Chapter 7 Rhett
Seven
Rhett
I pulled up to the little Craftsman on Elm Street, my stomach doing flips like I was some damn teenager. The engine died with a turn of the key, but I sat frozen behind the wheel. Our house—her house now—looked different in the fading evening light. Smaller somehow. Tired.
My eyes caught on the sagging front porch.
The wooden planks bowed in the middle like they were surrendering to gravity.
The railing listed to one side, sections of it rotted through completely.
Christ. It looked worse than when I’d left.
Even the flower boxes I’d built her—boxes she’d filled with bright red geraniums every spring—hung empty and weathered.
I remembered standing on that porch with Pepper, both of us grinning like fools when we first bought the place.
“We’ll fix it up,” I’d promised her. “Just give me time.” She’d squeezed my hand then, her eyes sparkling with so much hope it had made my chest ache.
We’d christened every room that first night, ending up in the kitchen where she’d sprinkled the red pepper flakes that had inspired her nickname on the pizza we’d ordered.
Time. I’d always thought we had more of it.
The porch had been on my mental to-do list for years.
But there’d always been something more urgent.
Redoing the kitchen had been our top priority after moving in.
A woman like Pepper, who lived for food, needed a space she loved to work, and I’d loved bringing her vision to life.
Or at least as much of her vision as our imaginations and DIY skills could manage.
Then we’d painted every room before starting on the main bathroom, with its dated tile and fixtures.
That project had uncovered a plumbing disaster that had eaten into our renovation budget for a long time.
After that, it seemed there’d always been something else that came up.
Another shift at the station, another deployment, another excuse.
I’d sketched plans for redoing the porch once, even bought some lumber that eventually got used for something else. But I just… hadn’t gotten to it.
I stepped out of my truck, tugging at the collar of my dress shirt that suddenly felt too tight against my throat. What else had I left undone? What other promises had I broken? The list seemed to grow longer the more I stared at the house I’d once called home.
The yard needed work too—a lot of work. Weeds sprouted between cracked stepping stones like unwelcome guests that had moved in permanently.
The maple tree’s branches hung low, scraping against the roof in a way that couldn’t be good for the shingles.
Each gust of wind dragged them across like fingernails on a chalkboard.
And I wasn’t sure the bushes had been trimmed in at least a couple of years.
They sprawled outward, wild and untamed, much like the guilt spreading inside me.
This house had been a stretch on two incomes. On one? With the hours Pepper put in at Kiss My Grits? The math didn’t work, and I knew it. She’d be up before dawn, prepping for breakfast service, staying late to close, all while trying to keep this place from falling apart.
A cold weight settled in my chest, heavy as a stone. I’d walked away and left her with a mountain of maintenance and a mortgage that must be crushing her. All this time, she’d been here, holding together the pieces of the life I’d abandoned. No backup, no partner to share the load—just Pepper.
I stood at the bottom of those sagging steps, bouquet of daisies hanging limply in my hand. Daisies—her favorite. At least I remembered that much. The yellow centers seemed to stare back at me in accusation, as if even they knew how inadequate this gesture was.
The doorbell was probably still broken. Another item on that endless list of things I’d meant to fix. Another promise I’d failed to keep. Like so many others I’d made to her with the best intentions, before the fire department and deployments and everything else I’d put ahead of us.
I took a cautious step onto the first porch stair, testing it with my weight.
It creaked in protest, but held. The second step felt worse—spongier, like the wood might give way completely.
My firefighter brain immediately calculated the risk: serious fall hazard, potential for injury, especially in heels or at night.
After more than twelve years of running into burning buildings, I could spot structural dangers in my sleep.
The whole damn thing needed to be torn down and rebuilt from scratch. Not a patch job—a complete overhaul. Another thing I’d failed at. Another promise whispered on a summer night while we sat on this very porch, drinking wine and planning a future that never materialized.
