Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Emily
The truck engine rumbles beneath us as we pull out of the harbor parking lot, neither of us speaking as the workweek falls away.
Jared sits with his elbow braced on the passenger window, afternoon sun striking his profile. My tool bag rests between us on the bench seat, the dragon toy wrapped in my spare flannel.
I take the coastal road, where the ocean reveals itself in flashes through the tree trunks. Salt-laden air pushes through the cracked windows, bringing with it pine and seaweed. The radio hums in the background, loud enough to discourage conversation.
My attention drops to my tool bag again, fingers itching to unwrap the figurine and assess the damage. In my mind, I’ve already planned the repair. Wood glue, fine-grit sandpaper, and a touch of stain to match the color where the break occurred.
I haven’t been in my workshop the entire time Jared’s been living with me, and my list of donations to finish has piled up. I can knock out a couple of those this weekend, too.
“Third time,” Jared says, breaking into my thoughts.
I look over. “What?”
“That’s the third time you’ve checked your bag since we left the harbor.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “Can’t help yourself, can you? Even off the clock, you’ve got something to fix.”
I can’t hide my flinch.
“Guess not.” I lift one shoulder in a half-shrug that does nothing to hide the strain creeping in. “Some of us don’t shut off when the clock does.”
Jared straightens a little, his easy smile fading as he studies me. “Hey, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” I cut in, and the air between us shifts, the distance growing. “I know how it sounds. I’ve heard it before.”
His brow furrows. “Auren used to say that to you, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. He used to throw that at me a lot.” I focus on the road ahead and the shimmer of sunlight through the trees as I turn away from the coast to head toward home. “Said I cared more about my tools than about him. Claimed I worked so much because I didn’t want to come home.”
Jared’s quiet for a beat. “You were the one keeping the roof over your heads, right?”
“I was.” I wring the steering wheel. “Didn’t stop him from finding someone with more free time.”
Jared shifts closer, resting his forearm on the back of the seat. “There’s nothing wrong with how your brain works. When you spot a loose hinge, you tighten it. When you see a half-finished project, you bring it across the finish line. That’s not a flaw.”
I exhale, tension bleeding out. “Most people don’t see it that way.”
“Then they’re not looking closely enough.” His fingers brush my shoulder in brief contact before slipping away. “Besides, if you’re spending your weekend in the shop, I could always tag along. I’m no good at crochet, but I can at least keep you company and hand you the tools you need.”
I angle my head his way, startled. “You’d do that?”
“Sure. I enjoy watching you work.” His chin tips toward the flannel-wrapped bundle between us. “What did Leif give you?”
“A wooden dragon.” I tap the brakes as the car ahead slows. “Quinn broke the wing.”
“Ah.” He shifts in his seat, his knee bumping my work bag. “And you volunteered to be a dragon doctor?”
“No, Quinn did,” I snort. “She told him I can fix anything.”
“Smart kid.” The words carry no teasing this time, just simple truth.
Traffic thickens as we approach town, forcing my attention to the road. The familiar rhythm of signals, turns, brakes, and acceleration soothes the week’s worth of tension. Concrete actions with predictable results, unlike the mess of emotions I’ve been wading through.
As we pass the row of shops on Main Street, Jared points to the Thai place on the corner. “Hungry? We could pick up dinner so you can get into your shop faster.”
My stomach answers with an audible growl, and Jared chuckles. I pull into a space half a block down.
“Pad Thai?” I ask, cutting the engine.
“And spring rolls.” He opens his door, the sound of street traffic washing in. “Maybe those curry puffs you liked last time.”
He remembers my order. The thought shouldn’t warm me the way it does.
Inside, the restaurant fills our senses with ginger, lemongrass, and chile oil. The owner waves us toward the counter, where a menu board lists specials in colorful chalk.
“You came again!” Her bracelets jingle as she reaches for an order pad. “Good food always wins. You want the same as last time?”
The same as last time. As if we’re regulars.
As if we belong together.
I nod, not trusting the sudden tightness in my throat.
Jared takes over, confirming the order and adding a Thai iced tea for himself. The familiarity of it all wraps around me, and the tension that’s been between us for the last week eases, the distance I tried to keep slipping away.
While we wait, Jared leans on the wall, phone in hand. The muscles in his forearm flex as his thumb scrolls through a news article.
“Grady’s piece is getting traction,” he says without raising his head. “Over two hundred comments now.”
