Chapter Thirty-Two
Housewarming
Emmie
I finish the book on a Tuesday.
The last sentence lands on the page, and I just… stare at it. Twelve months of work. Three hundred and forty-two pages. A cookbook about cooking for the people you love, written almost entirely about a man who doesn’t know I love him.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
I close my laptop, pour myself a glass of wine, and cry for approximately twenty minutes. Happy tears, mostly. Relieved tears. The kind of tears that come when you’ve poured everything you have into something and somehow, miraculously, it didn’t destroy you.
Murphy watches from the kitchen counter, deeply unimpressed.
“I did it, Murph.” I wipe my face with the back of my hand. “I actually did it.”
He yawns.
“You’re right. Time to celebrate.”
I text Sadie first. Then my mom. Then my editor, who responds with approximately forty-seven exclamation points and a promise to call tomorrow.
I’m halfway through my second glass of wine when Crew walks through the door.
He pauses, taking in the scene—me on the couch, mascara smeared, wine in hand, grinning like an idiot.
“You okay?”
“I finished the book.”
Something shifts in his expression. Softens. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s done. Like, actually done. I just sent it to my editor.”
“Emmie, that’s—” He sets down his bag, and for a second, I think he might hug me. He doesn’t, but the impulse was there. I saw it. “That’s great. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” I raise my glass. “I’m celebrating. Obviously.”
“Obviously.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “You deserve it.”
We stand there for a moment, the familiar awkwardness settling between us. But underneath it, something else. Something warm.
“How’s the cabin?” I ask, because it’s our safe topic now.
“Done, actually.”
“Wait, really? Done done?”
“Yeah. I mean, I have to finish the last of the trim work this weekend. But it’s—” He shrugs, but I can see the pride underneath. “It’s livable. Finally.”
“Crew, that’s amazing!”
“It’s just a cabin.”
“It’s not just a cabin. It’s your cabin. The thing you built with your own hands.” I set down my wine glass, an idea forming. “You should have a housewarming.”
“A what?”
“A housewarming. A party. You invite people over, they bring gifts, you show off your hard work.” I’m warming to this idea now. “Nothing big. Just a weekend thing. Foster, Sadie, maybe a few others. Bonfire. S’mores. Stargazing.”
“I don’t do parties.”
“It wouldn’t have to be a party, not really; it’s a gathering. A small, intimate gathering of people who want to celebrate you.”
“That sounds like a party.”
“Crew.” I give him my most persuasive look—the one that usually works on Murphy and occasionally works on stubborn FBI agents. “You spent months building something incredible. Let people see it. Let yourself be proud of it.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. I can see him running through objections in his head, cataloging all the reasons this is a bad idea.
“Fine,” he finally says. “But small. And no gifts.”
“Small, no gifts. Got it.”
“And you’re in charge of food.”
“Obviously.” I grin at him. “This is going to be great. You’ll see.”
He doesn’t look convinced. But he also doesn’t say no.
It’s a start.
* * *
Three days later, we caravan to Oklahoma.
Sadie and I are in her car—windows down, music up, snacks overflowing from the back seat. Foster and Crew are in Crew’s truck because apparently they needed to “pick up supplies” on the way, which I’m pretty sure is code for “avoid being trapped in a car with chatty women for three hours.”
The drive is beautiful. The hustle and bustle of Dallas eventually fades into farmland, then rolling hills, then dense pine forests that make me feel like I’ve been transported to another world.
By the time we turn onto the gravel road that leads to Crew’s property, I’m practically bouncing in my seat.
“You’re nervous,” Sadie observes.
“I’m excited.”
She glances at me. “It’s because of him, isn’t it?”
“It’s because I’ve never seen the cabin. I’ve heard about it for weeks, but I’ve never actually—”
“Emmie.”
“What?”
“When are you going to tell him?”
My stomach drops. “Tell him what?”
Sadie gives me a look. The look. The one she’s been giving me for weeks, every time Crew’s name comes up, every time I deflect a question about my love life.
“That you’re in love with him.”
“I’m not—”
“You dedicated your cookbook to him. Not with words, but we both know—” She shakes her head. “That book is a love letter. You know it, I know it, and if Crew ever reads it, he’s going to know it too.”
I stare out the window, watching the trees blur past. “It doesn’t matter how I feel,” I say quietly. “He made his choice.”
“People can make new choices.”
“Sadie—”
“I’m just saying. A weekend in the woods. His cabin. Bonfires and starlight and—”
“We’re sharing a room. You and me. No funny business.”
“Fine, no funny business.” She grins. “But I reserve the right to accidentally leave you two alone at strategic moments.”
“You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best, and you know it.”
The cabin comes into view, and I forget how to breathe.
It’s beautiful.
Not in a rustic, Pinterest-perfect way. In a real way.
A Crew way. It’s a proper log cabin—dark pine logs stacked and notched at the corners, a green metal roof, a stone chimney rising from the center.
There’s a wraparound porch that looks out over the trees—with Adirondack chairs he must have built himself.
“Damn,” Sadie murmurs. “That man has hidden depths.”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out thick. “He really does.”
* * *
The tour is torture.
Not because the cabin isn’t amazing—it is.
Every room shows evidence of the care he put into it.
The kitchen cabinets he built from scratch are simple and functional.
The refinished floors, warm honey oak creak softly under our feet.
The stone fireplace he rebuilt piece by piece is now the heart of the small living room.
The torture is watching him show it off.
