Chapter 16
Troy
Rainey forgot dessert. That’s the first thing she tells me.
Not hello. Not anything normal. Just that — like it matters more than the fact that she showed up in the first place.
I look at her for a second, taking it in.
The slight tension in her shoulders. The way she’s trying to play it off like it’s nothing.
The way she’s already bracing for my reaction.
I huff out a quiet laugh. Then I step forward and pull her into me before she can overthink it any further.
“Welcome,” I say, my hand settling at her back. “I’m glad you remembered to come.”
Rainey stills for half a second before she relaxes into the embrace. I let myself hold her a second longer than necessary before stepping back, keeping my hand at her side as I look down at her.
“You’re fine,” I add. “I don’t need dessert.”
Her mouth curves slightly. “That’s good, because I panicked for a full thirty seconds in your driveway.”
“I believe that.”
She exhales, tension easing just a little.
“Good,” she says. “Because turning around felt dramatic.”
“It would’ve been.”
She nods. “That’s what I thought.”
Rainey is still standing in the doorway when I turn back toward the kitchen, like she’s taking it all in again with a different lens this time. I don’t give her much time to settle into that.
“Come on,” I say, already moving. “You’re just in time.”
“For what?” she asks, stepping inside and closing the door behind her.
I nod toward the back. “Dinner.”
The grill’s already hot when I push open the door to the porch. The air outside carries that late-day warmth, mixed with the sharper edge of cooling evening. It’s a good night for this.
Rainey follows, pausing just behind me as I lift the lid and lay the steaks down. The sizzle hits immediately and I don’t miss the way she reacts to it.
“That looks unfairly good,” she says.
“It’s steak,” I reply. “It’s supposed to.”
I close the lid and step back, wiping my hands on a towel before reaching for the cooler I set out earlier. I flip it open and pull out a container.
“Millie,” I say, handing it to her.
She takes it, opening the lid carefully.
“Potato salad,” she reads. Then she looks up at me. “You planned this.”
“I stopped by earlier.”
“That’s planning.”
I shrug. “It’s efficient.”
She studies the container for a second longer, then sets it on the small table beside the grill.
“And the dessert you forgot?” I say, lifting an eyebrow. I reach back into the cooler and pull out the box. She sees it immediately.
“No,” she says.
“Yes.”
“You bought dessert.”
“I bought dessert.”
She takes the box from me, opening it like she expects it to disappear if she hesitates.
Fresh apple pie. She looks at me.
“I owe you.”
I lean back against the railing, watching her.
“I know you’ll find a way.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, but there’s a smile under it.
“That sounds like a challenge.”
“It’s not.”
“It absolutely is.”
I don’t argue. I don’t need to.
Once the meat is grilled, I plate everything quickly. Rainey hovers for a second before settling at the kitchen counter. She's watching me again. She does that a lot … watches. Not in a way that feels forced. In a way that feels like she’s learning something without asking for it.
“You always this organized?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“That’s… intimidating.”
“It’s practical.”
She tilts her head. “Do you ever just do something without thinking it through first?”
I set a plate in front of her.
“Yes.”
“When?”
I meet her eyes.
“Earlier.”
She doesn’t answer right away, but the corner of her mouth lifts just slightly. I nod toward the other room. “Come on.”
She follows again, slower this time, taking in the space like she’s not rushing through it anymore. The record shelf catches her attention immediately.
She stops and walks closer.
“Wait,” she says, crouching slightly. “Are these all vinyl?”
“Yes.”
“How many do you have?”
“Enough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
She runs her fingers lightly along the spines, reading titles, pausing here and there.
“This is … a lot,” she says. “You don’t seem like a music guy.”
“Why not?”
She shrugs. “You’re quiet.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t listen.”
Rainey turns again, scanning the record albums more carefully this time.
“Okay,” she says slowly, pulling one free. “This feels like a test.”
“It’s not.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
She holds the record up between us.
“If I pick something terrible, are you going to judge me?”
“Yes.”
She smiles.
“Well, that's honest.”
I take it from her, setting it on the player and lowering the needle. The soft crackle comes first, then the music … low, steady, filling the room without taking it over.
She listens for a second, then nods.
“I love this.”
“Good.”
“That was not a guaranteed outcome.”
“I wasn’t worried.”
She turns toward me.
“You should’ve been.”
We eat at the table near the window, the music threading through everything without demanding attention. Conversation comes easier now. It doesn’t feel forced.
She tells me about the first apartment she ever had, how she tried to assemble furniture without instructions and ended up sleeping on the floor for a week.
I tell her about the first time I tried to plant too early in the season and lost half a crop overnight. She laughs.
At some point, I realize neither of us is rushing this. Not the food or the conversation. Not whatever this is.
When we’re finished, she leans back slightly, looking toward the record player.
“You’re full of surprises,” she says.
“I told you I grow things.”
“You've grown a huge music collection.”
“It’s related.”
She shakes her head, smiling.
“Of course it is.”
The music shifts into something slower, softer. I offer her my hand and rise from the chair. She embraces my hand and follows my lead into the living room. I bend down and move a chair out of the way with my other hand.
Slowly, I wrap one arm around her waist and begin to sway with her to the music. We move close together and she puts her head on my shoulder.
Rainey moves with a confidence that isn’t rehearsed, but it’s not careless, either. Her body fits into mine without hesitation, and she laughs quietly when I move us a little too slow, like she enjoys that it’s not perfect.
I’m not a dancer. Not in any way that matters. But I don’t need to be. Rainey is light in my arms, but there’s a force underneath it, a live wire that runs through her every move. She looks up at me, her eyes wide and bright, and for a minute I forget why I ever thought I could keep this easy.
The song goes on, and I lose track of time.
The music shifts again, and so does the way she looks at me.
Like she’s cataloging not just the moment, but what it feels like.
There’s a vulnerability in her gaze now, something unguarded.
I feel it in my chest with a kind of slow, spreading heat. I don’t let go of her.
The song ends, and the next track is quieter, almost a lull.
Rainey keeps her head against my chest, her fingers tracing a circle at the small of my back.
I keep my hand at her waist, feeling her breathing.
Slow and even, like she’s finally given herself permission to stand still. I want to say something. I don’t.
Instead, I stay quiet, letting the music fill the room and the weight of her in my arms anchor me where I am. She lifts her head and looks at me, closer than before. I know what she’s going to do even before she does it.
The hand on my back flattens, and I feel her inhale, both of us standing perfectly still in the center of my living room.
She tilts her chin up and my mouth meets hers.
When she kisses me this time, it’s different.
This one is slower, but deeper. Like she’s sure of it.
Like she’s giving me an answer to a question I hadn’t asked, but she’d already heard anyway.
I kiss her back, letting my hand rise from her waist to the side of her face.
Her lips are soft and warm and a little reckless, and this time I don’t bother holding anything back.
I let the kiss deepen, tasting her, memorizing the way she breathes against me, the way her hands slide up and clutch my shoulders like she’s steadying herself in a storm.
I want her. I know she feels it too.
The question is how far I take this … and whether she’s ready for me to.