Chapter 62
Tom
She’d said yes.
Dinner. Tonight. In their house. In the kitchen he built for her, built for them both.
When had this courtship of his wife stopped feeling like desperation and started feeling like anticipation? It was like dating her all over again. That breathless, electric feeling. That stupid grin he couldn’t suppress. The drive to do everything right, to please her.
He looked at the mason jar snow globe on his desk. It shimmered, casting soft gold across the printouts beside it.
He needed food. And candles. And probably a playlist. And he’d have to try to dial down the “I am desperately in love with my wife, please don’t leave again” energy—or at least do his best to.
But first—
He reached for the plans, spreading them across the drafting table.
The craft studio extension.
Her studio. Her space. He’d put in everything he could think of. He’d made it as perfect for her as he could.
But it needed Lauren’s input. This was going to be collaboration.
He traced a finger along the edge of the east window, where he’d included a deep sill wide enough for plants.
“Is this what you’d want?” he murmured. “Or do you want more?”
God, he wanted to hear her voice on these drawings. Her critiques. Her ideas.
He didn’t want the room to be his vision of what she should have.
He wanted it to be a collaboration.
He wanted her fingerprints all over the design, the same way her joy used to fill their home during Christmas—before he ruined it.
The thought filled him with warmth. She’d add ideas. He’d revise them. They’d build something together.
He looked around his sterile office—white walls, black monitor, clean drafting lines. He’d been an idiot. For years.
Why had he been so afraid of the life she brought. The magic.
He wanted that back. He wanted her back.
Not the version he sanded down to please his parents. Not the version he tried to contain.
Just Lauren. Bright, bold, full-hearted Lauren.
He would show her tonight.
He would ask her what she wanted. Every detail. Every choice.
He would build the room around her—not around his cowardice, or his weakness, or the sterile Barrett taste.
And maybe, if he was lucky—if he didn’t screw this up—she’d let him back in. Let him live there with her.
Tom stood, grabbing his coat and the plans, pulse steadying into something close to determined.
Tonight wasn’t just dinner.
Tonight could be the beginning of the version of them he should’ve made from the start.
He grabbed his keys.
He had groceries to buy. And a design to pitch.
And a wife to win back.