Chapter Twenty-Two
Nora
Mabel believed in the restorative power of errands the way some people believed in church. “Fresh air builds character,” she liked to say, pressing a stack of envelopes into my hands like a benediction.
That was how I ended up stepping out of the post office with the warm weight of mail against my chest and the sweet, stubborn scent of her cinnamon cookies still clinging to my sweater.
The afternoon sun poured over my shoulders.
Firebrook Valley didn’t rush. Not the people, not the seasons, and certainly not the slow, steady heartbeat of a small town on a quiet Wednesday.
I crossed the street toward my car and stopped dead.
A single rose lay tucked beneath the windshield wiper, deep velvet red against the ordinary glass.
No note. No card. Just the flower, perfect and unexpected.
I pulled it free, turning the stem slowly between my fingers.
In Boston or New York I might have felt a prickle of unease, but here secrets in Firebrook Valley were usually about who bought the last piece of pie at Mabel’s or whose dog dug up Mrs. Langley’s tulips again.
I opened the car door and froze a second time. A lush little bouquet of the same roses rested on the driver’s seat, petals still dewy as if they had been placed only moments ago.
“Okay . . .” I murmured.
I glanced around the square—at the empty benches, the old-fashioned lampposts, and the distant hum of a lawnmower somewhere—but nothing looked out of place. Then I saw it: another rose tied with a thin satin ribbon to the base of a lamppost a few yards away.
My heart gave a small, curious kick.
I walked toward it and spotted the next one tied to the railing of the general store, then another tucked into the low branch of an oak farther down the street.
It was a trail. I gathered the roses as I went, soft petals brushing my wrists while their scent rose sweet and heady in the warm air.
My pulse quickened with every step as the path wound through the square and into the small park where the town held Saturday music nights.
Today the grass was empty except for scattered benches and the soft rustle of leaves overhead. At the center stood the little white gazebo, its railing lined with roses like a promise. And on the steps sat Evan.
He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped loosely, waiting. When he looked up and saw me, something in his face transformed with such happiness my heart broke open.
He stood slowly as I clutched the armful of flowers to my chest and crossed the grass toward him. After a month of silence, this was one hell of an apology.
We met halfway, and for a long moment neither of us spoke. Evan reached up, his touch hesitant at first as his fingers traced the line of my jaw. His thumb lingered at the corner of my mouth, warm and deliberate.
“I was such an idiot, Nora.” His voice was low, rough with everything he hadn’t said in thirty days.
I tilted my head, looking up at him. “You were.”
His eyes widened a fraction. “You’re not supposed to agree that fast.”
“I wasn’t supposed to wait a month either.”
A quiet laugh escaped him, softening the tension between us before his expression steadied. “I thought you and Brady were together,” he said.
“I know.”
“I didn’t want to hurt my brother.”
“You did a great job hurting me instead,” I said.
I stepped back an inch, enough to look him in the eye without the distraction of his touch.
“But Evan, we need to be clear about what actually happened in that apartment. Because it wasn’t just the misunderstanding that hurt, and it wasn’t the silence that followed. ”
His jaw tightened, sensing the shift. “I made an assumption. I was a fool.”
“What really broke me,” I countered, my voice gaining strength, “was that you actually believed it. You believed I was someone who could be with your brother and still show up in New York in that dress. You thought I could be that careless with Brady and with you. That hurt.”
The color drained from his face.
“To step aside for your brother is one thing,” I continued, the words a bittersweet release as I found my voice. “But to look at me and see someone with so little integrity? That’s what stayed with me, Evan. You didn’t just misread the situation. You misread me.”
He held my gaze. “I let my fears get in the way,” he said, his voice dropping to a rough, pained register. “I was so afraid of becoming like my father that I couldn’t see what was right in front of me. I know you’d never do that. Not to Brady. And never to us.”
The way he said us felt solid and undeniable. A month of distance, years of almosts, and thirty years of family history pressed down on this single moment. Evan reached for my hand, threading his fingers through mine.
“Let’s try this again.”
My breath caught. “Yes.”
He didn’t move right away.
Neither did I.
We stood there, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his breath brushing against my lips. His hand tightened slightly around mine.
“I missed you,” he said quietly.
The words slipped into the space between us, soft and unguarded, and something in my chest pulled tight.
“I know,” I whispered.
And I did. I had felt it in every quiet morning, every ride across the pasture, every moment I had almost reached for my phone and stopped myself. I knew he had feelings for me, but I needed him to find his voice as well.
His thumb traced a slow circle over my knuckles. Everything between us felt steady.
Then he pulled me closer.
The kiss wasn’t rushed or uncertain. It was slow and sure, something that had been waiting far longer than either of us had admitted.
His hand slid into my hair while his other arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me flush against him until I felt the solid line of his body and the steady rhythm of his heart.
Heat bloomed low and immediate. I pressed closer without thinking, one hand fisting in his shirt as he deepened the kiss. The world narrowed to nothing but him, his warmth, his breath, and the way he held me like he’d never let go.
For one perfect heartbeat I let myself believe this was us. We could be this uncomplicated.
Then the memory of my father’s voice sliced through me: He’ll lose everything.
I froze.
Evan felt it instantly and pulled back enough to search my face, concern sharpening his expression. “Nora?”
I looked at him—and God, I wanted to tell him everything.
About my father, about the plan, and about the legal storm coming for his family.
The words pressed at the back of my throat, desperate to get out, but I hesitated.
If I said them now, would he believe me?
Or would it sound like a Burke trying to protect her own?
“I need time,” I said softly.
Confusion flickered in his eyes. “Haven’t we waited too long already?”
“I mean it, Evan.”
He studied me, and I saw the exact moment he misunderstood. He thought this was about New York and about protecting myself from him. “Take all the time you need,” he said quietly, as his lips brushed over mine, lightly this time. “I’m not going anywhere.”
What would he say if I spilled everything? Would he still be willing to wait while we sorted out another Burke/Holliston storm?
“I’ll explain,” I whispered. “Just . . . not yet.”
He nodded, and that simple acceptance made the weight of the secret heavier. I stepped back slowly, clutching the roses to my chest and already missing his warmth.
I will stop my father.
This isn’t how we end.