Chapter 10
TEN
LUCY
The house was too quiet.
No cartoons humming in the background, no clatter of cereal bowls, no six-year-old zooming a plastic car under the couch and asking if syrup counted as a vegetable. Just the steady tick of the kitchen clock and the low hum of the dryer in the hall.
I curled my fingers around the warm mug in my hands and leaned against the counter, staring out the window like it might answer the questions I hadn’t even let myself form yet.
Cord had left hours ago—texted me once, a quick, charming “Duty calls. But damn, I wanted to stay.” And still, he lingered. In the twist of my sheets. In the ache low in my belly. In the look he’d given me right before I’d kissed him like I meant it. Like I wanted it.
Because I had.
And I did.
I’d showered, pulled on an old sweatshirt that slouched off one shoulder, and tried to focus on laundry like that would settle the nervous flutter in my chest. Fold the towels. Match the socks. Pretend my life hadn’t tipped sideways sometime around dessert last night.
I crouched to pick up a stray tee from beside the laundry basket and something caught my eye—pale, almost silver in the morning light.
A single blond hair.
I froze, heart stuttering. Stupid. It was just hair. He had a head full of it. But it felt… personal. Like a fingerprint. A reminder. A ghost of his hand on my waist, his mouth on my throat.
I set the shirt down and brushed the hair into the trash, trying to shake off the ridiculous wave of emotion that came with it.
Then I couldn’t quite stop myself from picking up a pillow from the bed and inhaling. His scent clung to it. Not overpowering. Just enough to stop me cold.
I closed my eyes. Breathed it in like a memory. He’d been here. In my space. In my bed. In me. And now I didn’t know what to do with that.
Not just the want—that I understood. But the way I still felt it. The way I didn’t want it to fade. Which, frankly, was the most terrifying part of all.
I was sitting cross-legged in the middle of my bed, folding laundry in a half-hearted attempt at being productive, when my phone buzzed beside me.
Incoming Call: G-Force.
I rolled my eyes and smiled. Gillian had insisted on programming that nickname herself when we were thirteen and thought we were invincible.
We’d been summer friends back then—me visiting my grandmother, her the hometown girl with a flair for rebellion and better taste in music than anyone I’d ever met.
Ironic that the hometown girl had moved away, and I was the one in Huckleberry Creek now .
I swiped to answer and said, “You’ve been waiting to call, haven’t you?”
“Lucy Sullivan.” Her tone was all mock sternness and southern bite. “You told me your grandmother bought you a firefighter, and then you went radio silent. What else was I supposed to do—respect your privacy?”
I flopped onto my back and stared at the ceiling. “I didn’t go radio silent. I just… needed a minute.”
“A minute?” she snorted. “It’s been twelve hours. You better have stories that make my ears burn.”
I laughed, but it came out more like a breath. “It was… a night.”
She gasped. “You did ride the fire pole!”
“Gillian!”
“What? I’m just saying—if Grandma served you up a man that fine on a silver platter, I hope you at least thanked her with flowers and a fruit basket.”
I grabbed a pillow and hugged it to my chest, suddenly a little dizzy with everything I was feeling. “He was actually… kind of amazing.”
“Oh,” she said, softer now. “That’s worse.”
“Why?”
“Because now I have to worry about your heart, not just your hormones.”
I shifted the pillow under my chin, biting back a grin. “It was just a date. A good one.”
Gillian made a noise that sounded like a cat hacking up judgment. “Did you, or did you not, invite the auction firefighter into your home like the opening scene of a Hallmark movie gone rogue?”
I laughed so hard I almost dropped the phone. “Okay, fine. Yes. But in my defense, it didn’t feel like a setup. Or like… a joke. It fe lt real.”
“So? Spill. Was he as good as he looked onstage?”
I’d texted her pictures from the auction.
My smile stretched wider. “Better.”
“Stop. I’ll combust from jealousy.”
I sat up, legs crossed again. “He was just—warm. And funny. Confident but not cocky. He made me laugh, actually laugh, and not in that I’m-nodding-because-I’m-tired-and-it’s-easier way.”
“You felt seen,” Gillian said quietly.
I swallowed. “Yeah. That’s exactly what it felt like.”
There was a pause on the other end. “Oh, Lu.”
“I know.” I leaned back against the headboard. “It was amazing. Like, actually amazing. I didn’t realize how much I missed feeling like this until I did.” I sighed, sinking deeper into the pillows. “It was just one night, though.”
Gillian didn’t miss a beat. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t real.”
“No, I mean—” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “It can’t be more than that. I’ve got Liam. I’ve got work. I’ve got a life that’s already full to the edges. There’s no space for a man like that.”
The words came out sharper than I intended, like I needed to say them fast before the wanting crept back in.
Because it was already creeping. That stupid golden hour glow in my chest, the echo of his laugh still buzzing somewhere behind my ribs.
But life wasn’t built for soft and shining things. Not mine, anyway.
I’d had a night. A damn good one. That was more than most people got.
And even now, I could feel the door starting to close again—quietly, decisively—before I’d even gotten used to how it felt to have it open.
Gillian went quiet for a second, which usually meant she was winding up for a truth bomb. “Maybe you don’t have to know how it ends. Maybe you just let yourself want something for once.”
I let out a breath. “It was one night.”
“So?” she said. “You’re allowed to enjoy one night. You’re also allowed to want another.”
My fingers curled around the edge of the pillow. I stared at the faint smudge of mascara still on the pillowcase from last night and tried to remember the last time I let myself want anything that didn’t come with guilt or a price tag.
I didn’t say anything. But Gillian didn’t need me to. She knew me too well to push harder.
And maybe that was the part that made me tear up a little—because wanting felt dangerous. But not wanting? That had started to feel like forgetting how to live.
I shifted on the bed, tucking my legs under me and pulling the duvet blanket up like it might hide something I wasn’t ready to admit. The phone was still warm against my ear.
“It was just so nice,” I said quietly. “To be Lucy. Just Lucy. Not Miss Sullivan. Not Mom.”
Gillian didn’t rush to fill the silence. Just let it breathe for a moment before answering, “You still are.”
I closed my eyes. Let the words settle, even though I wasn’t sure I believed them. Not yet.
“Yeah,” I said, finally. A faint smile tugged at my lips. “I guess I needed the reminder.”
We hung up not long after that, promises of texting later and something about her mailing me a bad decision candle “for ambiance.”
But I sat there for a long time after, wrapped in the blanket, Cord’s scent still faint on my skin.
The ache hadn’t left.
But neither had the glow.