Chapter 14
SUTTON
The drive to Shepherd’s place is quiet. The kind of quiet where my brain keeps replaying the entire disaster of a day on a loop while the city drifts past the window like it’s happening to someone else.
Streetlights smear across the glass in soft golden streaks while rain beads and slides down the window in slow, lazy trails.
My hand rests in my lap, wrapped in white gauze that already feels too bright against my skin.
It doesn’t feel like my hand. It feels like someone else’s injury. Someone else’s mess entirely.
Shepherd drives with both hands on the wheel, calm as always. Steady speed. No sudden movements. Even his breathing seems measured. Everything about him is controlled and safe, which is ironic considering my entire life currently feels like it’s collapsing in slow motion.
When the SUV turns into a quiet neighborhood and rolls up a long driveway, my stomach tightens.
Shepherd’s house is…big. Not mansion-big, thank God, but big enough.
His house sits up from the street, with broad wood steps and oversized panels of glass that I imagine can turn the front rooms into glowing aquarium tanks after dark.
Each lit window frames tidy furniture and pale walls, not a single curtain for hiding the expensive restraint of the place.
The driveway is edged with sod and those catalog-perfect bushes that look like green clouds dropped all in a row.
Those bushes have to cost more than an entire year’s worth of my rent.
Or former rent.
Three weeks.
Three weeks and I won’t even have a home anymore.
My chest tightens again and I almost tell him to turn around.
Almost.
Instead, I sit here staring at the place like it might reject me the second I step out of the car. Like houses this nice come with some kind of invisible alarm that goes off when people like me get too close.
Shepherd parks and walks around to open my door before I can argue about it because of course he does.
“Easy,” he says gently, offering me a hand. I climb out carefully, trying not to look like I’m one light breeze away from completely losing it again.
The air smells like rain and cedar. It’s a fresh air scent that I have to admit, I really like. It’s almost like getting away from the city makes it a tiny bit easier to breathe.
He leads me inside and the warmth hits me first, then the smell.
Wood.
Saw dust.
Clean laundry.
Something faintly earthy and comforting. His place feels…lived in.
The house might look like one of those beauties you see in magazines, but this house isn’t sterile like those in pictures I’ve seen and for some weird reason, that surprises me.
There’s definitely more of a lived-in vibe going on here.
Everything looks warm and comfortable. I step inside and automatically pause, unsure what to do with myself.
Shepherd takes off his jacket and hangs it by the door.
“Welcome home. Uh, feel free to make yourself comfortable,” he says, his voice soft like he’s afraid of startling me.
Despite everything, I feel a small smile tug at my lips. “Are you always this accommodating?”
“Only with people who matter,” he says simply, and the words hit me like a physical touch. “Are you hungry?” he asks.
I start to say no automatically—a reflex built from years of minimizing my needs—but my stomach betrays me with a low growl. I haven’t eaten since…I can’t even remember.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says with a small smile that doesn’t make me feel judged at all.
He leads me through the living room with its oversized leather couch and into a kitchen that makes me want to cry.
Not because it’s fancy, but because it’s functional in a way that speaks of actual use.
There are well-worn wooden cutting boards and cast-iron pans hanging from a rack.
A knife block with handles showing the patina of regular handling.
It’s not a showroom kitchen; it’s a place where someone cooks real meals.
I can imagine Shepherd standing in here, his sleeves rolled up, making something simple and hearty.
“You cook,” I say, sounding a bit stupid even to my own ears.
“I do.” He moves to the refrigerator with that easy grace of his, pulling out ingredients and setting them on the counter. “Nothing fancy, but I won’t poison you.”
I hover awkwardly at the edge of the kitchen, unsure where to put myself. The bandage on my hand feels suddenly enormous, like a beacon announcing my helplessness.
“Sit,” Shepherd says gently, nodding toward a stool at the kitchen island. “Let me handle this.”
Part of me wants to argue, to insist I can help, to prove I’m not useless. But I’m so tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushing tired. So I slide onto the stool without protest, watching as he moves around the kitchen with practiced efficiency.
“Pasta okay?” he asks, filling a pot with water.
I nod. “Anything’s fine.”
