Chapter 16
Lucy
I couldn’t believe what I’d done.
I sat hunched over in the corner of The Daily Grind, my fingers clutching Mr. Whiskers like a lifeline. His soft, worn fur pressed into my palms, grounding me in the chaos of my mind. Coffee and cinnamon lingered in the air, but even the familiar comfort of Marie’s shop couldn’t touch the ache in my chest. Emily's face flashed in my thoughts again, smug and victorious. My stomach churned.
I’d sold my Dad’s house to a development company.
I’d sold my childhood.
"Hey,” Marie said softly. She slid into the seat across from me, her curls bouncing as she tilted her head to catch my eye. “You remember old Mr. Thompson? The guy who tried to start a yoga class in the goat paddock out by the river?”
"Yep," I murmured, not looking up. My voice sounded flat, even to me.
"Turns out he didn’t realize goats eat everything, including yoga mats. They had his whole setup shredded before the first class even started." She chuckled, the sound light and warm.
I blinked, vaguely aware that she was waiting for a reaction. "That’s . . . something," I mumbled, staring at the frayed stitching on Mr. Whiskers' ear.
I knew what she was trying to do. Trying to get me to open up. But I’d barely said a word to her since coming in. I was meant to be here to say goodbye, I was even failing at that.
"Lucy." Marie reached across the table, her hand brushing mine. Her voice dropped lower, softer. "Talk to me."
"There's nothing to say," I said quickly, too quickly. My throat felt tight. I glanced around the room, desperate for distraction. Brett was leaning against the counter near the espresso machine, arms crossed, watching me with that calm, steady look of his. I hadn’t told him about Marcus and Emily.
How was I meant to?
Thankfully, Brett hadn’t said a word to me just yet. Hopefully, he wouldn’t try.
Mrs. Henderson bustled in the background, quietly unpacking what looked like half her bakery onto the counter. Their presence should’ve been comforting, but all it did was make me feel exposed.
“I’m fine,” I said, not meeting her eyes.
"That's bull," Marie said flatly. She let go of my hand and leaned back, crossing her arms. "You're sitting here holding that raggedy cat like your life depends on it, and you're telling me you're fine? Come on."
"Marie, just—" My voice cracked, and I bit down on the rest of the sentence.
"Just what?" she pushed, her tone sharper now. "Pretend like you’re not falling apart? Pretend like Marcus didn’t—"
I glanced over at Brett, hoping he didn’t hear his brother’s name. "Don’t." The word came out harsher than I intended. I closed my eyes, inhaling sharply. The betrayal hit me like a gut punch all over again.
"Okay," she said after a moment, her voice softer. "Okay, Lucy. But you know this isn’t you, right? Hiding? Shutting everyone out?"
I opened my eyes and stared down at the table. Mr. Whiskers’ button eyes stared back, unblinking.
"And you’re sure you did the right thing selling the house?" she asked gently.
I nodded my head, swallowing hard.
"Lucy. . .” She sighed, dragging the word out. “Your dad loved that place. You loved that place."
"Not anymore," I whispered. My jaw tightened, and I forced myself to meet her gaze. "It’s just a building. It doesn’t mean anything now."
"Bull again," Marie said without missing a beat. "That house is more than wood and nails. It's memories. It's . . . him."
"Well, it’s gone," I snapped, louder than I meant to. Brett shifted by the counter, glancing our way, but he didn’t move closer. "It’s done. And maybe that’s for the best."
"Is it?" Marie’s voice was barely above a whisper. She looked at me, really looked at me, and for a second, I thought I might break right there.
The bell above the door jingled, cutting through the moment like a knife.
"Another concerned citizen come to poke at the broken girl," I muttered under my breath, staring down at the swirl of foam in my mug.
"Maybe . . ." Marie trailed off, her tone shifting. There was a tightness in it now, something unreadable.
The heavy thuds of boots on wood made my spine stiffen. Each step landed sharper, slower, deliberate. Like whoever it was *wanted* to be noticed but didn’t need to rush about it.
I knew those boots. Knew the weight of each tread, the rhythm, the authority. I didn’t even have to look up.
"Lucy."
His voice slid through the air like smoke, rough edges catching on every nerve ending I had left.
My stomach plummeted. My fingers went numb around Mr. Whiskers' soft fur.
"Marcus," I whispered, though it barely made it past my lips. I kept my head down, my whole body screaming at me not to look. Don’t you dare look, Lucy.
But I didn’t need to see him. He was impossible to ignore. The charge in the room shifted, like the air had been sucked out and replaced with static. Every inch of my skin prickled, hyper aware of him standing there, not ten feet away.
"Lucy," he said again, softer this time.
The sound of my name on his lips cracked something open inside me. Something I’d worked hard to keep locked up.
"Not now," I managed to say, though it came out weaker than I’d intended. My throat felt tight, my pulse hammering like a warning. “I’m about to leave.”
"Now," he countered, firm. Unyielding.
