Chapter 53
Lauren
Lauren stepped out of The Stockist, the February chill sharp against her cheeks, emails and timelines still dancing in her head. Her tote bag was heavy with fabric swatches Margot had insisted she take and Lauren felt buoyant.
She paused just outside the gallery’s window, looking through the glass. Her wreaths hung in a cluster, each tagged with her name. Barrett.
It still startled her sometimes.
She adjusted her tote strap—and froze.
Judith Barrett was marching up the sidewalk like a woman who owned the block.
Of course.
Her hair was perfect. Her coat was cream. Her heels did that precise, purposeful click.
A familiar tension pricked between her shoulder blades, ingrained memory of every dinner table where she’d tried and failed to impress this woman. Lauren braced.
“Lauren?” Judith’s brows rose, her tone sliding into that polite disdain she’d perfected. “What are you doing here?”
Lauren swallowed her first answer—being successful—and kept her voice even.
“I had a meeting.”
Judith’s eyes flicked to The Stockist sign above the door. “Here? Really?” The disbelief was palpable.
Lauren felt the old sting—a phantom reflex—but it didn’t reach her deeply anymore. For so long, Lauren had chased this woman’s approval. Chased and failed and twisted herself into knots. And now? Lauren realized that it didn’t matter.
Lauren opened her mouth to answer—but before she could, the gallery door swung open behind her.
“Lauren!” Margot called, striding out with the effortless confidence of someone who curated half the city’s taste. “I’m so glad I caught you.”
Judith turned, her expression rearranging itself into something bright and expectant—oh good, someone important has arrived.
Margot reached Lauren, touching her arm warmly. “I meant to give you these before you left.” She handed over a sleek envelope. “The client adored your concepts. Truly adored. We’re thrilled.”
Lauren felt heat rise in her cheeks—not embarrassment, but pride. “Thank you,” she said.
Judith stepped forward, smile sharpening. “Margot. How lovely to see you again.”
Margot blinked politely. “Hello.”
“You might remember,” Judith continued, eager, “we’ve met. At Evelyn Kent’s holiday fundraiser. I wore the ruby brooch—”
Margot’s brows pulled slightly together. “I’m… afraid I don’t recall.”
Judith’s expression tightened beneath the smile.
Margot turned back to Lauren, oblivious to Judith’s evaporating confidence. “That reminds me! The Kents were especially impressed with your wreaths. They told me the feature in Muse was exquisite. You’ve become quite the name in our circles.”
Judith made a faint choking sound.
Lauren couldn’t help but smile at that. She turned and gestured toward Judith. “Margot, this is my mother-in-law, Judith Barrett.”
“Ah!” Margot’s face lit, but without an ounce of recognition. “How lovely to meet you.”
Judith’s expression pinched.
“You must be so proud of Lauren,” Margot added warmly. “Her work is extraordinary. Truly. The joy in it—it’s rare to see such sincerity executed so well.”
Judith’s mouth dropped open a fraction.
Margot gave her arm another affectionate squeeze. “Email me if you need anything else for the commission. And please—keep creating exactly like this. It’s refreshing.”
“I will,” Lauren promised.
Margot disappeared back inside, the door clicking shut behind her.
Judith stared at her. “Lauren… Tom didn’t tell me you were… doing all this.”
Lauren shifted her tote higher. “He doesn’t know.” He didn’t know about The Stockist. The commissions. The praise. He didn’t know this version of her.
Judith blinked. “The Stockist? The Kents?” Judith’s lips parted. “I didn’t know you were… talented at this level.”
The words would have stung once. Now, they slid off her like water. “You didn’t think I was talented at any level.”
Judith swallowed. “I—well—I didn’t think—”
Lauren nodded toward the window. “That’s my work. It has value.”
Judith whispered, “I didn’t realize.”
“I did,” Lauren held her gaze, steady. “I’m done worrying about people who don’t enjoy color or sincerity or handmade things.”
Judith’s breath hitched—a small, stunned sound.
