Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Daphne
The first bite of steak nearly made me moan aloud.
I managed to clamp my mouth shut, but only just. The meat was cooked to absolute perfection—medium rare, still glowing pink at its heart, the outer crust charred to a deep mahogany that cracked beneath my knife to reveal a butter-soft interior.
Each fragment melted on my tongue, carrying the taste sea salt, cracked black pepper, and a whisper of roasted garlic with smoked paprika that swirled across my palate and made my eyes ache back in my head.
“Good?” Oliver called from the opposite side of the table, amusement dancing in his clear blue eyes.
“It’s—unbelievable,” I confessed, slicing off another bite. My knife swept through the steak as if it were warm butter, while the juices pooled at the edge of my plate in rivulets glossy enough to be illegal. “I’ve never tasted steak this good.”
“Oliver’s secret is letting the meat rest,” Garrett said, reaching for the basket of focaccia.
His grey eyes gleamed as he raked a hunk of bread from the pile.
“Most people hack into it while it’s still sizzling, and all those juices just leak out.
He made us wait a torturous ten minutes while it sat there, looking perfect. ”
Oliver lifted one brow, lips quirked in a half-smile. “Patience is a virtue.”
“Patience is torture when you’re hungry,” Micah countered, spearing a wedge of roasted carrot, his green eyes gleamed with mirth.
I turned my attention to the vegetables next: thick slices of carrot, strips of bell pepper, and coins of zucchini, each blistered at the edges and slick with olive oil.
Sweet caramelized sugars met savory notes of thyme and rosemary in a dance on my tongue.
The texture was spot-on. Every bite spoke of someone monitoring oven temperatures, drizzling oil by weight, sprinkling salt with the precision of an alchemist.
“Garrett did the veggies,” Levi volunteered, leaning back and watching me with a satisfied smirk. “He’s obsessive about roasting temperatures and timing.”
Garrett’s cheeks flushed pink. “I just don’t like soggy vegetables,” he muttered, though the flush was more pride than embarrassment. “If you’re going to cook, you might as well do it right.”
Micah laughed, bright and teasing. “Says the man who burned three pans of Brussels sprouts last month trying to get them ‘perfectly crispy.’”
“They were perfect the fourth time,” Garrett shot back, but the stern edge in his voice had softened.
As he laughed, relaxed and easy, I saw the kind of comfort these men had with one another—teasing without malice, joking with genuine affection.
My fingers drifted toward the focaccia. The bread was still warm, the crust crackling under my touch.
As I tore off a chunk, the scent of freshly chopped rosemary mingled with the rich tang of olive oil.
I brought the piece to my lips, and the interior—light as air, dotted with honeycomb holes—yielded into a glorious pillow of flavor.
The olive oil was fruity and grassy; the rosemary bright and piney; the salt crystals burst like tiny fireworks on my tongue.
“This is officially unfair,” I mumbled, crust in hand, forgetting to be polite. “How do you make bread taste like this?”
Levi’s face lit up so intensely that it felt like I’d handed him a trophy. “You really like it? I adjusted the olive oil ratio the way you suggested, used my sourdough starter instead of commercial yeast, and—” He cut off, laughing. “Sorry. I get carried away talking about bread and even cooking.”
“Don’t apologize,” I said, meaning every word. “It’s the best focaccia I’ve ever had…it’s perfect. You should be proud.”
He swallowed, eyes bright and unguarded, and I felt a sudden pulse of warmth in my chest. When had I last seen someone beam because of something I’d said? When had I allowed myself to care about another’s happiness so fully?
Oliver nudged a small dish across the table. “Try it with the balsamic.” The vinegar caught the overhead light in a little amber pool—dark, syrupy, droplet-thick. I tipped a sliver of focaccia into it and lifted the combination to my mouth.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” I asked, eyes moving around the table as curiosity overtook me.
“My mom taught me,” Oliver said softly. His gaze drifted to the ceiling, as if recalling a memory.
