Chapter 53
Chapter fifty-three
Olivia
“Logan is going to see me,” I rasp-whisper to War as he ushers me down the steps.
“It’s Friday, it’s noon, and we’ve spent all night and all morning in bed.” His lips brush my neck, heat curling there with his teasing kiss. His hand stays firm on my waist, steering me. “I’m sure your entire family knows where you are.”
My face flames.
Ugh. Walk of shame, family edition. Exactly what I didn’t want today.
“We could always go back into the room.” His chuckle rumbles against my skin, wicked and warm.
I whirl on him, grasping at my coat and tugging at the hem of my dress. “No! That makes it worse. I don’t even have panties, War.” My whisper turns frantic. “You ripped them.”
His grin is sinful, bright enough to melt my mortification.
“I don’t know why you’re whispering, baby. I didn’t exactly renovate those walls to be soundproof. And you, my sweet girl, are very loud.”
My stomach drops as he strides past me down the stairs, laughter trailing in his wake.
“Whether you come down now or later, they already know,” he sing-songs, leaving me to groan and follow him toward the lobby.
The lobby yawns open in front of me; mercilessly empty.
No Logan. No family. Not even a stranger lingering by the desk.
Relief punches out of me in a shaky laugh, knees almost buckling as I sag against the banister.
War glances over his shoulder, grin tugging at his mouth. “See? No firing squad.”
I narrow my eyes at him, still tugging the hem of my dress down. “You knew.”
He shrugs, maddeningly smug. “Maybe.”
I groan. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re adorable when you panic,” he fires back, sauntering toward the doors like the whole inn belongs to him.
I hurry after him, still hot-cheeked, still scandalized, but mostly just his.
The relief of the empty lobby lasts all of three seconds.
Because the moment I step outside, the cold slaps me like a wake-up call—and the hammering of the construction crew splits the brittle winter air.
Of course. Still working. Still here. Still witnesses to my walk of shame.
I duck my head, hugging my arms tight as if that can somehow make me invisible.
“Morning, Beaumont,” one of the guys calls with a nod, breath fogging in the cold as he lowers his coffee cup.
War lifts a hand in greeting, then leans in to press a kiss to my temple. “Go on, sweet girl. I’ll be over in a minute.”
War doesn’t miss a beat. He slides right into conversation, easy and commanding all at once, his hand brushing my lower back before drifting away.
My heart skips.
So I gather what little dignity I have left, tug my coat tighter against the wind, and cross the icy street toward my family home, praying no one else notices I’m rumpled, panty-less, and wearing last night’s sins in the form of a dress.
I slip through the front door as quietly as possible, my pulse hammering in my ears. The living room is blessedly empty.
Then I hear them, voices drifting from the kitchen, low and casual, like any other Friday. My stomach knots.
I dart for the stairs, taking them two at a time. My bedroom door clicks shut behind me, muffling the sound of laughter below.
I sag against it for half a breath before shoving myself into motion. Time to pack, get dressed, and say goodbye to my family.
My heart twinges, but I whisper to myself: It’s okay. I’ll be back sooner next time.
***
By the time I make it back downstairs, the kitchen is full; voices, laughter, the smell of something warm and buttery drifting through the air. And right in the middle of it all, War.
He looks completely at ease at my family’s table, like he’s been here a hundred times instead of once. Logan tosses barbed jokes his way, and he just smirks, firing back with that sharp Beaumont wit that somehow doesn’t rub them wrong. They laugh with him, not at him.
I linger in the doorway for a beat, quiet and still, letting the moment wash over me.
War fits. Like he’s always been here. Like he belongs.
He’s relaxed in a way I rarely see, a smirk tugging at his lips as he talks to Chase about the next stage of renovations.
Mama sneaks extra sweets into foil, muttering that “he should eat more,” He thanks her with a smile that transforms his rugged face into something boyish, making her beam like a teenager, and my chest twists with something warm and terrifying all at once, like a sparkler burning too close to my heart.