Lauren offered a polite, unbothered smile. “Have a good afternoon, Judith.”
And she walked away, steps light, the winter air bright on her cheeks.
Behind her, Judith Barrett remained rooted on the sidewalk—silent.
Lauren did not look back.
Lauren shifted the casserole dish in her hands. She’d driven here with the echo of her day consuming her thoughts—Judith speechless, Margot proud, her wreaths displayed.
But now that she’d pulled up beside her father’s truck, the nerves started to hum under her skin.
Games night. First Thursday of the month.
It had been the same ritual with her parents all her life. Home, easy, safe.
Except now he was living here.
The thought closed around her like a fist.
Tom in her parents’ house.
Tom sitting on the sofa, drinking from the mugs she’d painted years ago.
Tom, the man who’d broken her heart at Christmas, sleeping under her childhood roof because he couldn’t stand for her to leave the home he’d built for her.
She’d almost texted her mother to say she was busy, but the idea of surrendering the tradition felt like losing another piece of herself.
Besides, Tom always ate at his parents’ house on Thursday nights. He wouldn’t even be here.
It should have been a relief. But some quiet, traitorous part of her still hoped he was inside—waiting for her. Choosing her.
Ridiculous. He wouldn’t be here. She knew that.
Still, she didn’t ring the bell.
He’d been trying. He’d been gentle, patient, uncharacteristically humble.
It was infuriating, how sincere he was about it. How easy it was to believe him when he smiled that quiet, careful smile.
How it felt when he held her in his arms.
The memory came too easily—the warmth of his hands at her waist when he’d kissed her on the doorstep, the desperate strength in his arms the night he’d shown up soaked with apology, vowing to her that he’d win her back.
The soft pressure of his palm at her back when they’d danced in the church parking lot, headlights turning the snow to gold.
She missed him—his steadiness, the way his presence filled a space.
More than that.
She missed him in her bed. The warmth she could roll toward in the dark. The feel of his body over hers.
She shifted the dish in her hands and through the frosted glass, she could see a blur of movement.
She could still leave.
She could turn around, drive home, crawl under the quilt, and pretend she was okay.
But she didn’t.
Lauren took a breath.
And then she pressed the bell.
The door swung open—and Tom was there.
Her heart lurched so violently she almost dropped the casserole.
Thursday. He wasn’t supposed to be here on Thursdays.
The rules shifted under her feet, the whole world tilting just a fraction.
“Sweetheart!” Then her mother was there, pulling her straight into a hug, casserole and all.
“Come in, come in—it’s freezing.”
Lauren stepped inside, blinking against the sudden brightness. Her mother’s voice, the low crackle from the fireplace, the faint clatter of dishes—it was all achingly familiar.
And somewhere behind her, she could still feel Tom’s attention on her like a warm spotlight. His nearness pressed along her back even though he hadn’t touched her.
Linda took the casserole from her. “Perfect timing. We’re just serving up.”
Tom’s presence tugged at her attention no matter where she turned. The house felt different with him in it. She tried to focus on the food, on her mother’s chatter, but her awareness kept circling back to him like a compass that refused to point north.
By the time the plates were cleared and the cards came out, the nerves in her chest had eased.
Gerald’s voice called from the living room. “I’m ready to deal you in, sweetie.”
Lauren told herself to breathe. She took the far end of the couch.
Tom was across from her, stretching his long legs out under the coffee table.
Her pulse skittered. This was supposed to be neutral ground—family, routine, safety—but Tom’s presence rewrote the air, made everything feel charged and unfamiliar.
When his leg pressed against hers, it felt like touching a live wire.
The contact hummed between them. Her whole body reacted, memory sparking to life, remembering too clearly what it felt like to press her knees to his under a blanket, to tangle with him on lazy Sundays, to let herself lean into that heat.
She’d forgotten how much of him was muscle and heat, how quickly her body leaned toward both.
She left her leg where it was. Neither of them moved.
Gerald cleared his throat. “All right, Barrett, you and Lauren are partners this round.”
Of course.
