Chapter 22 Eliza #2
I’d learned that lesson the hard way—he only struck when he thought he could still hurt me. I wouldn’t give him that now. Not here. Not in front of Nate. Not in a room full of people waiting to see me react.
So I smiled, slow and deliberate, and took a sip of my spritzer like I had nothing to prove at all.
Paige’s eyes went flat—the look that cleared a bar at closing.
She moved half a step closer, voice cold enough to chill champagne.
“I love this part. Where men think they can say things that sound polite but are really just mean, and we pretend we didn’t get it.
” She tilted her head. “We got it, Graham.”
Beside me, Nate shifted. I felt it before I saw it—the tension in his body, the instinct to stand, to put himself between me, my sisters, and Graham. His chair scraped just enough to register, and for a split second, I knew he was about to say something.
Then Piper’s hand landed lightly on his forearm. We’ve got this.
Nate stilled, jaw tight, eyes never leaving Graham. A beat later, his hand found mine beneath the table, fingers threading with quiet certainty. He squeezed once, and I held on.
It settled me in a way I hadn’t expected. The knowledge that he would step in if he needed to—but trusted me, trusted my sisters, trusted us—felt like its own kind of shield.
I lifted my chin a fraction higher.
For the first time, I wasn’t standing alone across from Graham.
And he could feel it.
Piper set her clutch on our table and smiled so gently I almost felt bad for him. “Graham, sweetie,” she said. “You’re not as clever as you think you are. Behave yourself.”
A low, delighted chuckle rumbled from Nate.
Graham’s smile calcified. “This is a grand opening—”
“Then open grandly,” Paige said softly. “Start with an apology.”
To his credit—or lack of imagination—he went with placation. “If anything I said was taken the wrong way—”
Piper sighed, as if she were sad for him. “That’s not an apology.”
“Try again,” Cara suggested, serenity edged with steel. “Here’s a tip—don’t start with the word if.”
Graham recalibrated, turned to me. “Eliza,” he said carefully, “I’m sorry if—” His eyes shot to Cara after she cleared her throat. “that my comments came across as unkind. You were poised for greatness and—I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to hurt your feelings.”
I held his gaze. “But it was your habit, wasn’t it?”
“I just want to be friends. I’m opening a restaurant here. I don’t want any bad blood between us to affect that. Please accept my apology.”
I considered his words, searching his face for sincerity.
The tension at the table lingered, fragile but shifting, as if everyone was waiting to see if I would extend the olive branch, then decide where to go from there.
Piper’s gaze was steady, and Cara’s subtle nod reminded me that grace could be a choice, not a concession.
“Okay. I accept. Thank you.” I knew he didn’t mean it, but I didn’t care. I just wanted him out of my life.
Nate didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His thumb traced that same quiet line along my pulse—I’m here.
Graham inclined his head. “Enjoy your evening,” he said, and retreated, smile fixed, distance measured.
My sisters didn’t gloat. Didn’t make a spectacle. They simply joined us at the table. Paige caught the server’s eye and ordered a round of champagne for our table and the nearest two. “On me,” she said, pleasantly.
Lucy leaned in, voice low. “We can be obnoxious and cause a scene. Or we can sit here and look stunning until it’s annoying.”
“Let’s do both,” Piper grinned. “Two birds…”
Paige clinked her glass against mine, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
“To fresh starts and fearless women,” she toasted softly, the words wrapping around us like a shield.
For a moment, the table hummed with a quiet energy, the kind that only family could conjure—calm and sure, a promise that whatever shadows lingered, we would face them together.
“We’re actually not staying much longer,” Nate answered.
“Good, I’ll tell you right now,” Piper grumbled. “This place is overpriced and overrated. I bet it won’t last a year.”
I found my breath. “Fifteen more minutes,” I whispered to Nate. “Then leftover spaghetti.”
“Extra parm,” Nate murmured, like a vow.
We sipped our drinks and let the room fade into the background as we chatted with my sisters.
When we stood to leave, Graham kept his distance—which might’ve been the first decent thing he’d done since he got into town.
Outside, the air was cold and cleansing. I exhaled and watched a small piece of the past frost float away along with my breath.
“You okay?” Nate asked, opening the car door.
I thought of my sisters, the quiet strength of Nate’s thumb against my pulse.
I thought of the girl I’d been in a kitchen where compliments had barbs.
“I think,” I said, surprised by the truth of it, “I am.”
“Spaghetti?” he prompted.
“Yes.” I slid my hand into his, our fingers fitting together like we were made for each other. “And a side of being exactly where I want to be—with you.”
He stopped walking.
Not abruptly—just enough that the night seemed to pause with us. He turned, his free hand coming up to my waist, comforting and warm. His thumb brushed the small of my back, slowly, gently, as he always was with me.
“Come here,” he said softly.
It wasn’t a command. It was an invitation.
I stepped into him, my hands flattening against his broad chest, feeling the quiet strength there, the familiar beat of his heart. He dipped his forehead to mine, breathing me in like this was important to him. Like I was important.
“I’m really glad you came tonight,” he murmured. “And I’m really glad it was with me.”
My throat tightened. “Me too.”
He kissed me then—slow and unhurried, the kind of kiss that asks instead of takes. His mouth was warm, sure, lingering just long enough to make my knees weak. When he pulled back, his thumb traced my jaw, like he was committing my face to memory.
“Perfect,” he said, voice low. “I’ve got plenty of the good parm.”
I smiled, breathless. “Of course, you do. I’m starting to get the feeling that you’ll always have everything I need.”
We walked the rest of the way to his truck like that—hands linked, shoulders brushing. He opened the door for me, one hand braced on the roof, the other steady at my elbow, watching until I was settled, like I was something breakable and treasured all at once.
Before he closed the door, he leaned in again, stealing one more kiss—softer this time, a promise instead of a question.
“I’ll be right there,” he said.
“I know,” I whispered.
When he slid in beside me, the space between us felt charged—his hand found my thigh for just a second, like reassurance. Like I was his and he was mine, and he intended to always take care of me.
Behind us, the restaurant still glittered—glass and gold and ambition, all sharp edges and show. Ahead, Honeybrook Hollow curved into itself, porch lights glowing, chimneys breathing smoke, streets leading toward something warm and real.
Toward a house that felt like a home. With a man who made it feel like choosing him was the easiest, bravest thing I’d ever done.