“She believed feeding people was an act of love. That putting effort into a meal was the best way to show you cared.” His voice trembled slightly at the edges.
The moment hung there, rich with unspoken emotion.
“I learned from necessity,” Micah said, breaking the hush with his easy drawl. “Four years in college subsisting on ramen and cereal made me swear I’d never eat like that again. So I taught myself—mostly by screwing up until I got it right.”
“He nearly burned down his apartment twice,” Garrett added, and we all laughed as Garrett caught a stray piece of focaccia Micah flung at him, popping it into his mouth with relish. “But hey, practice makes perfect.”
Levi turned to me, curiosity shining in his brown eyes. “What about you? You mentioned your adoptive parents taught you to bake. Did they teach you to cook savory dishes, too?”
I nodded, flushing as I swallowed a bite of zucchini.
“Margaret—my adoptive mom—loved to cook. She said chopping, stirring, timing—it was meditative. Tom—my dad—would sit at the kitchen table, reading or telling her stories while she worked. Their farmhouse kitchen had windows on three sides; you could see their garden from every vantage. She’d glance up now and then, checking that her herbs and lettuces were thriving in the afternoon sun. ”
Garrett’s gaze softened. “That’s where you got it—the love of growing things.”
“Yeah.” My throat went tight. I raised my wine glass, the deep ruby liquid catching the lamp light in gleaming streaks.
The wine tasted of blackberry and dark plum, with earthy undertones that clung to my tongue.
“She taught me that growing your own food connects you to the earth in a way nothing else can. That there’s power in self-sufficiency. ”
Oliver leaned forward. “Is that why you garden the way you do?”
I paused, tracing the rim of my wine glass.
These men had opened their home, prepared this meal, and welcomed me without hesitation.
They deserved my full honesty, even if it made my chest ache.
“Partly. After Margaret and Tom died and their kids sold the farm, I felt untethered—like everything I loved could be snatched away at any moment. So I bought my own place and made sure I could survive on my own. That I’d never have to depend on anyone else to take care of me. ”
For a moment, the table was eerily still. Then Levi reached across and gave my hand a gentle squeeze, and in their attentive faces I felt something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in years: seen, and safe.
“But?” Micah prompted, his brow knitting as he leaned forward, fingers drumming on the worn oak table.
I lifted my gaze to those sharp green eyes that missed nothing—each emerald fleck illuminated by the soft glow of the overhead lights.
“But lately,” I said, voice quieter than before, “I’ve been wondering if self-sufficiency and isolation are one and the same.
Or if I’ve been using one as an excuse for the other. ”
“They’re not the same,” Levi declared, his tone low and steady. The candlelight flickered across his strong jawline. “Self-sufficiency means you can meet your own needs. Isolation means you won’t let anyone else in, even when you need them. There’s a world of difference.”
Garrett snorted, shifting on the creaky chair. “Spoken like someone who stress-bakes.” He angled a teasing grin in Levi’s direction.
Levi’s lips curved into a proud smile. “Baking is a perfectly healthy coping mechanism. Better than Micah pounding pavement at dawn or your habit of brooding over every bolt in the workshop.”
“I don’t brood,” Garrett protested, but the rest of us laughed. Oliver’s shoulders shook with amusement, and even Micah’s usual reserve cracked into an easy grin.
As I listened to their banter I found myself smiling, the tension I’d carried slipping away. This was what I’d missed: the warmth of honest teasing, the comfort in being seen and cared for.
I twisted a strand of hair around my finger. “What about you, Oliver? What’s your stress response?”
Before Oliver spoke, Micah answered with a dry chuckle. “He gets philosophical—turns piles of two-by-fours into lofty metaphors.”
Oliver’s cheeks tinted pink. “That happened once.”
“Last Tuesday,” Garrett reminded him, wagging a finger. “The great lumber speech.”
“Environmental responsibility,” Oliver defended, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “It was crucial.”
