Chapter 49 Dom
DOM
The smell of venison stew filled the kitchen, hearty and rustic. I gave the pot a slow stir, making sure the meat stayed covered, then turned to find Autumn hunched over the counter, chopping carrots.
Between us, Lulu sat with perfect posture, her head tilted and tracking every move like a sous-chef, or the most dignified beggar in Montana.
“You know you don’t have to maim the vegetables, right?” I told Autumn.
She gave me a look. “You’re the one who trusted me with a knife.”
God, I love this woman. Even when she was battling a produce aisle.
I crossed to her, took the knife from her hand, and kissed her temple. “Listen, after everything you’ve done for me, cooking ranks dead last on my list of relationship must-haves.”
She leaned into me, mock-insulted. “I’m excellent at…eating.”
“Perfect,” I said. “I’m excellent at feeding.”
Just then, the doorbell rang.
I glanced at the clock. It was too early for the others.
Autumn caught my eye. “Did we forget someone?”
I wiped my hands on a towel and headed for the front door, already mentally counting who might’ve gotten the invite wrong. Lulu trailed me, letting out a few gruff barks to warn the stranger.
When I pulled it open, my gut tightened.
It wasn’t Noah or any of the Lucases. It was not Logan either.
It was my father.
In the same crisp suit and polished shoes. Standing on my porch, he looked about as natural as a wolf at a barn dance.
“Dominic,” he greeted.
My jaw locked for a second. Then I stepped aside, because no matter what history sat between us, I wasn’t slamming the door on my own blood.
“Dad.” My voice was civil, but barely.
He stepped inside, scanning the house, perhaps even tempted by the smells of dinner rolling out from the kitchen.
His gaze settled on Autumn, who had her hair tied up and sleeves rolled, looking so beautiful. She gave Lulu a signal, sending her trotting toward the back.
“Dad, this is Autumn, my girlfriend,” I introduced her.
She wiped her palm on her jeans first, then shook his hand with that easy grace of hers. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Powell.”
“Would you mind if we talk in the kitchen?” I said, already walking.
“Sure,” he replied.
I watched him process her while I helped Autumn with the vegetables. I hope he knew who she was to me. She was the girl who’d dragged me back from the edge and the heart of everything I’d fought for.
Something moved behind his lawyer mask. Maybe even admiration.
For about five minutes, we stuck to safe topics like the weather, roadworks, and how the town still didn’t have a Starbucks but somehow survived.
Then Dad shifted his stance the way he always did when he was about to turn a conversation into a negotiation.
“I heard you made quite the splash,” he said, his voice smooth. “Susan tells me your instincts haven’t dulled one bit.”
I didn’t answer, keeping my attention on whatever had to happen next for dinner.
“You’re wasting it here, son,” he said, his voice low but insistent. “You belong back in a courtroom. Where you can win.”
Autumn’s chopping slowed.
Dad pressed on. “My firm needs new blood. Smart blood. You’d walk in as a partner. No junior track. No politics. Just a seat at the table where you belong.”
“No,” I said determinedly. “My place is here, Dad.”
I opened the fridge and grabbed a lemon and the jar of mustard to throw together a quick dressing. Behind me, Autumn moved through the space, gathering dinnerware.
Dad’s mouth thinned. “Dominic—”
I followed Autumn to the table and helped her set it. Dad trailed after us.
“I’m not leaving,” I said, turning fully to face him. “Not for prestige. Not for a paycheck. Not even for you.”
His hands flexed slightly, as if he were holding back a dozen rebuttals. He wasn’t used to being told no. Especially not by his son.
Autumn, God bless her, slid closer to me, her presence a quiet but powerful show of loyalty.
Dad scanned the house again, trying to mask his discomfort. “I mean, this is nice. Cozy. Even those rugs. Classy touch.”
I went still.
Maybe he thought he was making peace. But he didn’t know how badly he’d missed.
“You know why I love those rugs, Dad?”
He straightened, blindsided, like he couldn’t believe I’d fumble a point that badly. “What are you talking about?”
I stared him down. “Because they aren’t flat. Not like the ones we had in Palo Alto.”
He shifted. “Dom?”
I took a step closer. “Every time I look at a flat rug, I see Mom’s blood. Right there. Where you knocked her down. She tried to scrub it clean, but the rug was so thin that it seeped through before she could stop it.”