I closed my eyes. The warmth of the coffee shop suddenly felt suffocating. My chin lifted, slow as molasses, like the air had thickened around me. My gaze met his, and I stopped breathing.
He looked . . . different. Not pleading or regretful like I’d been bracing for. His blue eyes burned with something sharp and unyielding. Determination.
"Emily lied," he started, his words cutting through the quiet like a blade.
I blinked, trying to process. "What?"
"She lied," he repeated, his jaw tight, voice vibrating with barely contained emotion. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. The movement was quick, deliberate. He held it out toward me.
"Marcus, I don’t—"
"Just look."
There was a command in his tone I hadn’t heard before, and it made my skin prickle. My hands stayed glued to Mr. Whiskers, but my eyes flicked to the screen. A text thread. From Emily.
"She sent that message," he said, voice dropping lower, quieter, but somehow more intense. "The one you saw. Not me. She knew would make you think . . ."
That made my head snap up. "Make me think what? That you picked her?!" My voice cracked, loud enough to make Marie flinch behind me.
"Yeah," he said, and the word was so bitter it could’ve curdled milk. "That’s exactly what she wanted. And it worked, didn’t it?"
As I looked at him, I so many emotions surged in me.
There wasn’t even a hint of deception in his eyes. Was he telling the truth? Had it all been a trick by a manipulative ex?
“I—I want to believe you. I just . . . I’m so scared. Of being hurt.”
“Of course you are. It’s terrifying. I know. I’ve been hurt. But Lucy, you’ve got to know, you can trust me.”
When he said that word—trust—I thought back to the times we’d spent together. Of the way I’d trusted him to take control of my senses. Of the way he’d always been gentle, always been true.
"Jesus, Lucy," he growled, running a hand through his hair. "Do you honestly think I’d choose her over you? After everything?"
"How am I supposed to know what you’d do?" I fired back, my voice trembling now, the fight draining out of me.
"Because I’m here," he snapped, stepping closer. Too close. I could smell the rain on his jacket, the faint scent of cedar wood soap clinging to his skin. "I’m right here, standing in front of you, trying like hell to fix this because you mean something to me."
My throat closed up, my fingers digging harder into Mr. Whiskers. The relief hit me then, sudden and overwhelming. He didn’t choose her.
But the house.
"Marcus . . ." My voice wavered, and I shook my head, trying to hold onto the anger, the hurt, anything that would keep me grounded. "None of this changes the fact that I sold the house. It’s gone. I can’t—"
Marcus reached into his jacket. My stomach flipped, and not in a good way. His movements were deliberate, slow. The room felt too small, every breath too loud.
"Lucy," he said, voice gravelly, like it hurt to speak my name. He pulled out a worn manila folder, edges creased from being shoved around. Vanessa’s letterhead blinked up at me like a slap across the face.
"What's that?" My words came out sharper than I intended, but I didn’t care. My pulse roared in my ears, drowning out everything else.
"Let me explain." His tone softened, and for a second, the determination in his eyes faltered. Just a second. Then he squared his shoulders, planted himself like he wasn’t going anywhere until I heard him out. “I ran into Vanessa at your place. She told me about the sale.”
Hearing him say it made it even more real. The sale. I felt as though it was all going to overwhelm me.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He turned the paper to face me. Big, bold letters at the top confirmed what I already knew. Deed of Sale. My childhood home. My sanctuary. My last connection to Dad. Signed, sealed, sold. My heart sank.
"Marcus, why are you showing me this?" I whispered, each word breaking apart under its own weight.
"Look closer." He tapped the bottom of the page, where another name glared back at me. His name.
"Wait . . ." My thoughts scrambled for purchase. "This isn’t . . . You didn’t—"
"I bought it," he said simply. His voice dropped lower, quieter, pulling me in whether I wanted it or not. "Put in a higher bid than the developers. I couldn’t let someone else take it away from you. It’s yours, Lucy. All yours"
The air rushed out of me like I’d been punched. For a second, all I could do was stare at him, at the paper, at the impossible thing he’d done.
Marcus knelt in front of me, the crack of his knee on the wooden floor loud enough to make Marie suck in a breath. His hands found mine, warm and rough, enveloping my trembling fingers. I couldn’t look at him—didn’t want to—but he tilted his head slightly, catching my eyes like a hook catching a fish.
"Lucy," he began, voice low and gravelly, like it hurt to speak. "I know what this house means to you. What he meant to you. When Vanessa told me you’d sold it, I thought—I hoped, frankly—that you’d made the decision rashly. I presumed you did it because you thought I’d gone back to Emily. And that you wanted to be away from this town, and from me, for good."
My throat tightened. My chest felt hollow and heavy all at once.
“My hope, my plan,” he continued, sincerity burning bright in his eyes, “was that if I bought the place, and explain what happened with Emily, you might change your mind. And stay.” He took my hands in his, the warmth of his touch speeding my heartbeat. “And if you don’t want to stay, that’s fine. You’ll have the money from the sale. Set you up for whatever kind of future you like.”