Levi raised an eyebrow. “Twenty minutes about sustainable materials as a metaphor for sustainable relationships. We timed it.”
A laugh burst from my chest, genuine and bright, as woodsmoke and garlic from the nearby stove mingled in the air. Oliver’s embarrassment shifted into delight as he looked at me.
“In my defense,” he said, lips twitching with humor, “building anything that lasts requires the right materials and constant care. Relationships work the same way.”
Micah leaned toward me, voice a playful whisper. “There he goes again.”
I surprised us all by answering softly, “I think it’s sweet. That you think this deeply. Most people act without questioning why.”
Oliver’s blue eyes softened, warm and grateful. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
The air between us hummed with something unspoken. My pulse fluttered, and I looked away, reaching for the basket of focaccia at the center of the table.
Levi cleared his throat. “So—tell us about your garden. Garrett says it’s impressive, but won’t share details.”
I relaxed into the familiar subject, the words flowing as I described companion planting rows of tomatoes curling around basil, the staggered beds that promised greens from spring until frost, the small greenhouse where seedlings basked in early sunlight.
They listened, leaning in, eyes bright with genuine curiosity.
Micah swirled his wine glass, the deep red liquid catching the lamplight. “And you preserve everything yourself? Jams, pickles?”
“Everything,” I confirmed, pride warming my chest. “I can or freeze every harvest. It’s reassuring to know exactly what’s in my food.”
Levi’s gaze drifted to the kitchen door, as if picturing jars lined up on shelves. “I’d love to learn that. We’ve been buying everything. But we’re serious about homesteading—growing, preserving, maybe even chickens.”
“A homestead?” The word echoed warmly in my mind, conjuring visions of orchards and hand-built fences.
Garrett settled back, the chair groaning under him. “That’s the plan. Not just fixing up the house—creating a self-reliant life. Gardens, orchards, a few chickens. But mostly, living off the land we love.”
I nodded, genuinely impressed. “That’s ambitious. Most talk about it but never follow through.”
Micah arched a brow. “Says the woman running a one-person homestead for five years.” His smile was teasing but respectful.
“I’ve been making it up as I go,” I admitted, cheeks warming under their approving gazes. “No grand blueprint—just responding to what needed doing.”
Oliver’s tone grew earnest. “That takes courage. You saw a vision and brought it to life.”
“Or stubbornness,” I muttered, laughter soft at my lips.
Garrett’s grey eyes glowed in the lantern light. “Nothing wrong with stubborn—it gets things done.”
We slipped into easy conversation, the last of my focaccia vanished, and the wine’s warmth eased the sharp edges of my nerves. The kitchen’s cozy glow, the savory scents, the soft murmur of friends—it coalesced into something simple and deep.
Contentment.
Levi refilled our glasses. “More wine?”
I hesitated, glancing at my half-empty glass. “I should switch to water—I still need to drive.”
Oliver’s voice dropped to a gentle invitation. “You could stay. We have a guest room. Or we can drive you home and bring you back tomorrow for your truck.”
The offer pressed against my heart with unexpected weight. Too soon, my mind warned, but the idea of staying—of waking to fresh coffee and conversation—was tempting.
“I’ll stick with water for now,” I compromised, lifting my glass. “But thank you.”
“Anytime,” Oliver said, voice unwavering. I believed him, which surprised me most of all.
Micah rose, gathering plates with practiced ease. “Dessert in a few. Give your dinner a minute to settle.”
“I’ll help,” I said, standing before I could think.
Levi pressed a hand to my shoulder. “No dishes for you—hard rule for guests.”
I opened my mouth to object.
“No buts,” Garrett said, grin widening. “Just accept that we’re taking care of you tonight.
You can return the favor another time.” Their casual certainty that there would be another time sent a glow through me—hopeful and warm as I let myself savor in the feeling.
It was new and if I was going to be honest, I wouldn’t mind if it stayed.