He glances at me, his eyes warm. “That’s not an answer, Sutton.”
“Pasta is—” A shimmer in the glow of the kitchen light grabs my attention and I turn my head to see what it is. Resting on the edge of the windowsill above the sink like it belongs there and has been there since time began is a tiny glass swan.
The very same glass swan Shepherd knocked over in the thrift shop a few days ago.
The same swan he saved while trying not to destroy an entire aisle of fragile antiques.
A warped prism of light throws the swan’s outline onto the counter, its tiny beak aimed at the ceiling like a dare.
It’s so delicate it’s almost ridiculous now that I think about it.
Why would a grown man, a football player, have a tiny glass swan in his kitchen window?
I walk toward it slowly, like if I move too fast it’ll disappear.
My breath catches.
No way.
“You…” My voice comes out rough. “You bought it.”
Shepherd tracks my movements across the kitchen to the window where I run my finger over the sparkling treasure, my thumb hovering over the exquisite glass wings. And then he shrugs like this is the most normal thing in the world.
“I went back the next day.”
I stare at the swan again.
“Why?” I ask quietly.
A hundred possible reasons flash through my mind.
Because he felt guilty that he knocked it over.
Because his mother likes swans.
Because he thought it was funny.
“It made me think of you,” he says simply.
My throat tightens as I turn to look at him. “It made me think of you.” Of course, he says it like that. No drama. No flirting. Just…truth.
“I…I don’t know what to say.”
“You kissed me that day,” he says gently. A shy smile playing across his lips. “And I know you said it didn’t mean anything, but it meant something to me.” He pushes his hands into his pockets and leans against the island. “I wanted to remember that day. That moment. So, I went back for it.”
I shake my head, my brows furrowed. “Mari didn’t tell—”
“I asked Mari not to tell you.”
“Why?”
“Because I told you, Sutton. You don’t owe me anything,” he says.
“I like you. Maybe more than I should because I know how guarded you are. I see it on your face when you look at me and I feel it when I’m with you, which is why everything that happens between you and me has always been and will continue to be on your terms.” He lifts his shoulder in a slight shrug as he gestures to the glass swan on the windowsill.
“I just wanted something that reminded me of you. It makes me smile when I see it. That’s all. ”
“But it’s just…” I whisper. “A stupid little swan.”
He watches me like this entire moment isn’t quietly dismantling all my emotional defenses.
“Well, I like stupid things that matter,” he adds.
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
Or maybe it’s a sob. It’s hard to tell at this point, but something breaks loose inside my chest. A feeling I’ve been holding back for too long.
Before I can overthink it, I’m crossing the kitchen in several quick steps, my hands reaching for Shepherd’s face.
I cup his jaw with my good hand, my thumb tracing the stubble there.
His breath catches, but he doesn’t move, letting me set the pace just like he promised.
“Brace yourself, Haynes, because this is going to mean something.”
And with that, I rise onto my tiptoes and press my lips to his. This isn’t like the impulsive kiss outside the thrift store though.
This is deliberate.
This is me choosing him.
Choosing this moment.
His lips are warm and soft against mine, and he responds with such gentle restraint that it makes my heart ache.
My good hand slides to the back of his neck, my fingers threading through his hair as I pull him closer.
For a heartbeat, he seems surprised, but then his hands find my waist, steadying me without taking control.
I part my lips and he responds immediately, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that sends heat rushing through my entire body.
I make a small sound in the back of my throat, something between a sigh and a moan, and his fingers tighten slightly at my waist. The pressure sends shivers down my spine, awakening parts of me I thought I’d locked away, and then his strong hands slide down my hips to my upper thighs, and he lifts me effortlessly.
My stomach swoops with the sudden movement, and before I can process it, he’s setting me on the cool surface of the kitchen island.
The marble chills the backs of my legs through my jeans, a stark contrast to the heat radiating between us.
Shepherd steps between my knees, his broad chest pressing against me as his mouth reclaims mine.
His kiss is careful and controlled, but there’s heat beneath it, like a banked fire waiting for permission to blaze.
His hands slide up my sides, leaving trails of warmth in their wake, one coming to rest at the nape of my neck while the other cradles my jaw with a tenderness that makes my heart stutter.