“You did that for me?”
“Of course.” He paused a moment. “You want to know why Emily sent you that message? Why she got so upset that she tried to ruin my life?”
I nodded.
“Because I told her that I loved you.”
Behind him, I caught the flash of Marie wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan. Mrs. Henderson was dabbing furiously at her face with that floral apron she always wore, and Brett? Brett leaned against the counter with an obnoxious grin, like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole damn life.
“You love me?”
"How could I not?" His voice cut through my question, sharp and sure. "I believe in you. In us. You’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. And I want to be with you. If you’ll have me."
His grip on my hands tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to ground me. Enough to tell me he wasn’t going anywhere.
"I love everything about you," he continued, leaning closer. His blue eyes burned, pinning me in place. "The way you light up when you write. The way you care, even when you think no one notices. The way you fight like hell to keep moving forward, even when the world tries to knock you down. I see it all, Lucy. And I love all of it."
My breath hitched. Heat rose to my cheeks, my throat, pooling somewhere low in my stomach.
"Marcus . . ."
"Let me finish," he murmured, his lips quirking into the faintest smile. "You’ve spent so much time trying to fit yourself into boxes other people built for you, haven’t you? But what if you didn’t have to anymore? What if you could just be —every part of you?"
Every part of me. He saw me. Like no-one else.
"I want that for you," he said, softer now, his fingers tracing the backs of my hands. "A future where you can write, dream, be Little, be grown-up—whatever you need to be. A place where you don’t have to hide."
My heart clenched so hard it hurt. I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Nothing except the tears spilling over my lashes, hot and unrelenting.
"Hey," he whispered, shifting closer, his knees creaking against the hardwood. "You don’t have to say anything right now. Just . . . let me do this. Let me give you the space to be who you are, who you’re meant to be."
I nodded, barely able to see him through the blur of tears. My hands shook in his, but I didn’t pull away. I couldn’t.
"Say something, Lucy," he urged gently, his voice breaking just enough to undo me completely.
"Okay," I choked out finally. My voice wavered, but it was there. "Okay."
The sound of clapping startled me. It swelled around us, filling the small space of The Daily Grind like a wave crashing onshore. My chest heaved as my breath caught, and before I could think twice, I launched myself at Marcus.
"Marcus," I whispered, his name breaking apart in my throat as I collided with him. My arms locked tight around his neck, my face buried against his shoulder. Somewhere between us, Mr. Whiskers got squished, but I didn’t care. I clung to Marcus like he was the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.
"Whoa, hey!" His laugh rumbled low in his chest, that steady, warm sound I’d missed so much it hurt. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me close, solid and unshakable. "Easy there, sweetheart. You’re gonna bruise yourself."
"Don’t care," I mumbled, tears soaking into his shirt. I couldn’t let go. Not yet.
"Get it, bro!" Brett’s whistle cut through the applause, loud and obnoxious, but I didn’t pull back.
"Shut up, Brett," Marcus said, but there was no heat in his voice.
"Ignore him," Marie sniffled. Her voice cracked, and when I glanced sideways, I saw her dabbing at her eyes with a crumpled napkin. "You two are . . . oh, God, this is too much."
"Marie," I croaked, trying to laugh, but it came out wrong—broken and full of everything I couldn’t put into words.
"Don’t you dare worry about me right now," she managed, pointing a finger at me, watery-eyed but grinning.
"Lucy." Marcus’s voice pulled me back, soft but insistent. He leaned back just enough to look at me, his hands sliding down to grip my waist. His thumbs rubbed slow circles against my sides, grounding me, pulling me into the moment.
I blinked at him, my vision blurred with tears. His blue eyes searched mine, steady and sure, but vulnerable too, like he was laying himself bare in a way I wasn’t sure he ever had before.
"Come home with me," he said. The words were simple, but they carried weight, heavy and full of meaning. "Really home. With me."
My mouth opened, but nothing came out. The lump in my throat was too big, the emotions too raw. All I could do was nod, quick and jerky, as more tears spilled over.
"Yeah?" His lips curved into the faintest smile. That hope I hadn’t dared let myself believe in shone in his eyes now, bright and alive.
"Yeah," I finally managed, though it came out barely above a whisper.
"Okay," he murmured, leaning forward. He kissed my forehead first, his lips lingering there for a heartbeat longer than seemed possible. Then he tilted my chin up, catching my gaze one more time before pressing his mouth to mine.
It was soft, sweet—too sweet for how my heart was racing, for how my fingers dug into his shoulders like I needed to anchor myself or risk floating away. But he didn’t rush. He held me like I was fragile, his lips brushing mine in a way that made my knees weak and my pulse pound harder.
Behind us, someone cleared their throat. Probably Brett again. But I didn’t care. All I cared about was Marcus, and the way his kiss promised things I hadn’t dared dream of until now. A home. A future. Us.