves pushed up.
I flipped a slice of bread in the pan. “Oh, you know. Keep the pipes from freezing. Don’t let Tom burn down the town with fireworks. Learn to use the new card reader without swearing at it.”
He snorted. “Lofty goals, Whitlock.”
“You?”
He went quiet for a moment, looking out the kitchen window at the yard, at the faint mounds of old snowmen and the ghosts of our snow angels under the fresh powder.
“Maybe be more honest with myself,” he said slowly. “And… don't apologize so much for existing.”
The urge to put the pan down and go hold him was strong. I gripped the spatula instead. “You’ve made a good start,” I said.
He hopped off the counter to set the table, bare feet silent on the wood floor. He moved through my kitchen like he’d been doing it for years, not mere days. Every time he opened a cupboard and reached for the right shelf without asking, something in me ached in a way I didn’t have words for.
We ate at the small table by the window, plates warm, fingers sticky with syrup. Snow fell in slow, thick flakes outside, turning the world into a soft blur of white and gray.
“This is the best French toast I’ve had that didn’t come from a brunch place with a one-hour wait,” he said around a mouthful. “And there’s no one here to judge how many pieces I eat.”
“I would never judge you for French toast consumption.”
“Good,” he said. “Because I’m having another one.”
I watched him reach for the platter, watched the way he closed his eyes on the first bite, savoring it like it was something rare.
It hit me then, sudden and sharp: this is the last time I’ll watch him do this here. In my kitchen. At this table. With snow falling like this outside that window.
I looked away before the thought could dig its claws in too deep.
After brunch, we migrated to the living room. The fire was already going, low and steady. The couch had become ours over the past week—movie nights, cocoa, little moments layered on top of each other until the cushions felt shaped to us.
Rudy dropped onto it with an exaggerated sigh. “I should be doing something productive,” he said. “Packing the car. Planning my route. Being a responsible adult.”
“You checked out of the inn,” I said. “Your stuff’s already in the car. You worked in the shop. You’re done. You’ve officially achieved Responsible Adult for the day.”