My heart sings.
Because this—this is what I wanted. Not the chaos. Not the tension. Just peace. A morning like this.
And he’s here. Loose and light, so different from the version of him I’ve seen with his family; stoic, strained, always carrying the weight of expectation. Here, he’s free. Here, he’s happy.
Mama looks up and catches sight of me in the doorway. “There she is,” she calls, drying her hands. “We thought you two were going to leave without saying goodbye.”
“Never,” I say, stepping into the room as my chest swells with something warm and full and a little bit aching.
When he catches my eye across the room, his ice blue gaze locks onto mine, and his lips curve into that knowing half-smile that makes my knees weak. He fits here like the last puzzle piece clicking into place.
He stands, bag of treats in his hands. “You ready?”
His voice tender. I nod and look around at my family. My father steps inside from the porch. “Car’s here!”
Logan’s already waiting by the door, coat on, my bag slung over his shoulder like always. He doesn’t say a word, he just gives me a look, the same look he’s been giving me since I was old enough to carry a backpack: I’ve got it.
I smile, slipping into my coat as War grabs one more treat from my mother.
I step outside with Logan. My father talking to the driver.
“Ella’s not here?” I ask, scanning the porch, expecting her to pop out of nowhere with a hug and sage, sharp advice.
Logan’s steps falter—just barely. “She’s, uh… not feeling great. Said to tell you bye. She’ll call you later.”
Something in his voice tugs at me. Too even. Too practiced.
“Uh-huh,” I murmur, glancing up at him. “You sure you’re okay?”
“What? Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m not.” He adjusts the strap of my bag and keeps walking. “It’s cold”
A smile tugs at my mouth. “Right. Of course. Just cold.”
He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t rise to the bait. But his ears are definitely pinker than before. He puts my bag into the trunk.
I don’t push. I just walk beside him, biting back a grin as I glance toward the front door where mom and War come out. She hugs him close.
“You two will come back soon won’t you?”
“Jillybean! Let them be,” Daddy calls out as he steps up putting an arm around me. “You be good Ollipop and if you need me, I’m on the next flight.”
“Me too!” Dean shouts from the doorway, brushing past War and wrapping me up in a bear hug.
I laugh and shake my head my eyes meeting Wars as he heads to the car to place his bags in the trunk.
“We’ll be back Jillian, can’t keep me away when you make the best pecan pie,” War says sure.
Mama beams and Chase emerges with a cookie in hand. He comes down the porch steps ruffles my hair with calloused fingers like I’m still twelve, grinning that obnoxious dimpled grin that’s gotten him out of trouble since kindergarten.
“Don’t let her fatten you up when she makes you her famous double-chocolate cookies, Beaumont,” he warns, patting his own annoyingly flat stomach with a theatrical slap.
I swat at him, but War only smirks. “I like cookies too much to care,” he says easily, and Chase barks out a laugh.
“But you’ll be back right? maybe Christmas with both of you?” mama asks once more, her voice pleading that it cracks me open.
Daddy steps beside her and holds her close.
I glance at War, uncertain, but he beats me to it. “I promised her Paris,” he says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, “but then yes—we’ll be stopping by here. Wouldn’t miss it.”
My mother practically swoons. “Paris? Oh, I would love to see Paris…”
War tilts his head at her. “When’s your anniversary?”
My face flames. “War, no.”
He frowns. “No?”
“June fifteenth,” my mother answers, ignoring me completely.
War nods like he’s just made a mental note for the ages, while I shake my head, half exasperated, half…so damn full of love I can’t even speak.
Mom cups my face in both hands, eyes bright. “Liv bug, I can see it. That little ounce of guilt… you stop it.”
Tears burn my eyes. “Mama—”
She shakes her head. “No, Olivia Lynn Baker. You were made for more than just this town. So you go be more.”
Her arms lock tight around me, and I break, crying into her shoulder.
“I love you, Mama.”
“Love you too, Liv Bug.”