Chapter 8
Ainsley
I've been overthinking everything.
Not just overthinking—catastrophically, exhaustively, relentlessly overthinking. Every single moment from Sunday plays on a loop in my head like a highlight reel I can't turn off.
Troy's hands in the dirt, and him listening to me talk about Grandma without looking at me like I'm broken.
Him telling me about his dad, his voice going rough around the edges.
The way he leaned in close when I was showing him how to water the pepper plant, so close I could smell his soap and feel the heat radiating off his body.
And then the almost-kiss.
God, the almost-kiss.
I can still feel it—the moment I rose on my toes, his hand cupping my cheek, our faces inches apart. The way my entire body hummed with want and terror in equal measure.
And then I ran.
Like a coward.
It's Monday night now, and I'm at The Lucky Tap trying very hard to focus on work and failing spectacularly.
I've poured the wrong beer twice, given someone else's order to the wrong table, and almost dropped an entire tray of glasses because my brain decided that was the perfect moment to replay Troy saying I'm not going anywhere, Ainsley.
"Okay, spill," Steph says, appearing at my elbow while I'm restocking napkins behind the bar.
I don't look at her. "Spill what?"
"Whatever's got you so distracted you just put limes in someone's Coors Light."
I wince. "I did?"
"You did. Lucky for you, he thought it was hilarious." She leans against the bar, arms crossed, studying me with that look that says she already knows what's wrong. "So, what happened?"
"Nothing happened."
"Ainsley."
I exhale hard and set down the napkin dispenser. "Troy helped me in my garden yesterday."
Steph's eyebrows shoot up. "Troy helped you in your garden? Your sacred, off-limits, don't-even-look-at-it garden?"
"Yes," I mutter.
She stares at me like I just told her I joined a cult. "And you let him?"
"He asked. And he said he'd follow all my instructions. No improvising, no deciding he knew better." I fidget with a coaster on the bar. "He was great, actually. Listened to everything I said. Didn't take over."
"That's…" Steph trails off, something like wonder in her expression. "Wow. Okay. So what else happened?"
Everything. Nothing. I don't even know where to start.
"We talked," I say finally. "About my grandma. Kelsey. His dad dying while he was deployed, and him getting shot, and why he came to Evergreen Lakes."
Steph's expression softens. "That's good, Ains. That's really good."
"And then we almost kissed."
She goes still. "Almost?"
"Almost." My voice comes out smaller than I'd like. "I pulled away at the last second and ran inside like a complete idiot."
"Why?"
"Because I'm terrified!" The words burst out of me, too loud, and I lower my voice.
"I'm terrified, Steph. What if I screw this up?
What if it gets messy, and he leaves and I can't afford the mortgage and I lose the house?
What if he's just being nice and I'm reading everything wrong and I make a fool of myself? What if—"
"Ainsley." Steph's hand lands on mine, firm and grounding. "Breathe."
I suck in a breath, then another, trying to slow my racing heart.
"Okay," she says. "Let's break this down. Do you think Troy's into you?"
I think about the way he looked at me in the garden. The way his voice went rough when he said I'm glad I came. The way his gaze keeps finding mine, even when he's pretending not to stare.
"Yes," I whisper.
"And are you into him?"
My face heats. "You already know the answer to that."
"I want to hear you say it."
I groan, pressing my hands to my face. "Yes.
God, yes. I'm so into him, it's embarrassing. I can’t sleep because I keep thinking about him on the other side of the wall.
Every time he walks into a room, I forget how words work.
And when he stood up for me the other night with that drunk asshole?
I wanted to climb him like a tree right there in the middle of the bar. "
Steph grins. "There it is."
"But that doesn't change the fact that it's a terrible idea," I say, dropping my hands. "He lives in my house, Steph. If things go wrong, I can't just avoid him. We'd be stuck together until one of us moves out, and I need that rent money."
"What if things don't go wrong?"
I blink. "What?"
"What if things don't go wrong?" she repeats. "What if this works out? What if he's what you've been looking for and you're what he needs? What if you're letting fear of the worst-case scenario keep you from something amazing?"
