23. Kate
Chapter twenty-three
Kate
T he house is too quiet without Parker.
Although if I have to admit, it’s not a bad quiet, not the type that makes you uneasy or scared, just different. It’s forcing me to face the fact that he’s growing up fast, and I now have to share him with friends.
I glance at the clock for the third time and smile to myself. He’s probably knee-deep in dinosaur battles and snack wrappers at Maddox’s place, talking Knox’s ears off and forgetting I exist.
I miss him already.
But I also… don’t mind this. The alone time. The space.
This evening feels like a rare chance to breathe. So, I light a candle on the kitchen island, vanilla and sandalwood, and the scent begins to curl up into the air, warm and soft and maybe a little too romantic for someone who’s just roasting chicken and mashing potatoes.
I pour a glass of wine but don’t sip yet, just hold it in my hand and look around the room like I’m seeing it through someone else’s eyes. Everything’s clean. Cozy. Intentionally so; not for appearances, but because it feels like a life I'm choosing, not hiding from.
I think I want Noah to see that. Not the surface, but the effort underneath.
I set two plates on the table, the real ceramic ones my mother would approve of, and fold the napkins into these awkward little triangles that look more like wrinkled pizza slices than anything Martha Stewart would approve of. Still, it feels… right. Like I’m marking the moment.
It’s not a date, exactly.
But now, I want to know Noah. Not just the man with calloused hands and searing eyes who watches over Parker like he’s something precious, not just the body I’ve learned too well in the dark.
I want to know the shape of his regrets.
The sound of his laughter when it’s real and unguarded.
What he dreamed about as a boy. What scares him now.
We’re yet to focus on those conversations, we’ve been busy orbiting each other with reverent touches and blazing desire, but I think we’re at the point where small talk matters. Where the in-between starts to mean something.
So tonight, I want more than his body.
I want the man.
And if that starts with roast chicken and clumsy napkin folds, so be it.
I glance toward the window, heart fluttering when I imagine the sound of his boots on the porch. Maybe he’ll bring Blaze, and he’ll smile when he sees the effort. We’ll talk about more than Josie and his regrets. We will talk about us.
The balsamic glaze is simmering when I light the last candle on the dining table. It's nothing fancy, just a flicker of golden warmth in a glass jar, but tonight, everything feels a little more intentional.
The roast chicken is resting on the counter, the house smells like garlic and rosemary and maybe a little too much hope.
I wipe my palms on my jeans and glance at the clock. Still early. I adjust the candle between the two place settings…too much? No, I decide.
My gaze darts toward the clock again. I figure there’s plenty of time to plate everything and maybe even fix my hair before..
…before the soft, comforting quiet cracks open like a dropped plate.
The doorbell rings.
My spine stiffens, and I turn my head toward the sound. I know it’s not Noah because he doesn’t ring the bell; he knocks. And as much as I love the visit from people in town, I want tonight to be just Noah and me.
The bell chimes again.
I frown and wipe my hands again, padding barefoot to the front door. I open it and forget how to breathe.
“Hello, Katherine.”
Cold and shock collide in my gut. No. Not him. Not here. Not now.
Father?
He’s standing on my porch like he visits every other day, in a tailored coat and polished shoes that don’t belong anywhere near Porthaven’s sandy roads. Behind him, a black sedan sits at the curb, its headlights slicing into the soft blue dusk.
“What—” My voice scrapes up my throat. “How did you—?”
The last time I saw him, he’d leaned over his desk, cufflinks glinting under the office lights as he said, “You keep this up, and I’ll make sure a judge agrees you’re unfit and you never see your son again.”
Now he stands on my porch like a ghost.
“It’s bad manners not to greet a visitor.” His voice is the same, smooth, even, the kind of tone that used to make me straighten my shoulders before I realized it was a weapon
I move to shut the door, panic flaring hot and fast, but his foot is already there, wedged against the frame.
“Not so fast now. I just want to talk,” he continues, smooth and calm, as though he’s asking to borrow a cup of sugar.
I push the door again, ready to push him away.
“Hear me out, you can ask me to leave afterward,” he says again, and for a second, I don’t know what to do.
I hesitate. Every instinct screams no—but the idea of getting him out of my life for good pulls harder than my fear.
Parker isn’t home, which is a good thing, and the thought steadies me enough for my fingers to loosen from the doorknob and make me step back.
“Two minutes,” I say before stepping back.
Richard Sinclair walks in like he’s surveying a hotel room. His gaze drags over the quilt tossed on the couch, the crayon marks on the wall Parker promised he’d clean, and the stack of library books by the armchair.
Then he sees the table.
Two wine glasses. The damn candle.
His eyebrow lifts.
“You’ve made yourself comfortable,” he says, pacing slowly through the room. His voice is coated in something too polite to be warm.
I cross my arms, bare feet pressing into the worn floorboards. “What do you want, Richard?”
He turns toward me but doesn’t answer right away. His eyes sweep the space again, the disgust subtle but sharp enough that I feel fifteen again, small, unwanted, never quite right.
