Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Tomorrow
Easton
Summer settled in, a lazy heat slowing Lovelace down. Over the weeks, Emma and I had slipped into an unspoken rhythm—nothing official, nothing defined, but undeniably something.
I found myself stopping by the Historical Society more often—sometimes with old photos from my granddad’s trunk, sometimes with lunch, and sometimes just to hear her ramble about grant language and “frontier integrity” as if it were a matter of national security.
We hadn’t ended up in bed again, but we’d shared plenty of moments that came damn close—a brush of her leg against mine at the diner, her laughter spilling against my shoulder. Every excuse to touch her lower back sent shivers through me, and I was completely gone.
Today, I waited outside the Lovelace Cafe, baking in the sun like a stubborn fool.
Across the street, Bruce and Cam finished the baby safe-surrender box, the team having tested its alarms and heating that morning.
It stood flush against the brick, ready and waiting.
Every time I saw it, pride swelled in my chest, but it was mixed with a knot of anxiety.
The Historical Society door opened. Emma stepped out in a simple summer dress, hair pulled up, cheeks flushed from the heat. When she saw me, that small, surprised smile lit up her face, sparking something electric inside me.
“You look like you’re about to melt,” she said, her voice teasing.
“Trying to impress you with my stamina.”
She snorted. “Where are we eating?”
“Frontier,” I said. “Unless you want the diner again.”
“No,” she groaned. “If I eat another turkey melt, it’ll kill me.”
We walked side by side, our arms brushing once, then again—not accidents anymore. Inside the Frontier Market deli, I grabbed a table while she set her legal pad down with a sigh, like it weighed fifty pounds.
“You FedExed the proposal yesterday, right?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yes. Overnight. Tracked. Signed. Stamped. Blessed. Exorcised.”
“I’m proud of you,” I said without thinking, and she blinked, caught off guard.
“Thanks.” Her smile softened, but there was a flicker of something deeper in her eyes, a vulnerability that made my heart tighten.
As we ate, the conversation flowed easily—Bruce’s chrome obsession, Lilly’s sleep deprivation, tourists discovering our town like it was Six Flags with cowboy hats. But beneath the lighthearted banter, I felt the weight of what loomed ahead.
By the time we rounded the corner toward her building, the firehouse and baby box came into full view. “It’s really happening,” she murmured, slowing to take a close look.
“Yep.”
“And you’re sure you’re okay with it? The donation?”
“Yeah,” I said, meeting her gaze. “If it keeps a baby safe, it’s worth every penny.”
She let out a breath—a soft, almost relieved sigh. Her hand brushed mine, barely there, but enough to send a slow curl of heat through my chest.
I nudged her knuckles, wanting to test the waters. “What’s your mom been up to lately? Marla’s always got some grand plot brewing.”
Emma huffed a small laugh. “Mom and Hank left this morning for a weekend craft fair in Sheridan. They won’t be back until Sunday.”
The way she said it—quiet, thoughtful—held more than just facts. The idea of an empty house meant something, depending on who she pictured inside it.
“Hmm,” I said, letting my fingers trail over hers again, slower this time. “So you’ve got the whole place to yourself.”
Her breath caught—barely there, but I felt it more than I heard it.
I dipped my head a little closer, my voice low. “You know… if you don’t feel like spending the weekend alone, I could keep you company. Just you and me. No interruptions. No audience.”
Color flooded her cheeks, her lashes fluttering for half a second. She didn’t say yes. She didn’t say no, either.
The little silence between us—warm, charged—felt like its own kind of invitation. Brief. Intentional. Torture.
Inside the Historical Society, she flipped the sign to CLOSED and led me back to her office. The AC hummed, a small mercy. “Now I wait,” she said, dropping into her chair with a sigh. “And try not to rewrite the entire proposal in my sleep.”
“You want me to hide your laptop?”
“I want you to drop it into Lake Lovelace,” she teased, but the glimmer of her eyes showed she was serious.
“I can make that happen,” I said. “No witnesses.”
She opened her mouth to retort—but then her landline rang. We both froze.
“That could be anyone,” I said.
“That could be them.”
“Well, answer and find out.”
She swallowed, picked up the receiver. “Lovelace Historical Society. This is Emma.”
I couldn’t hear the other side, but her face told the whole story. She stood, gripping the desk, eyes wide.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, I can come.”
My stomach bottomed out.
A minute later, she hung up, staring at nothing.
“Well?” I said, stepping closer.
She turned toward me, trying to reorient herself to gravity. “They got my rewritten proposal. I’m in the final round,” she said. “They want me in Helena. A week-long seminar on culture, history, and museum practices. They’ll help me sharpen the proposal.”
“Emma—that’s incredible,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck, dread sneaking in. “What if they expect something… more?”
“Easton—” She blinked fast, tears gathering. “If I get it, the grant doubles. Fifty thousand.”
“Damn,” I whispered, forcing a grin. “That’s huge.”
“I leave tomorrow,” she whispered, the weight of the words crashing over me.
“Tomorrow?” I echoed, trying to process the sudden shift in our dynamic.
“Tomorrow morning.”
I stepped closer, desperation creeping in. “I’ll miss you, but we’ll figure it out.”
“You’re taking this better than I am,” she admitted, voice shaking.