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
"I don't know how to do that," I admit. "How to just… trust it."
"You don't have to trust it all at once," Steph says. "You just have to take the next step. And maybe the next step is admitting that the rules you made aren't protecting you anymore—they're just keeping you stuck."
I stare at her, heart thudding hard against my ribs.
She's right.
I know she's right.
But knowing it and doing something about it are two very different things.
By the time I get home, it's two in the morning. Monday trivia is getting even more popular than I thought, and the bar was packed, making my feet scream in protest as I pull into the driveway.
The porch light is on again.
I sit in my car for a moment, staring at that little pool of yellow light, and something in my chest loosens. He left it on. For me. Again.
Inside the house is quiet. I lock the door, kick off my boots, and startle when I see Troy walk out from the kitchen into the living room carrying a big bowl.
I freeze, and we stare at each other.
I should just go to my room. Avoid him until I figure out what to say or how to act or anything that isn't standing here like a deer in headlights.
But then I smell it.
Popcorn.
Not just any popcorn—kettle corn. Sweet and salty and the late-night snack I mentioned once when we were making small talk in the kitchen and I was rambling about my favorite junk food.
He remembered.
My heart does something complicated in my chest, and before I can talk myself out of it, I'm walking toward the living room.
Troy lifts the bowl. “A late-night snack.” Then he walks to the couch, sits and his legs stretched out in front of him, puts the bowl of kettle corn on the coffee table and turns the TV on to some documentary on low volume.
He's in his gray sweatpants and white t-shirt, and he looks tired.
Dark circles under his eyes, hair mussed like he's been running his hands through it.
He looks at me, asking me to join him without words. Then he says, "Couldn't sleep." He nods toward the bowl. "Made popcorn. Thought you might want some when you got home."
I stare at the bowl, then at him. "You remembered."
"I remember a lot of things you say, Ainsley."
The words land somewhere in the center of my chest and take root.
I should leave. I should thank him and go to my room and process this in private like a normal, emotionally functional adult.
Instead, I cross the room and sink onto the couch beside him.
"Long shift?" he asks.
"Brutal." I reach for the bowl and grab a handful of popcorn, the sweet-salty taste exploding on my tongue. "Trivia night is a blood sport."
His mouth twitches. "People take their trivia seriously."
"You have no idea." I lean back against the cushions, aware of how close we are. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel his warmth, smell the faint scent of pine and soap that clings to his skin. "You should go to sleep. You have to be at work at seven."
"I know."
"So why are you still awake?"
He looks at me, and there's something in his gaze I can't quite read. Something intense. Weighted.
"I wanted to make sure you got home okay," he says.
My breath catches. "Troy—"
"I know you can take care of yourself," he interrupts. "I'm not trying to be overbearing or controlling. I just… I wanted to be here. In case you need anything."
I don't know what to say about that. Or know how to process the fact that this man—this impossibly thoughtful, protective, patient man—is sitting here at two in the morning, exhausted from a long day of work, just to make sure I'm okay.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He nods once, then goes back to watching the TV.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, passing the popcorn back and forth. It should be awkward. It should feel weird, sitting here in the middle of the night with my roommate, who I almost kissed yesterday.
But it doesn't.
It feels… right.
"I'm sorry," I say suddenly.
He glances at me. "For what?"
"For running away. Yesterday. In the garden." I set the popcorn bowl down and twist my hands in my lap. "I panicked."
"I know."
"I'm scared, Troy." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "I'm scared of getting hurt again. Scared of losing the house. Scared of messing this up and ruining everything."
He sets his jaw, then shifts on the couch to face me. "Can I tell you something?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"I didn't come to Evergreen Lakes looking for this," he says. "I came here because I didn't know where else to go. I was lost. Directionless. Just trying to figure out how to be a person again after fourteen years of being a soldier."
I watch him, heart thudding.
"And then I met you," he continues. "And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was where I was supposed to be."
My breath hitches.
"I'm not saying this to pressure you," he says, voice steady and sure.
"I'm saying this because you need to know.
You asked me what I'm looking for in life, and the answer is simple.
I want something real. Something steady.