“I have to say,” he starts, “you’ve been incredibly hard to find.”
I blink. “That’s the point.”
He ignores that. “People here are… tight-lipped. Which I respect, honestly. But I had to pull a few strings to find you. I’ve been here since mid-morning, and I just got to you now. It’s impressive for a small town like this.”
Typical.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “If you’re here to talk about influence or power or whatever you think still works on me. You can leave now.”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he picks up the bottle of wine, $12.99 at the local grocery store, and turns it in his hands.
Heat crawls up my neck. I cross my arms, suddenly self conscious. “Really. What do you want?”
“I’m here,” he finally says, “because your mother asked me to be.”
That stops me short.
I stare at him, searching for any sign that this is a joke. A laugh sticks in my throat. My mother? The woman who watched him tear me apart for years and never once raised her voice?
The last time I spoke to her was when I told her that I was keeping Parker; since then, I ceased to exist for her.
My father, unaware of my inner thoughts, continues speaking, “She’s worried about you. About Parker. She thinks I owe you an apology,” he adds, quieter now. “And… she’s right.”
His thumb rubs at the label, peeling the corner. “I was harsh, and I shouldn’t have threatened you with Parker.”
The air thickens.
I wait for the but.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, he sets the bottle down and finally meets my gaze. For a heartbeat, I’m fifteen again, desperate for him to see me, and I know if he wants to be a part of Parker’s life, I won’t say no.
But I don’t say anything yet. I just continue to watch him, waiting for the catch.
He steps closer, voice gentler now, “I shouldn’t have said the things I said, Katherine. I want the best for you, I didn’t mean to threaten you.”
My throat tightens.
“Your mother wanted me to say this in person. She thinks we should fix this. Try again.”
Try again.
It sounds almost believable. Just maybe, this could be real, and for a flicker of a moment, I imagine it. A version of this night, a night when he means everything he’s saying. Where Parker has grandparents who show up for birthdays, who love without conditions, who see us as enough.
“I—” My voice shakes. “I’m not saying I’ll forget. But if… if you and Mom want to be part of Parker’s life, I won’t stop you.”
He doesn’t smile.
He doesn’t even look relieved.
Instead, his eyes drift to the table again. And I watch him calculate.
“Good,” he says. “Because now that I’ve tried your mother’s way, I expect you’ll see reason and come home.”
The air sucks out of the room.
“What?” I breathe.
He steps forward, eyes locked on mine. “This town doesn’t suit you. You’ve made your point, Katie. It’s time to let it go. Come home. Marry Marcus, like we discussed. He can provide for you and Parker in ways no one here ever could.”
The words hit like acid. Marcus. That world. That version of my life I already clawed my way out of.
The fantasy shatters; the dinner, the candles, the soft, imagined conversation with Noah. I stare at the man in front of me and wonder how I ever let myself forget who he really is.
“You need to leave,” I say, voice low and shaking. “Now.”
His expression doesn’t falter. “You think this is a life for your son?”
My spine goes rigid. The audacity in his tone, the casual way he tosses that accusation as though he knows best, sparks something sharp and burning behind my ribs.
“You need to leave now.” I move to the door and yank it open, the evening air rushing in. “You don’t get to show up here and judge what you never tried to understand. You don’t get to ruin this.”
He steps toward the door slowly, like he’s humoring me. But there’s a glint in his eyes, that familiar, smug gleam of a man who always thinks he’s two steps ahead.
“I’ll leave,” he says, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve. “But I wonder if the hesitation in your voice and your refusal has anything to do with the tall, rugged fireman who looked like he wanted to rip me in half.”
I freeze.
The image of Noah — protective, loyal — slams into me like a second betrayal.
“I guess you didn’t tell him who you are?”
The chill starts in my fingertips and rushes straight to my throat. “Noah?” I breathe in disbelief.
He watches me. Smug. Calculating. “I met him in town earlier. Thought he was protecting you. Funny thing is, I didn’t even have to dig for the truth. He asked all the right questions. I just gave him honest answers.”
My chest tightens.
“What did you tell him?”
“If I told him anything…” His mouth lifts into a slow, deliberate smile. “It was the truth.”
My heart starts to pound, too fast, too loud. I feel the heat drain from my face, the rush of panic setting in. If Noah knows… if he heard it from my father of all people…
Richard holds out a business card like a peace offering, and I don’t take it. He places it neatly on the console table beside the door.
“If you change your mind about coming home,” he says, straightening his coat, “you know how to reach me.”
Then he turns and walks out, calm, composed, as if he didn’t just toss a grenade into the life I’ve been trying so hard to protect.
The door clicks shut behind him, and for a moment, I just stand there.
The house is silent again, but not the good kind. It doesn’t feel peaceful anymore. It feels hollow. This quiet feels like something's gone missing.
My hand fumbles for my phone. I dial Noah without thinking and wait for him to pick up. He always picks up before the first ring is over.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
It goes to voicemail.
The silence stretches like a noose. I lower the phone and just… stare. Because I know. He heard it from him. And now, everything might be ruined.