“Dominic—”
“Yeah, it was a dark rug,” I cut him off, shutting down the argument he hadn’t even made yet. “But you know what? I still saw it. Every damn day. Until I left that house.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he muttered.
“Sorry?” I spat before I knew what I was doing. “Don’t say sorry to me, Dad. Say that to Mom!”
The anger boiled so fast that my hands balled into fists.
Autumn caught my arm, pulling me back. “Baby,” she called. “Come with me. Please.”
She steered me down the hall and into our bedroom, shutting the door gently behind us.
I paced, my chest heaving. “Fuck him.”
Autumn stepped into my path. “Dom.”
One word.
One look.
And suddenly, it all clicked—the rugs, the softness I’d demanded, and the home I’d tried to build out of broken pieces. She knew the real reason now.
“Sorry about that, Otter,” I muttered.
“No.” She shook her head fiercely. “Don’t be sorry. Answer me something.”
I stopped pacing.
“You chose me, didn’t you? You chose us. Over all that?”
“I love you. Of course I did,” I answered.
Her voice broke a little. “Those rugs, they aren’t just decor. They’re your line in the sand. A way to keep the past where it belongs. But you never shy away from me when I lie there.”
I pressed my forehead to hers. “Why did he have to show up and remind me? I had forgotten all that, I swear.”
She cupped my jaw. “Maybe you never forget. But you’ve moved on. That rug—” she nodded toward the one by the bed “—you let yourself feel something there. With me. Over and over.”
Fuck yeah. We’d made love there more times than I could count.
The first time, it had given me pause. But I’d do anything for her. It was her first, and there was no way I was going to ruin it. Even when I suggested the bed, it was only to make sure she was comfortable.
She continued, “You trusted me with that space. With the part of you that remembers. And you let something new grow over it. Don’t let him pull you back under. Do it for me. For us.”
I nodded, my breath shuddering. “You’re right.”
“Good. Now go back out there and ask him to stay for dinner.”
“What? No.” I shook my head. “Otter—”
“Let him stay, Dom.” Her eyes gleamed. “Let’s show him how we do it in Buffaloberry Hill.”
Damn her.
And damn how much I loved her.
I kissed her hard, thanking her the only way I knew how.
When I stepped back into the dining room, my father was standing awkwardly, halfway to the door.
“You’re lucky I’d do anything she asks,” I said.
“I apologize, Dom. To you, to her.”
“She wants you to stay and have dinner with us.”
He opened his mouth, probably to refuse, but Autumn stepped forward, all grace and stubbornness wrapped in denim and sunshine.
“Please, Mr. Powell,” she said gently.
A muscle jumped in his cheek. Just a flicker.
But he stayed.
The doorbell rang again, and this time, it was the Buffaloberrians.
Elia and Claire, their arms linked, laughter already tucked in their pockets, Maya and Noah, teasing each other before they even crossed the threshold, and Logan and his wife, Riley, looking like they’d just ridden straight out of a Marlboro ad.
I introduced my father—Gideon Powell, meet the people who know how to live—and left him standing there, smiling against the tide of handshakes and easy conversation. Then I headed back to the kitchen to finish what I’d started.
Pots clanged one last time, and plates lined the counter, loaded with good-looking food. Lulu circled the table, lobbying hard for her portion.
I kept half an eye on the gathering behind me.
It didn’t take long.
I watched it happen, the way my friends folded him in as if he’d always belonged.
Elia poured him a drink, Logan lobbed a joke dry enough that even Dad’s guard slipped, and Maya and Riley pulled him into a conversation about the town’s upcoming fair, talking about the worst thing that could happen at a wheelbarrow race.
Meanwhile, Otter wove through the group with a tray of canapés, bragging loudly that she’d made them all herself. She turned to me and flashed a wicked wink just as she handed Dad one.
Yeah, I let her get away with that.
And my father?
He kept quiet that night, no grandstanding and no holding court like he might’ve done back in California. He just listened, ate, and smiled once or twice.
It wasn’t a full transformation. But it was something. A crack in the walls he’d spent a lifetime building.
And it all started because of her.
Because of the woman at my side, the one who could turn a courtroom bruiser into a man who held puppies in his arms.
Because of my Otter.