11. Kate
Chapter eleven
Kate
T he house is so quiet it’s almost as if it’s holding its breath, the hush that makes every sound louder.
The tick of the wall clock stretches long between seconds, but Parker’s soft, even breaths fill the silence, slow and deep, his little chest rising and falling beneath the quilt I tucked around him hours ago.
His curls are a wild, sleep-tousled mess, clinging to his forehead, cheeks still kissed pink from a day well spent.
I smooth my palm over his hair, tracing the shape of his warm, round forehead with the pads of my fingers, lingering there like I can will the world to stay quiet, stay still, a little longer.
Most nights, this is where I’d stay. Right here, curled up beside him, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing lull me to sleep. I’d drift off wrapped in his warmth, and somewhere around midnight, my body would remember my own bed.
But not tonight.
Tonight, the quiet doesn’t soothe. It needles beneath my skin, sharp and restless, crawling through my muscles like something is sitting under the surface, too big to settle, too tangled to name.
My eyes burn from staying open, the ceiling above Parker’s bed nothing but a dark, empty canvas, and I already know sleep isn’t coming. It won’t, not for a long while.
I ease off the bed with careful, practiced movements, pulling the blanket up higher around Parker’s small shoulders.
My toes meet the cool bite of the wooden floor, the chill slicing through the warmth his bed left behind.
And with every step down the hall, the emptiness inside me spreads like a shadow.
The kitchen light is too bright at first, and I blink against it, squinting while I reach for the kettle. My hands move on autopilot, filling it, setting it on the burner, and flipping the switch. The kettle hums to life, and the faint hiss of heating water is the only voice in the room.
I reach for the tin of chamomile, the familiar scent of dried flowers drifting up as I peel the lid away. It’s supposed to help; it always helps when I can’t sleep, but tonight, the ritual feels thin, like a bandage on a wound too deep to reach.
I spoon the loose tea into the strainer and watch the water roll toward a boil, the soft whistle building slow and steady- quiet enough to sit beside the thoughts I can’t shut out.
Because the truth is, I already know why I’m awake. Why my mind won’t stop spinning. Why my chest feel like it’s holding something I can’t swallow down.
It’s him.
Noah.
I lean against the counter, eyes closed, letting the steam curl around me with the scent of honey and herbs. What grips my chest isn’t fear or grief—it’s the sound of Parker’s voice from earlier, so small and certain, piercing walls I thought were impenetrable.
“I like when you’re happy. Mr. Bennett makes you happy.”
“And I like when he hugs you.”
“You’ve been smiling more since we got here. I feel safe here and with him.”
Those words haven’t left me all evening. They loop in my head, soft and stubborn, and I press mug to my lips, not drinking yet, just holding on. Parker’s too young to understand the world the way I do, but his heart... his heart sees the truth before my head dares to admit it.
Because he’s right. Noah makes me feel something, even if it’s not happiness.
And last night, damn , I let myself feel. I let myself want. The way he kissed me, slow but sure, like he knew every crack and scar and still wanted to touch the pieces. His hands weren’t rushed or greedy. Just steady and warm and reverent, like I was something worth holding.
And for the first time in years, I relished the feeling.
I sink into a chair by the table, tucking my legs up and cradling the mug between my palms. The night outside is ink-black, the moon a sliver through the glass. The stars blink cold and far away, but my body still hums with the memory of his touch.
My lips still tingle like his kiss branded them there, and the worst part? I wanted more. I still want more.
But as much as I want him and wish to lose myself in him, the guilt isn’t far behind. It sits heavy in my thoughts, the sharp ache of betrayal threading through every tender thought I’ve had since I met him.
Because before Noah, there was only one man .
Parker’s father. My first love. The only man I’d ever given myself to, body and heart. Our life hadn’t been perfect, not even close, but the love had been real. The kind that felt enough back then. The love we had made me believe I could build something lasting.
I press the warm ceramic against my cheek like it might soothe the ache rising up. It hadn’t been easy, carrying Parker. My father, always so controlled and cold, had made his disappointment clear the moment he found out I was pregnant.
To my father, Parker wasn’t a child. He was a mistake. An inconvenience.
My father had wanted me to get rid of Parker. Fix the problem and fall back into the life he carved out for me. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.