I want to build a life with someone who makes me laugh and challenges me and isn't afraid to tell me when I'm being an idiot. "
He leans in, just a little, and my pulse skyrockets.
"I want you, Ainsley," he says, and the words are so raw, so honest, that I feel them in my bones.
"Not just as a roommate. Not just as a friend.
I want all of it. The messy, complicated, terrifying parts.
I want to wake up and make you coffee. Help you in your garden.
Be the person you come home to at the end of a long shift. "
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. "Troy—"
"I'm not going anywhere," he says firmly. "And I'm not just talking about the room. I'm talking about you. About us. Whatever this is, it's worth fighting for. And I need you to know that. Once we choose each other, then that’s it. We continue to choose each other every day and work it out."
A tear slips down my cheek, and I swipe at it. "What if I screw it up?"
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"I do." He reaches out, giving me time to pull away, and cups my cheek in his hand.
His palm offers a warm, comforting solace with a touch as soft as it is worn.
"Because you're the most careful, deliberate person I've ever met.
You don't do anything halfway. And if you decide to let me in, I know you'll fight like hell to make it work. "
I close my eyes, leaning into his touch. "I'm still scared."
"That's okay. I'm scared too."
I open my eyes, startled. "You are?"
"Terrified," he admits, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. "You're the first thing in my life that's felt right in years. The idea of losing you before I even get the chance to have you? Yeah. That scares the shit out of me."
A laugh bubbles up in my throat, wet and shaky. "We're a mess."
"We're a work in progress." His thumb brushes over my cheekbone, wiping away another tear. "But we can figure it out. Together."
I stare at him—at this man who showed up on my doorstep ten days ago and turned my entire world upside down.
Who followed my ridiculous rules without complaint.
And listened to me ramble about hot dog taxonomy and made me popcorn at two in the morning.
Who looked at me like I was something precious instead of something broken.
And I make a decision.
"Okay," I whisper.
His eyes search mine. "Okay?"
"Okay." I take a shaky breath. "I'm still terrified. And I'm going to panic at least a dozen more times. But… I want to try. I want this."
The smile that breaks across his face is blinding.
"Yeah?" he asks, voice rough.
"Yeah."
And then he kisses me.
It's slow. Deliberate. His lips brush against mine once, twice, testing. Asking permission. And when I don't pull away—when I lean in instead, my hand coming up to curl into the front of his shirt—he deepens the kiss.
His lips are comforting, and taste of kettle corn and something that’s uniquely him.
His hand slides from my cheek to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, and I melt into him.
Every nerve ending lights up, every worry and fear and over-thought rule dissolving under the weight of this.
It's everything I didn't know I needed.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, and I can feel the smile on his lips.
"That was—" I start.
"Yeah," he agrees.
We sit for a moment, just breathing each other in. And for once my mind is quiet. I can’t remember the last time my head has been free of all the chaos: real and imagined.
“What’s going through that beautiful head of yours?” Troy kisses my temple and strokes my jaw.
I chuckle. “For once, nothing. My head is quiet. It’s nice.”
“Yeah?”
I smile and lick my lips as I can’t help but take in how good it feels to have Troy molded to me on the couch. How my body aches for more, and once again another set of panties is destroyed. “Yeah.”
Troy grins and leans down and kisses me again. It’s soft and makes me feel safe, but it’s still toe-curling.
“Troy?”
“Yeah?” He kisses my jaw, down my neck, toward my ear.
“I’m not ready for…”
“Shhh. We’re taking this slow, okay.”
I swallow and nod. Relieved and a little annoyed, he doesn’t push it further. But I mentally slap myself for my craziness. There is one thing I want. I’m so tired, but I’ll sleep better if he does this.
A deep inhale helps me build up courage, and a slow exhale steadies me. “Will you… Um, will you sleep in my bed with me tonight? Just sleep. I’m so tired.”
Troy leans back and gives me a soft gaze and a sweet smile. “Hell yeah.”
We chuckle, and I stand, grabbing his hand, waiting for him to turn off the TV, and before I know it. I’m curled in his arms, feeling safe and warm, and I’m out like a light.