Crew isn’t a bragger. He doesn’t puff up or fish for compliments. But there’s a quiet pride in the way he points things out, explains the challenges he faced, and admits to the mistakes he made along the way. He’s more animated than I’ve seen him in months. More present.
And God, he looks so good.
He’s wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, jeans that fit him like they were made for his body, and work boots that have actually seen work. His hair is slightly longer than usual—he hasn’t had time to cut it—and there’s color in his cheeks from the attention.
He looks like he belongs here. Like this place was always meant to be his.
“The bedroom’s through here,” he’s saying, leading Foster and Sadie down the short hallway. “Just the one for now, but there’s space in the loft for another. Eventually.”
“Where’s Emmie sleeping?” Foster asks, and I could kill him for the innocence in his voice.
“Emmie and Sadie are taking the bedroom. You are on the couch, and I’ll take the air mattress upstairs in the loft.”
“Chivalrous.”
Crew’s eyes flick to mine, then away.
We finish the tour on the back porch, which looks out over a slope of trees leading down to a small creek. The sun is starting to set, painting everything gold and orange.
“This is incredible, Crew.” I mean it. “You should be proud.”
“It’s just a cabin,” he says, but he’s almost smiling.
“It’s not just a cabin. It’s yours. Something permanent. Something no one can take away.” Just like he once told me he always wanted.
His jaw tightens. He remembers too.
“I’m going to start on the bonfire,” he says abruptly. “It’ll be dark soon.”
He disappears around the side of the cabin, and Foster follows with a knowing look that makes me want to scream.
“Subtle,” Sadie murmurs.
“Shut up.”
“I’m just saying—”
“I will push you into the creek.”
She laughs and goes inside to unpack, leaving me alone on the porch with the sunset, the trees, and the memory of a man who once told me I’d be the girl he’d want if he was capable of wanting.
I think he’s more capable than he knows.
I just don’t know how to make him see it.
* * *
The evening unfolds in snapshots.
Crew is splitting wood for the fire, the axe swinging in a steady rhythm that does things to my brain I’m not proud of.
The flex of his shoulders. The shift of muscle under the cotton of his t-shirt.
The way he pauses to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand, looking for all the world like a lumberjack fantasy come to life.
I busy myself in the kitchen, assembling charcuterie boards and pretending I’m not watching him through the window.
Foster brings in firewood, joking about Crew’s “mountain man phase.” Sadie pours wine and gives me significant looks every time Crew walks past.
The bonfire crackles to life as darkness falls, sparks spiraling up toward a sky crowded with stars.
We settle into camp chairs around the fire, plates of cheese and meat balanced on our laps, wine glasses catching the flickering light. It’s comfortable. Easy. Almost like it used to be, before everything got complicated.
“So, Emmie,” Foster says, because apparently he’s taken over Sadie’s role as chief instigator. “The cookbook’s done. What’s next?”
“Sleep for approximately one thousand years.” I take a sip of wine. “Then start thinking about book four, I guess. My editor’s already asking.”
“Any idea what it’ll be about?”
“Not yet. I need to live a little first. Get some new material.”
“I hear Oklahoma’s great for inspiration,” Sadie says innocently. “All this fresh air. The great outdoors. Rugged cabin life.”
I kick her under my chair.
“What about you, Crew?” Foster asks. “Cabin’s done. What’s the next project?”
Crew stares into the fire, his face half-lit by the flames. “Haven’t thought about it.”
“Come on. There’s got to be something. A shed? A gazebo? A—”
“I don’t know, Foster.” His voice is sharper than usual. “Maybe I’ll just… enjoy it for a while. Is that allowed?”
Silence. The fire crackles.
“Sorry,” Crew mutters. “Long week.”
“No worries, man.” Foster clears his throat. “Who wants s’mores?”
The tension breaks. Sadie produces a bag of marshmallows from somewhere, and we spend the next hour roasting them over the fire, arguing about the correct level of char, making increasingly messy sandwiches of chocolate and graham crackers.
Crew relaxes by degrees. I watch it happen—the set of his shoulders loosening, the furrow between his brows smoothing out. By the time we’re on our second round of s’mores, he’s almost smiling.
“This was a good idea,” he admits quietly when Foster and Sadie are distracted by a debate about whether peanut butter cups are an acceptable s’more substitution.
“I have those sometimes.”
“I know.” He looks at me across the fire, and my breath catches. “Thank you. For pushing. For… all of it.”
“You’re welcome.”
The flames dance between us. The stars twinkle overhead. And for one perfect moment, it feels like everything might be okay.
Then Sadie yawns dramatically and announces she’s going to bed, and the moment shatters.
* * *
I can’t sleep.
It’s not the unfamiliar bed—the mattress is surprisingly comfortable, and Sadie’s already snoring softly beside me. It’s not the sounds of the forest—the crickets, owls, and rustling branches are actually soothing.
It’s knowing he’s just up the stairs in the loft.
I lie there for what feels like hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of the evening. The way he looked splitting wood. The pride in his voice during the tour. The firelight catching his eyes when he thanked me.
When are you going to tell him?
I don’t know. I don’t know if I ever will. I don’t know if it would make things better or worse or just more complicated than they already are.
All I know is that I love him.
And this cabin—this place he built with his own hands, this permanent thing he created from nothing—feels like proof that he’s capable of so much more than he believes.
I just wish he could see it.
Eventually, sleep claims me. And if I dream about gray eyes, flannel shirts, and a future that might never happen, well.
That’s between me and the Oklahoma stars.