So, I chose love. I walked away from everything I knew and moved in with Ethan . For a little while, it felt like we were making it work. We were building a home, saving every penny, and learning how to be parents when we were barely ready ourselves.
We didn’t have a lot, and living with Parker’s father couldn’t compare to how I grew up; the riches, the luxury, the affluence, and the connection, but we made it work. Giving birth to Parker was the best thing that happened to both of us, and I loved the life we were building.
Then... the accident and everything turned upside down.
I don't even taste the tea as I take a slow sip. Parker was eighteen months old when it happened. Too small to understand, but old enough to be the reason I kept breathing. His father was gone in an instant. One second, he was there; the next...gone.
We were together in the car that night during a storm. Parker wasn’t hurt; I sustained an injury to the forehead and sprained a wrist, but Parker’s father bore the major brunt of the accident.
I spent everything we saved, every last cent, trying to save him. Hospital bills, surgeries, and false hope stacked on top of false hope until the bank account bled dry. And when the dust settled, all that was left was me and Parker and a grief so sharp it cut the world in half.
Two weeks later, Parker fell sick, and I had to rush him to the hospital. Without money to treat Parker, I ran to the only person I had. My father. Richard Sinclair showed up like a vulture circling the bones.
Arms wide, smile tight, offering help. I was too desperate to refuse. Parker needed medicine, a roof, and food. I moved back in with him when he offered; I told myself it was temporary.
For a while, it felt like my father had changed. He let me paint again. Gave Parker space to be a child. I even let myself believe perhaps he’d softened. But my father never softened. He only waits. And when Parker was older, the truth finally came out.
He didn’t want to be a grandfather. He wanted to be in control. And he wanted me to marry another man. Not for love. For business. For the family name, the company, and the legacy.
My son would be raised in boardrooms and country clubs, groomed for a life that never felt like mine to begin with. And if I didn’t agree... he’d take Parker from me.
Richard Sinclair definitely had the money and influence to take Parker from me and do more. I didn’t wait to see if he was just threatening me or would actually pull through. I packed our lives into the back of my car and left.
A week in a hotel and a dwindling wallet forced me to find a small town where Richard wouldn’t find us and a job to put a roof over our heads.
Now, here I am. Sitting in this tiny, cozy cottage that finally feels like home. Letting myself fall for a man who, for once, doesn’t want to own me. Who looks at Parker like he’s more than baggage. Who makes me feel like I’m more than the sum of my mistakes.
But what does it say about me if I let this happen? About the woman who loved one man, lost him, and is already burning for another? Is it too soon? Is it wrong?
My hands tighten around the cup, but it’s not the tea I’m thinking about. One kiss from Noah woke something up in me, and now I can’t quiet it. One taste wasn’t enough. It never will be.
The worst part? With Parker’s father, even the good moments-the laughter, the warmth, the sex-had never unraveled me like this. It had been easy, familiar. Safe.
But with Noah... it’s something else entirely. One look, one brush of his fingers, and I’m soaked. One kiss, and I’m undone.
Here I am, sitting in the dark, my skin still tingling like he’s still close, like the night isn’t done with me yet.
My mind drifts, traitorous and soft, right back to the way his hands felt on my skin, the way his mouth tasted, and the intensity of his stare when he looked at me like I was the only woman in the world.
And even though the guilt lingers, I know deep down I don’t want to fight it. I want him.
A sound slices through the quiet—scratching, deliberate, too close. My body goes still. The air turns brittle. I don’t breathe.
Another scrape, and I’m on my feet, ear straining to place the sound.
It’s not the wind nor the old porch settling.
My muscles snap tight, coiling in readiness for anything. My ears strain for another sound, anything that could explain away the fear crawling up the back of my neck, but the silence only makes it worse.
My mind spins out faster than my heartbeat. A shadow on the other side of the door. A hand. A stranger. The sound comes again, and I accept the only thing my imagination suggests.
A thief.
I set the mug down as gently as I can, but the cold tea still sloshes over the rim. I move as fast without making a sound toward the kitchen drawer. My fingers fumble the handle, that stubborn old brass catch sticking, and for a second, the only sound in the house is my own ragged breathing.