Chapter 50
Chapter Fifty
Autumn
The sweet scent of my newly crafted recipe wafts through the house. It’s one of those rare occasions when my place smells like food—French food—rather than dirt, sweat, and pine needles. Sweet, savory, mouthwatering crepes fill my house with their scent.
“Have I ever seen you cook before?” Meg says, staring at me through the few inches of a phone screen.
“Sure. I mean, probably. Small things. Easy things. I haven’t had time for more.” I love to cook—surely Meg has seen me cook—but then, I’ve been a tree farmer for years and put cooking on the back burner. In fact, I’m a little terrified I’ve lost all my skills.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you in action like this. You look different. You’re sort of glowing. Or wait, is that an Ezra glow? Maybe he’s the one who makes you glow. Or maybe it’s a combination.”
“Shush,” I tell her, and yet, I am smiling. This is confusing. I haven’t exactly been unhappy the last few years. But I haven’t necessarily been happy either.
Dad was sick. Then we lost him. And even before all that, I lost Ezra. I rarely have time for cooking, my favorite hobby. Why in the world Dessie and Don are trusting me with their bistro is a mystery.
“Ezra’s on his way over?”
I swallow. I might be forever confused when it comes to Ezra. Don’t get me wrong. He is a great idea. The best, actually. I love him. But I’ve spent the last ten years without him, telling myself I didn’t love him anymore and that I’d never ever get him back. I still don’t know how to feel about him living near Mav. But it seems my insecurities won’t be changing his mind either.
I nibble on my bottom lip and after staying silent far too long, I answer Meg’s question. “Well, my best friend moved away, so who else is going to try out my recipes? I can’t open a bistro without testing out my recipes, can I?”
She smothers a laugh. “All very logical, Autumn. You’re starting to sound like me.”
I snicker. Meg is the logical one—well, she was, until she fell in love with a boy from Hawaii and moved away from me.
“So, he’s just coming over to try your food?”
I flick my gaze from my mixture up to my four-inch friend. “Among… other things.”
“ Other things sound fun, Autumn Pie.” She draws out Dessie’s nickname for me in a sweet Southern accent. “You deserve all the happiness, girl.”
There’s a light tap on my screen door and I pull in a sharp breath. “He’s here,” I whisper. “Gotta go! Gotta go!”
Meg’s giving me two thumbs up when I click end on our call.
I rush for the door and slow down with ten steps to go. My body is pretty sure I have ten years of loving Ezra to make up for. My mind wants to take it slow.
That will be an interesting battle.
Ezra leans against the door frame, peering in at me through the mesh of the screen. He’s got a single rose in his hand and it sets my heart fluttering.
I focus on what Don told me. He’d had family issues and yet he’d stayed for Dessie, for the new life they made. Ezra is certain we can do that too—even with Mav in town, even with the possibility of another Mav encounter. And I’m starting to become a believer. My heart is too far gone not to believe.
I look him over from his short brown hair to the dark bristles on his chin. From his broad shoulders to his strong arms.
I push open the screen and he slips through the door. My heart patters in my chest like a thunderstorm. I reach for his hand and with my entire body tremoring, I pull him into the working kitchen.
“Where are we—” he starts, but I keep him moving. I need to get this out now—or I may never.
I turn to face him and back him into a kitchen chair. He sits and I stand in front of him. I step between his legs and set both my hands on his shoulders.
A shaky breath falls from my chest.
“Hey, are you—”
“Shut up.” I cram my eyes closed. “Not shut up shut up. Just let me get this out.”
He nods, peering at me intently, a hand on each of my hips. I feel like I foresaw this version of Ezra. Older, but not old. Wise, but still learning. Sexy, but growing sexier by the second—with every brush stroke to my mother’s house, with every confession he offers me, with every kiss we share.
I blow out a breath and say, “I was wrong.”
His brows knit, but to his credit, he stays quiet.
“When I sent you away, I was trying to do the right thing. I was trying to save you. But I was wrong. And I know that now. Because since you’ve been back, I’ve come to realize that you’ve always belonged with me and me with you.” I squeeze his shoulders. An escaping tear leaks from my eye and skitters down my cheek, but I can’t release him to swat it away. “No other person can stop that. No amount of time apart would matter. We could be separated for a hundred years and we’d still belong together.” I blow out a trembling breath. “I love you, Ezra. I always have and I always will.”
My heart patters, terrified. I’m not sure why. The man already confessed to loving me. But then, I had to convince myself it was right. That my love and longing for Ezra wasn’t completely selfish.
Ezra tugs on my hips, pulling me flush to him, threading his arms around my middle and silently beckoning my lips to his.
“It’s about time,” he says, lifting his chin to me, waiting for me to close the gap. “Should we take this to the loft?”
I smirk. “Shut up,” I say, inching closer.
“Gladly,” he says, pulling me in the rest of the way.
I breathe him in, memorizing every curve of his lips and jaw. I kiss him with a silent promise to kiss him forevermore, the rest of my life. Ezra makes that promise right back.
Ezra’s kiss is old and new—all at once. The same and different. But most of all, it is perfection in its most complete and beautiful form.
Tears of joy escape my eyes and fall down my cheeks—because apparently every emotion I have now plans to show itself through my eyes. The moisture mixes with our kiss and I break away from him, wiping my tears from his cheeks.
Ezra stands, eyes locked with mine, and scoops me up. I feel like a fragile doll in his arms—treasured and protected. He carries me into the living room and for a second I wonder if he really is taking me to the loft. But then he sets me on the couch, keeping me close, finding a space for both of us there.
I’m pretty sure we could learn to live linked together for the rest of our lives.
That is—until the kitchen’s smoke alarm starts to blare.