Chapter 12
Twelve
Pepper
I pulled into my driveway at quarter past nine, my feet aching and my hair smelling like grease from the fryer.
Tommy’s kid had brought home some stomach thing from school, which meant I’d covered his dinner shift after working the breakfast and lunch rush instead of getting home around four as usual.
A warm glow spilled from my living room windows.
Stacks of lumber created a mountain on my front lawn beside a dumpster that hadn’t been there when I’d left this morning.
The old, rotting boards from the porch had been torn away, leaving the skeletal frame exposed.
The whole thing looked worse stripped down than it had intact.
I killed the engine but stayed in my car, gripping the steering wheel. When Rhett had offered to fix the porch, I hadn’t given him a key. Hadn’t even discussed logistics. Yet here he was, clearly having made himself at home.
I tried to drum up some irritation, but my stomach growled, reminding me I’d worked through dinner.
All I had waiting for me inside was leftover mac and cheese that probably wouldn’t reheat well.
And Rhett. Who apparently still remembered where the spare key was kept—tucked behind the loose brick three rows up from the foundation.
It hadn’t occurred to me to find a new hiding spot after we’d divorced.
The driver’s side door creaked as I pushed it open. The autumn air held just enough chill to raise goosebumps on my arms. Or maybe that was knowing I was about to walk into my house and find him there.
This was exactly why letting him fix the porch was a terrible idea.
I trudged through the garage, my feet dragging with each step.
I ought to be able to go in, toe off my shoes with a groan of relief, and toss the bag of clothes that had absorbed the scents of my trade into the hamper designated for that purpose, then fall into the sofa with a pint of ice cream or something equally easy to eat.
When I got home after a double shift, I was too exhausted to do anything else.
But the whole routine was disrupted by the knowledge that Rhett waited on the other side of that door.
The handle turned easily beneath my fingers, and I was hit by a wall of scent that made my stomach growl embarrassingly loud. Garlic. Basil. Tomatoes. Something with red pepper flakes.
Rhett stood at my stove, his broad back to me, stirring something in my biggest enameled cast-iron pot. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his denim shirt, exposing forearms dusted with dark hair. The kitchen looked cleaner than when I’d left it this morning.
He turned at the sound of the door, wooden spoon still in hand. A genuine smile lit his face, crinkling the corners of those brown eyes that had always seen right through me.
“Hey, sorry for robbing your pantry and freezer, but I knew you’d be tired when you got home, and you probably wouldn’t remember to bring anything home from the diner. I wanted to make sure you had supper.”
My brain struggled to process the scene. Rhett. In my kitchen. Cooking. For me.
“You’re making spaghetti.” The words came out flat, stunned.
“With that spicy sausage you like.” He turned back to the pot, giving it another stir. “Found it in the freezer. Hope that’s okay.”
It was my favorite. He remembered my favorite. It probably shouldn’t be a surprise. We’d been together a lot longer than we’d been apart.
I dropped my purse on the counter and moved closer, peering into the pot where thick tomato sauce bubbled, dotted with chunks of sausage and flecks of red pepper, onions, and garlic.
“I thought you were here to fix the porch.” My voice sounded small, uncertain.
“I was. I did—well, started to. Got the old boards torn off, assessed the damage.” He shrugged. “But then I figured you’d be hungry after working all day.”
It was sweet and thoughtful, and I had no idea what to do with that.
This was too much like before—like all those nights early in our marriage when he’d surprise me with dinner after a long shift.
Back then, I’d come home to find him in our tiny kitchen, usually covered in flour from some failed attempt at homemade pasta or wearing that ridiculous “Kiss the Cook” apron I’d bought him as a joke.
The memories hit me like a physical ache, along with the scent of garlic and oregano that was filling my kitchen now, exactly the way it used to.
“What is this, Rhett? What are you doing?” The words came out sharper than I meant them to, edged with the hurt I’d carried for so long.
He set the spoon down and braced his hands on the counter, head bowed. When he finally turned to face me, there was an odd blend of determination and vulnerability in his eyes.
“We talked a lot about regrets on this last deployment. We all had plenty of time to think about them during long shifts, with nothing else going on. Everybody had something, but there was a pretty consistent theme of stuff we’d all put off for one reason or another.
Things we wanted that we hadn’t had the courage to go after.
Then the camp was attacked, and we made a pact that if we survived, we’d stop wasting time, stop being chickenshit. ”
I wrapped my arms around my middle, afraid of where he was going with this.
“After that, everything went absolutely FUBAR. I got caught in an explosion, took some shrapnel, and thought for a bit that I wasn’t gonna make it.
And the only thing I could think of as I was laying there, bleeding, was how badly I’d fucked things up with you, and how much I regretted not getting the chance to apologize and make it right. ”
My breath wheezed out in a shaky rush, and my heart fell into a thundering gallop that made my knees weak. I could feel the blood draining from my face as his words sank in, turning my world upside down all over again.
He’d nearly died. Every report that he’d made home, everything I’d gotten out of Austen, had been that it hadn’t been that bad.
But it had been bad. And in typical Rhett fashion, he hadn’t bothered to tell anyone, no doubt believing that he was protecting everyone from the truth and what he’d see as needless worry.
I wanted to shout at him, to shake him for making that call for the people he cared about.
For making sure he stayed alone because he was so damned positive he could handle everything on his own.
But he wasn’t finished.
“By the grace of God and some quick thinking guys in my platoon, I didn’t die. I made it out. And I’m not gonna squander this opportunity.”
He took a step closer. “Look, I know I took you for granted. That I put duty and my job ahead of you. I fucked things up on so many levels, and I know I probably don’t deserve a second chance.
But I love you, Pepper. I’m still so in love with you.
I’m here to prove that I’ve changed. And, if you’ll let me, to court you again. ”
I stared at him, unable to form words, as his declaration crashed over me like a tidal wave. The kitchen suddenly felt too small, the air too thick. My mind raced through a dozen responses, but my throat had closed up entirely.
Court me? After all this time? After everything that had happened between us? Also, when did he become a man who’d use an old-fashioned word like court?
“Rhett, I—” My voice dried up. I couldn’t finish the sentence because I didn’t know what to say.
He stepped forward, close enough that I could smell the faint scent of sawdust, sweat, and cologne—the same one he’d worn since we were twenty. His eyes were soft, patient. “You don’t have to say anything right now.”
He lifted his hand, and I held my breath as his fingertips brushed my cheek with a gentleness that made my chest ache. The familiar calluses on his palm scraped lightly against my skin, and I couldn’t stop myself from turning into the touch.
“I just thought you should know my intentions.” His thumb traced my cheekbone, then fell away. “Enjoy your spaghetti.”
No demands. No expectations. No attempt to steal another kiss like the one that had left me dizzy on my porch after our date last night.
He turned back to the stove, gave the sauce one final stir, and switched off the burner. Then he grabbed his jacket from the back of a kitchen chair and slipped it on, wincing slightly as it pulled at his injured shoulder. No doubt unloading all those supplies earlier had been overdoing it.
“Gabe’s coming by tomorrow to help me with some of the structural work on the porch. We’ll try not to make too much noise.”
And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him with a quiet finality that somehow felt louder than a slam.
I sank into a chair at the kitchen table, my legs suddenly too weak to hold me. The house felt emptier than it had in months. The spicy aroma of the spaghetti sauce hung in the air, a tangible reminder of his presence.
Court me.
I buried my face in my hands, overwhelmed by emotions I’d thought were long buried. Anger. Hurt. Longing. Hope. The last one scared me the most. Because that was the one that would get me in trouble.
That was the one that would let him try.