Linda clapped her hands, delighted. “Perfect! We are going to wipe the floor with you young’uns.”
Lauren opened her mouth to object, but Tom was already there. “In your dreams,” he said. “We’ve still got our moves.”
He angled a look at her—brief but warm—and slid the score pad toward her.
The first few rounds were stiff. She was misreading his cues, and second-guessed every move.
But then it shifted.
Halfway through a hand, she looked at Tom and, without meaning to, knew exactly what he was about to play. She laid down her card to set him up. Perfectly. His eyes flicked up to meet hers.
They fell into rhythm—slow at first, then startlingly natural. A nod from him, a raised eyebrow from her. Her father groaned. Her mother accused them of cheating. Lauren felt something warm and treacherous uncurl in her chest. Partners.
Another round. Another silent exchange. Another win.
By the time Gerald announced the final score—Tom and Lauren victorious by a single point—everyone was smiling. Even Gerald was grinning, muttering, “Guess I taught you too well.”
When she reached for her coat, Tom was there, holding it out. She hesitated, then turned so he could help. His hands brushed her shoulders.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
He gave a small nod. “Can I walk you to your car?”
The February air bit at her cheeks.
Tom walked beside her down the front path, hands tucked in his coat pockets, his shoulder brushing hers every few steps. Each brief, fleeting contact jolted through her like tiny sparks racing under her skin.
He was so close. Too close for her heartbeat to behave.
He’s going to kiss me, she thought, pulse stumbling. He’s absolutely going to kiss me. We’re going to make out against the damn car like teenagers and I’m going to let him.
The idea made heat curl low in her belly. God, she could already imagine it—the solid weight of him pressing her back against the cold metal, his mouth hungry and warm, his hands tugging her closer, like he used to when things were simple.
Her breath fogged in front of her, too quick.
They stopped beside her car. The porch light just enough to gild the edges of his hair and cast shadows along his cheekbones. He turned toward her, and the breath locked in her throat.
Her eyes dropped to his mouth—briefly, helplessly—before she dragged them back up.
He exhaled, the breath clouding between them. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’ve been following the quilt squares. Our first date. Our first apartment. The trail where I proposed. The church.”
She stared at him, her mind catching up a beat too slow. But then the meaning of his words reached her, warm and heavy.
Those squares weren’t just pieces of fabric; they were her memories, her heart in tiny stitched moments. She’d sewn them imagining a lifetime of more.
Images flickered through her—doubling, layering, rewriting themselves:
The shuttered café. The thermos of cocoa.
The laundromat, and his fingers brushing hers in warm cotton.
The snowy trail and the letter that made her chest ache.
The church and the way he’d held her like he was afraid to let go.
He’d retraced their story. He was reliving them, one by one.
“The next square is—” He broke off with a soft, rueful laugh.
The pale stitched ocean, the sun, the warmth. Their honeymoon. Skin against skin, sunlight in their hair, the first days of a marriage she’d thought nothing could break.
Her breath hitched.
His gaze dipped to her mouth—slow, deliberate. It made her heart slam against her ribs.
“I don’t know what to do with that one,” he admitted, voice low, his gaze flicking between her lips and her eyes.
She swallowed. Her voice barely came out. “What do you want to do?”
He stepped in—hands finding her waist. The air between them tightened.
At last, he kissed her.
The world melted away—her breath, the cold, even the car beneath her hand. All of it blurred under the heat of his mouth, the rough exhale against her cheek, the grip of his fingers at her back pulling her closer.
When he drew back, his breath was unsteady. His eyes were dark, undone.
“What I want,” he said, voice rough, “is to seduce you.”
The words burned through her. The night seemed to go impossibly still.
She searched his face. Saw the want, yes, but also the restraint. The question. He wasn’t taking; he was offering, waiting to see if she’d step forward, too.
Her husband wanted to seduce her, and he was asking for her permission.
She reached up, traced the sharp line of his jaw with her fingertips—slow, deliberate.
The answer was clear.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “So seduce me.”