Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty Nine
Paige
Silence rushes back in: the low hum of the AC, the far-off hush of the river, the house breathing. My heart thunders anyway. I roll onto my side carefully, trying not to wake up Ben, but his eyes are already open.
“Hey,” he whispers, voice rough with sleep. The single syllable finds every tender place in me and softens me up.
“Sorry,” I breathe. “I meant to catch it before—”
“You did,” he says, lips tipping like the idea amuses him. “I was awake.”
“Did you get any sleep?” I ask, settling back down.
He nods, tiny, like he doesn’t want to wake the room. “Some,” he says. “Enough to know you steal the covers and make a little whistle sometimes when you sleep.”
“I do not.” I poke his ribs under the sheet. “And if I did, it would be downright adorable.”
“It is,” he says solemnly, catching my hand and tucking it under his chin like it belongs there. His stubble is warm against my knuckles. “Weaponized adorability.”
We lie there looking at each other in the blue pre-morning.
The curtains are just a shade lighter than the room, the kind of quiet that makes whispers feel too loud.
He shifts closer, slow, like he’s approaching a skittish animal, and slides his palm over my hip to the small of my back.
The heat of his hand there does ridiculous things to my nervous system.
“How’s your stomach?” he asks, thumb making lazy arcs I can feel all the way to my toes.
“Negotiating,” I admit. “The union is demanding toast.”
“Management can meet those demands.” He nods, very serious. “Possibly with a side of ginger.”
“And lemon,” I say, because the craving is instantaneous the second I admit anything out loud.
“I think I can manage that,” he murmurs, and I laugh into the pillow.
For a minute, it’s just breath and quiet touches. I trace the line of his jaw with a fingertip, then the pale edge where his black eye is almost gone. He catches my wrist gently, kisses the heel of my hand like he’s saying thank you without words.
“I’m sorry,” he says then, simple and low. “For last night. For disappearing. For making you worry. I should’ve texted. I should’ve come straight to you.”
Some tight knot under my breastbone loosens. “Thank you,” I whisper. “You scared me.”
“I know.” His brow pulls, and he tips his forehead to mine. “It won’t happen again. Running, I mean. I might still be an idiot sometimes.”
“I have extensive experience managing idiots,” I say softly. “I’m related to one.”
He huffs a laugh against my mouth. “Fair.”
We breathe together. His hand spreads warmth on my back. I slide my leg between his and feel him exhale, long and quiet.
“You can tell me when your head gets loud,” I say into the space where our noses almost touch. “Even if you can’t make it quieter yet. Just… aim the noise at me. I can take it. I’m not delicate.”
“I will,” he says, and I feel the truth of it in the way his fingers tighten briefly. “Same deal applies to you, FYI. If the union of your stomach demands saltines at 3:00 in the morning, I’ll be there.”
“Crossing a picket line?” I whisper. “Scandalous.”
“Only for you,” he says, and kisses the corner of my smile.
We fall into that small, drowsy stretch of conversation that only exists at 4:00 a.m. He asks what’s on deck today—muffins first, then sticky buns, a few more taste tests for the film fest this weekend. He listens as if each item is breaking news, nodding with that focused bartender face.
I tell him my mom will come in at 6:00 and try to make me sit, and I’ll pretend to argue while secretly being relieved. He promises to swing by with lunch, which I know means a sandwich and one of the house-made pickles I love.
We fall silent, and I don’t want to break it, but I do. “I’m glad you came,” I say, stroking my thumb over his cheek.
His gaze flicks to mine. “I really am sorry about yesterday,” he says, quietly. “I won’t run like that again.”
I nod, because the speech I’d rehearsed has nowhere to go in the face of simple truth, and because relief is loosening muscles I didn’t know I’d tightened. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoes.
“Will you tell me what happened?” I ask after a moment. “Not right now, necessarily. Just… when you can.”
He nods, then pulls me close, tucking me against his chest and wrapping his arms around me.
Then he starts speaking and tells me everything. What happened when he was eighteen, the men in the bar, what they said, where he went, and finally, Jason showing up.
I listen to his voice, feel the rumble in his chest. The way his arms tighten around me to keep me in place when I want to jump up in outrage at the horrible things they said to him, what his father did to him.
When he finally goes quiet, his palm spreads at my back like he’s bracing me for the recoil.
“I hate them,” I say simply, because the elegant speech in my head just burned to ash. “I hate what they said, and I hate that it took you back to a horrible time.” I press a kiss below his jaw. “You didn’t deserve any of it. Not at eighteen. Not yesterday. Not ever.”
His breath leaves him in a long ribbon. “Felt like I was eighteen again,” he admits. “Taking up all that undeserved space.”
“Don’t say that,” I say and pull back enough to look him in the eyes. “It wasn’t true then, and it’s not true now. You’re not a thief or a sham or whatever the hell else they said.”
It hurts me to think of them saying those things to him. Telling him he’s not good enough, not good enough for me.
“Those, yes, good-for-nothing assholes don’t get to decide if you’re right for me or good enough for me. Or good enough for anyone. Who the hell do they think they are?” I say, fired up again.
“They seemed to know my family.” He pulls me close again and nuzzles my temple. “What if they’re right about my family? What if the whole lot is rotten, not just my dad?”
“That doesn’t change who you are, Ben,” I say into his skin. “But if it bothers you that much, then we’ll find out. You said your family is from here. There are people here who knew your grandfather. It was thirty years ago, not three hundred.
“But whatever we find doesn’t define you. Whatever we find is just the past. You are who you are, and you should be proud of what you’ve built. You didn’t build your bar on the Hoffman Heritage. You built it on your back.”
I pull back again, making sure he sees the truth on my face.
His eyes soften. “You’re very sure about that.”
“Yeah, and regardless of what we find, you have a legacy. The bar, and this right here.” I take his hand and press it to my stomach.
His hand warms through the thin cotton, wide enough to cover almost everything, and so gentle.
“Our legacy,” he says, so quietly it’s almost just breath.
“Exactly.” I flatten my palm over his, holding him there. “This kid will never stand on the stoop with a key that doesn’t work.”
He shakes his head, his eyes glassy. “Never."
“Good,” I whisper. Then my stomach rumbles. “Now, I really, really need that toast.”
He breaks out in a grin and throws the covers back like a man on a mission. “I think I can manage that one.”
“Extra butter,” I say, dead serious.
“Doctor’s orders?”
“Paige’s orders.”
He kisses my forehead and slides out of bed. “Yes, boss.”
I watch him pad toward the door, and think: I could get used to this.
He turns back. “Hey, your dad doesn’t have a shotgun, does he?”
I grin. “I think you’ve already done the worst, Ben. Just be really quiet on the stairs. They creak. Walk on the edges.”