I made it to the door, sidestepping what looked like the weakest boards. The doorbell button was still loose in its housing, just as I remembered. I raised my hand and knocked instead, my knuckles hesitating against the familiar wood for just a moment before making contact.
My heart thumped against my ribs as I waited.
The seconds stretched into an eternity. I shifted the daisies to my other hand, wiping my sweaty palm against my suit pants.
Then the door swung open, and everything else—the rotting porch, the dull ache in my shoulder, the awkwardness of the situation—faded away.
Pepper stood in the doorway, bathed in the warm glow of the entryway light, her auburn hair loose around her shoulders and catching the light like burnished copper.
She wore that green wrap dress—the one that had always been my favorite, not only because of the fit, but because it made her gray-green eyes look like some kind of sea witch.
The velvety fabric clung to every curve in a way that made my hands itch to reacquaint themselves.
My mouth went dry. My fingers tightened around the stems of the daisies, nearly crushing them.
In another life—the one where I hadn’t screwed everything up—I would have stepped forward without hesitation, backed her into the hallway, kicked the door shut, and said to hell with dinner reservations.
I would have unwrapped that dress like the gift it was and feasted on her instead until we were both mindless and the only choices for dinner were delivery pizza or whatever we could scrounge up in our own kitchen before we dove at each other again.
Instead, I stood frozen on her deteriorating porch, struck dumb by the sight of her. I cleared my throat, trying to find my voice.
“Hi.” The word came out rougher than I intended. “You look incredible.”
Those sea witch eyes scanned me from head to toe in a perusal that made it absolutely worth the discomfort of the suit. “So do you.”
I snapped out of my trance and remembered my manners. This wasn’t some awkward first date. This was Pepper—the woman who’d seen me at my best and worst. The woman I’d vowed to love forever. Just because I’d failed at that didn’t mean I couldn’t give her one decent night.
“These are for you.” I handed her the daisies, our fingers brushing. Even that slight contact sent electricity up my arm. “I know they’re simple, but—”
“They’re perfect.” She buried her nose in the blooms, and I caught the ghost of a smile. “Thank you.”
I waited until she’d set the flowers on a table inside the entryway, then extended my arm. “Shall we? I’d hate for you to break an ankle on those death trap stairs.”
She hesitated only a moment before sliding her hand into the crook of my elbow. “I’ve been meaning to get that fixed.” Her touch was light, tentative, but still enough to make my pulse quicken.
“I know a guy,” I said, guiding her carefully down the steps. “He’s not much to look at, but he works cheap.” The old joke slipped out before I could think better of it—the kind of offer I’d made dozens of times when we were together.
That earned me a genuine laugh—the kind that used to be my personal mission to coax out of her at least once a day.
God, I’d missed that laugh, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners, how her whole face lit up.
For a second, it was like nothing had changed between us, and the weight of that realization nearly made me stumble on the last step.
Maybe there was a chance. Maybe it wasn’t too late.
As we reached my truck, I opened the passenger door. Pepper stepped up, and I caught the subtle shift in her movements—the slight squaring of her shoulders, the deliberate way she crossed her legs as she settled into the seat. I froze, my hand still on the door.
I knew that walk. That posture. That particular brand of confidence. Years together had taught me to read her body language like a book I’d memorized cover to cover.
My mouth went dry. She was wearing the underwear. The good stuff. The lace-and-silk artillery she’d always deployed when she wanted to drive me absolutely out of my mind. The kind that had once made me forget my own name.
“Everything okay?” she asked, one eyebrow raised in that way that told me she knew exactly what I was thinking. There was a hint of that old mischief in her eyes, the kind that used to be my undoing on a regular basis.
I cleared my throat. “Fine. Just fine.” The lie tasted obvious on my tongue.
I closed her door and circled around to the driver’s side, using the moment to collect myself, to get my racing pulse under control.
I gripped the steering wheel tight enough that my knuckles went white, trying to focus on anything but the woman sitting inches away from me.
This was going to be a long, wonderful, torturous night.