“Em… they chose you. Out of a pile of applicants.”
“What if I’m out of my depth?” She bit her lip.
“You won’t be,” I said, trying to convince myself as much as her.
Emma covered her face with her hands. “I can go with you,” I said before thinking it through. “Drive up. Get you settled.”
She shook her head. “They have dorms on-site. Structured schedule. No visitors. No… distractions.”
That stung more than I expected. But I didn’t show it. “Okay,” I said gently. “Then I’ll be here when you get back.”
Her tears finally spilled over, glistening in the soft light of the office.
“Oh, hell,” I murmured, pulling her into me. She folded against my chest, clutching my shirt, and I held her tightly, feeling the weight of everything we had yet to say.
“I feel like I can’t screw up,” she whispered.
“You can stumble,” I said. “I’ll still be right here.” Her breath trembled against my sternum, and I felt her heart racing, mirroring my own.
After a minute, she tipped her head back, looking up at me with those big, unsure eyes. “I don’t want to leave.”
“You’re not leaving,” I said. “You’re going. Big difference.”
I brushed my thumb over her cheek. She leaned into it like that touch alone steadied her. “Lock the doors,” I said quietly.
Her lips parted, breath hitching. “Easton…”
“No surprise visitors this time,” I murmured. “But you can say no.”
She hesitated—one heartbeat—then nodded and drifted away to lock the front door and pull the blinds. When she came back, the room felt smaller, hotter.
She stopped in the doorway. “We’re officially closed.”
I held out my hand. “Come here.”
She crossed to me, slid her hand into mine, and let me pull her in. Her dress brushed my legs. Her breath warmed my throat. Emma kissed me first—soft, then harder, like she didn’t want to waste a second of the time she had left.
I kissed her back, hungry, hands sliding to her hips, pulling her close. Her fingers tangled in my shirt, dragging me down to her. We stumbled toward the little couch, her laugh soft and breathless before I swallowed it up with my mouth.
Em ended up beneath me, hair spread like sunlight, looking up at me like she was memorizing me for the week she’d be gone.
“You sure?” I whispered one more time.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Please.”
I caught her mouth again, rougher this time. She arched against me, fingers digging into my shoulders, urging me closer. The dress bunched between us—too much fabric, too many barriers. I slid my hand up her thigh, felt her shiver beneath my palm.
“Off,” she gasped against my mouth, tugging at my shirt. “Take it off.”
I yanked it over my head and tossed it somewhere behind us. Her hands were on me instantly, nails scraping lightly down my chest, leaving trails of fire in their wake. She bit my bottom lip, and something inside me snapped.
I pinned her wrists above her head with one hand. Her eyes went dark, pupils blown wide. “This is what you want?” My voice was gravelly.
“God, yes,” she breathed, hips rising to meet mine.
The dress disappeared next, tossed to the floor. Her skin was flushed pink, a roadmap of heat I followed with my mouth—throat, collarbone, the soft curve where her breast began. She writhed beneath me, a string of curses and pleas falling from her lips.
“Easton,” she gasped, my name like a prayer and a demand all at once. “Now. Please.”
I braced one hand against the arm of the couch, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. She wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling me in, urging me faster. The couch creaked beneath us, a steady rhythm that matched our breathing, our heartbeats.
She dug her nails into my back, leaving half-moons I’d feel tomorrow. I buried my face in her neck, tasting salt and sweetness. Her hair tangled around my fingers as I gripped the back of her head, tilting her face to mine.
“Look at me,” I growled.
Her eyes locked with mine, wild and wanting. I felt her tighten around me, felt the moment she started to come apart.
“That’s it,” I murmured against her ear. “Let go for me.”
She cried out, back arching, body trembling. I followed her over the edge, vision blurring, her name a broken sound on my lips.
Everything after that blurred into heat and hands and all the want we’d been holding back for weeks. We weren’t quiet about it. We weren’t careful. We weren’t thinking about Helena or deadlines.
We were just… us.
When it was over, she lay tangled against me, her cheek on my shoulder, her hand splayed over my ribs like she didn’t quite trust the world enough to let go.
“I’m going to miss you,” she whispered.
My breath caught. “Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”
We cleaned up slowly—kisses between buttons, soft touches, her smoothing her dress like she could erase what we’d just done from the cushions.
At the front door, she paused with her hand on the knob.
“I’m scared,” she said, not looking at me.
I stepped behind her, slipping my arms around her waist, resting my chin on her shoulder. “Of Helena?”
“Of failing,” she whispered. “Of coming back different.”
“You will come back different,” I said. “That’s the point. And whatever you are when you get home… I’ll still be here.”
She let out a shaky breath. “You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not,” I said. “But I’m not going anywhere.”
She finally turned, rose on her toes, and kissed me—soft but certain.
“I’ll text from up there,” she said.
“I’ll be waiting.”
We walked outside, and she locked the door behind us. Then Emma walked down the steps into the late-afternoon sun. At her car, she turned and gave me a tiny wave that did something stupid to my chest.
When she was gone, the street felt quieter. Bigger. Like the world had just shifted, and I wasn’t sure how to stand yet.
And tomorrow… she’d be gone for a week.
With everything on the line. I wasn’t sure what scared me more—her leaving… or what might happen when she came back.