Chapter Four #2
“I won’t,” I said. “Can’t promise I won’t fuck up. But I won’t ever walk out on him again.”
He searched my face for a lie, and when he didn’t find one, he exhaled. “Good,” he said, the word like a verdict.
The kitchen felt different after that, the tension gone from fever pitch to a bearable hum.
He reached up, grabbed a loaf of bread from the top of the fridge, and started slicing. “You should eat something. You look like shit.”
“Yeah?” I said, pulling up a chair. “You look worse.”
He snorted, then slid me a plate with two thick slices, still warm.
I stared at the bread, then at Rawley, and realized this was it. This was what reconciliation looked like between men who didn’t have the luxury of apologies. A plate of bread. A mug of coffee. An understanding, silent but solid, that Carter mattered more than pride.
Rawley turned away, busied himself with the rest of breakfast, and I sat there chewing, feeling the world tilt a little closer to right. Rawley made a big show of cleaning up, but I caught him sneaking glances at me, the corners of his mouth turned up.
The world hadn’t stopped spinning, not even close. But for a few minutes, it felt like we could survive it. Together.
I’d gotten used to the way Carter moved, even in sleep, as if he didn’t quite trust the floor to hold him. So it didn’t surprise me that when he shuffled into the kitchen, he paused three steps in and blinked at us like a deer crossing into a clearing full of wolves.
His hair was a mess, the light catching all the colors you didn’t notice when it was slicked back for the boardroom.
He wore one of my old t-shirts, stretched across his stomach in a way that was both ridiculous and—if I was honest with myself—beautiful.
His pajama pants were Rawley’s, cinched tight and still threatening to slide off his hips.
Rawley and I both looked up at the same time. Carter’s hand went straight to his belly, as if he needed to confirm it was still there. He hovered at the doorway, eyes flicking between us, then at the food on the table.
I pushed out a chair with my foot. “Sit down, Carter. Eat.”
He obeyed, not quite making eye contact, but I could see the calculations running behind his gaze. He grabbed a piece of bread, broke it in half, and popped the end into his mouth. I’d have bet money he hadn’t eaten a real meal since somewhere east of Wyoming.
“Morning,” he said, not much above a whisper.
Rawley set another glass of juice in front of him. “You want eggs? Bacon? I made enough for a damn army.”
Carter shook his head. “I’m fine. This is good.”
Silence for a moment. I watched him chew, the rhythm of it, the way he rolled the bite around before swallowing, as if his body still needed convincing it was allowed to accept comfort.
Rawley spoke first. “How’d you pull off the Hargrove deal?”
Carter shrugged, then licked a crumb from his lip. “Shell company. One of the lawyers I know owed me a favor. If you buy it as ‘Gorey Holdings,’ no one in the county connects it to a Steele.”
Rawley let out a low whistle. “Son of a bitch. Didn’t even occur to me.”
I grinned, unable to help myself. “He outflanked you, Raw.”
Rawley shot me a look, but the edge was gone. “He outflanked all of us.”
Carter set down the bread and folded his hands in his lap. “I didn’t do it to win. I just—I wanted to make sure no one could ever threaten you again. Not Victor, not anyone. That land is a buffer. No one can ever use it to squeeze the farm.”
Rawley stared at him, then nodded once, sharp and final. “You’re a good man, Carter.”
Carter’s mouth twisted into a skeptical smile. “That’s debatable.”
I reached across the table and took his hand. He startled, but didn’t pull away. My thumb traced the bones beneath his skin, memorizing them. “It’s not debatable to me.”
He glanced up, and for a second, there was something in his eyes—fear, hope, I didn’t know, but it caught the breath in my chest.
Rawley finished his coffee and stood, stretching his arms overhead. “I’m going to check the east fence line before the rain hits. You two… talk.”
He left without waiting for a reply, boots thudding against the floor, the back door rattling on its hinges when he slammed it behind him.
Carter watched the door for a long moment, then sagged in his seat, the tension leaking out of him. “That could have gone worse.”
I squeezed his hand. “You did great.”
He snorted, then ran the other hand through his hair. “I feel like my head is full of bees.”
I wanted to drag him into my lap, hold him until the world made sense again, but I didn’t. Not yet. “You going to tell me what the real plan was?”
Carter stared at our joined hands, thumb worrying the inside of my wrist. “Portugal. Maybe New Zealand. Somewhere Dad couldn’t find me. I already lined up the flights.” His voice got small. “I didn’t think you’d ever want me here. Not after—”
“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t finish that sentence. I don’t care what you think you’re supposed to do. I want you here. With me. With Rawley, if he ever gets his head out of his ass.”
He blinked, slow. “You sure?”
I was, for once in my life, absolutely certain. “I want to be with you. I want this.” I let my palm rest on the curve of his belly. “All of it. Even the part that scares the shit out of me.”
He laughed, the sound shaky and wet. “You’re not supposed to say that.”
“Supposed to” never did much for either of us.
I let go of his hand and stood up. The urge to pace hit hard, but I stayed put. “You know I fucked up. More than once. But I want to do it right, this time. I want you to stay.”
He stared at the table, then at me, searching for the lie. “Not just for now. Not just until it gets hard?”
“For good,” I said, the words surprising me as much as him. “If you’ll let me.”
He chewed that over, the line of his mouth tight with uncertainty. “I don’t want to be a burden, Macon. I don’t want you to feel trapped.”
“Nothing about you feels like a trap,” I said, “except when you leave.”
He laughed again, but the sound was lighter. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Me either,” I admitted. “But I think if we work at it, we might be okay.”
He got up, slow and careful, then crossed the kitchen to stand in front of me. His eyes searched mine, and when he finally leaned in, I felt it all the way to the soles of my feet. His lips were soft, but the kiss was solid. Real.
“I want to try,” he said against my mouth. “I want to try with you.”
I wrapped both arms around him, holding him and the baby and the whole fucked-up story together in one impossible, perfect moment.
The rain started outside, soft at first, then a steady drumming on the roof.
We stood in the middle of the kitchen, wrapped up in each other and the warmth of something I hadn’t dared believe in. Family, maybe. Or just a future that wasn’t made entirely of regret.
Carter pulled back, eyes shining. “What if we mess it up?”
“We will,” I said, and it made him laugh, bright and unguarded. “But we’ll be together. That’s what matters.”
We stayed like that, anchored to each other, while the world outside blurred and washed clean.
Eventually, Carter’s stomach growled, and he broke the hug to raid the fridge. I watched him pile up cheese and bread and leftover steak, the domesticity of it making my heart pound so hard I thought it might break something loose inside me.
He looked over his shoulder. “You going to stand there all day, or are you going to help?”
I moved to his side, took the knife from his hand, and sliced the bread, slow and even, while he layered on the rest. We worked in sync, no wasted motion, just the small rituals of people who’d decided to be less alone.
The kitchen filled with the smell of food and rain, and when we sat down again, it felt different than before. Like maybe, just maybe, the three of us could make something out of the wreckage.
I caught his eye, and he held my gaze, steady and sure.
“Welcome home,” I said.
He smiled, and this time, it wasn’t sad at all.