I study the curve of his jaw and the slight furrow on his brow. “That’s good, right?”
“Most of them, yeah.” He pockets his phone as our number is called. “Some are still pushing the old narrative, but the positive ones are drowning them out.”
His relief tugs at my heart. I want to tell him I never believed the worst, that from the first moment I saw him, I knew he wasn’t what they claimed.
Instead, the words stay trapped behind my teeth as I move to collect our food.
The paper bags crinkle as we walk back to the truck. Jared carries them, trailing steam filled with spice and peanut sauce. The street lamps flicker on as the sun dips below the rooftops, casting long shadows across the sidewalk.
Ten minutes later, we turn onto my street. The cottage sits waiting, windows dark, flower boxes spilling blooms onto the walkway.
I cut the engine. “I can take those.”
“I’ve got it.” Jared balances the food bags in one arm, pushing open his door with the other. “Grab your tools.”
He walks up the path, back straight, shoulders squared. The easy confidence in his stride contradicts everything he’s been put through these past weeks, all the pressure he’s been carrying.
Inside, light spills across hardwood floors as lamps flicker on beneath Jared’s touch, and a soft mrrp greets us in the entryway.
Mixie trots in from the hallway, her sleek tail held high, the tip curling when she spots me. Her black coat gleams in the warm light, and her green eyes blink up in sleepy recognition before she gives an accusing mew that says I’ve been gone too long.
“There she is,” Jared murmurs, crouching to offer the back of his hand to be sniffed. “Your girl heard you pull in.”
“She always does.” I set my tool bag by the door and sink to my knees, letting Mixie nuzzle my palm.
Her purr starts deep and loud, vibrating through her ribs. I stroke along her spine, breathing in the traces of Jared’s pheromones clinging to her fur.
My fingers pause just shy of meeting his on top of Mixie’s head. “You left your bedroom door open again. There’s going to be fur on your pillow.”
“I don’t mind sharing. It was her space first,” Jared says, rising to his feet.
He moves through my cottage with the ease of familiarity as he sets the bags on the kitchen counter and pulls plates from cabinets and silverware from drawers.
I linger in the entryway, sitting down on the bench to remove my workboots and scratch Mixie’s head, caught between the urge to step into this slice of domesticity and shying away from how naturally it settles into place around me.
Mixie plants a front paw on my knee and rises, nudging her head under my chin as if reminding me she’s here now, and I’m no longer stuck in a relationship so toxic it made me question whether I deserved happiness.
I kiss the top of her head, grounding myself in the warmth of her small body.
When I stand, Jared is watching me with a kind of quiet understanding that steals the air from my lungs. “Wash up while I plate the food before it gets cold.”
Nodding, I head to my room to change out of my muddy clothes. Mixie pads close to my heels, her tail flicking my leg as if she approves.
The house holds a new fullness to it, no longer a place I return to alone, but a space I share.
In the bathroom, warm water runs over my wrists, washing away sawdust and sweat.
The woman in the mirror stares back, silver hair mussed by the wind, cheeks flushed with something I refuse to name.
I breathe deeply, once, twice, then change into a fresh pair of jeans, a long-sleeve shirt appropriate for working in the shop and comfortable shoes.
When I return to the dining room, Jared has set the table, with food arranged on the plates. Two glasses of water stand beside them, condensation beading on the sides, along with Jared’s orange-colored tea, and the domesticity of it makes my heart clench.
“This is nice,” I say, the words inadequate for the warmth spreading through my chest.
A flash of surprise crosses his features. “Thought it would be better than eating out of the containers.”
“No, I mean—” I gesture at the table, the food, him standing there with a dish towel in his hands. “This. It’s nice.”
A smile breaks across his face. “Yeah. It is.”
We sit opposite each other, food steaming in the center of the table. The first bite of pad Thai fills my mouth with nutty sweetness, and I savor the flavor.
When I lift my head, Jared is watching me, his expression soft. “Good?”
I lick my lips, a strand of noodle pinched in my chopsticks. “The best.”
And for this moment, with lime and chili hanging in the air, and Jared’s quiet presence, I believe it might be.
Dinner passes too fast, spiced noodles disappearing amid laughter and Mixie weaving figure-eights between our legs as if she’s claiming both of us. The easy rhythm unnerves me, and when Jared offers to clean up, I put my boots back on, grab my tool bag, and slip out the back door.