Chapter 31
Today hasn’t been exactly what I expected, but I’m still enjoying the time with my nephew.
We’re in the truck, pulling out of the grocery store and Jackson is sitting in his car seat with his hands folded in his lap like a little gentleman who’s endured a very long morning.
He’s been a champ. Grocery store, hardware store, two stops for the inn, and all of it without a single complaint.
He just walked beside me, hand in mine, asking “how much longer?” in a voice that got quieter each time until it was barely a whisper.
At the last stop, he was dragging his feet so bad I thought he might lie down in the aisle and take a nap.
But he held it together, like he always does.
His daycare’s closed today and Mom had plans with a friend she’s been trying to see for over three weeks. In an effort to prove—to myself—that I am capable of taking a step back from the inn, I offered to take him. Of course, I still had errands I needed to run.
The truth is, I’m glad for the distraction.
Not even six hours since Beckett left for the city and everything is off.
The house is too quiet and the cottage is dark.
There was no one to greet me as I left for my morning run, or to remind me to make decaf coffee because I still reach for the good stuff every morning.
It’s just me and my thoughts, and a baby who’s decided two a.m. is an excellent time to practice gymnastics.
So, errands it is. And one very patient four-year-old who’s been promised a treat from Cobble & Cup and a muffin baking session when we get home.
“Aunt Maddie?” Jackson’s voice comes from the back seat, soft and a little hopeful. “Are we going to the cafe now?”
“Yeah, buddy.” I chuckle. “We’re heading to the cafe.”
His whole face changes in the rearview mirror. The tired look disappears and is replaced by a grin that lights up his entire face. His spine straightens and I can see him mentally cataloguing the pastry case, deciding what he’s going to get before we get there.
The cafe is warm and smells like cinnamon and espresso.
My mouth waters, and I’m going to attribute that to the baked goods and not the baby making me hungry every forty-five minutes.
There’s a short line and Jackson stands next to me with his arms clasped tight around his little chest, just like his dad stands.
He looks at the pastry case, eyeing the treats before he looks up at me.
“Can I have a cake pop?” he asks.
“Sure.” I smile down at him, pulling him into my side. Maybe I shouldn’t be letting him have sugar, especially when we’re going home to make muffins, but he’s been such a good kid today. He deserves it.
There’s a new barista behind the counter, someone I’ve never seen before. She’s got dark hair pulled into a loose bun and a quiet way about her that’s not unfriendly, just careful. Almost like she’s measuring how much of herself to give in each interaction.
“What can I get you?” she asks, her voice soft and lilting.
“Just a medium decaf coffee—black—and a chocolate cake pop, please.”
“One with sprinkles!” Jackson shouts, pointing at the one he wants.
“Please.” I tap his shoulder.
“Oh, please.” He smiles at the barista behind the counter.
She smiles, not one I’ve seen her aim at the customers before us, but a real one. She turns to begin working on my drink, glancing over her shoulder at me. “I don’t think I’ve seen you come in here yet. You passing through town?”
“Oh, no. I’m Madison, I manage the inn at the edge of town. I don’t make it into town often”—I wince—“but I’m working on it.”
“I’m Willa,” she offers. “The Lantern Inn, right?” she asks before I can ask about her, handing the cake pop to Jackson where he leans against my leg.
“Yeah…” I let the word hang, wondering how she knows what inn I’m talking about. Stonebridge Hollow isn’t big, but The Lantern Inn isn’t the only one in town.
“Oh, sorry. You said your name was Madison and you manage an inn. I assumed you’re the Madison that Beckett always talks about when he’s in here with the sheriff.”
Something shifts in my chest—a small, involuntary tightening.
“Beckett?”
“Beckett Stone?” she asks, concern filling her eyes. “He says it’s the best inn in town.”
“He does?” I ask. My voice is steady, but there’s something under my ribs that feels like a closing fist. It’s not anger, not exactly, but something sharper.
Something that prickles along my skin and makes me want to ask a dozen questions I have no right to ask.
How often is he here? How much do they talk?
I blink, clearing my thoughts.
Is that…jealousy? The word surfaces before I can stop it and I shove it back down immediately. That’s ridiculous. I have no claim to Beckett. I’m not allowed. I’m the one who told him we couldn’t do this. That we had to put the brakes on whatever was happening between us.
So why does that idea of him sitting at a table, talking to this woman make my stomach knot?
Pregnancy hormones. That’s all this is. Pregnancy hormones, too much cinnamon, and not enough sleep.
Jackson tugs on my hand, his empty cake pop stick in one hand and chocolate smeared on the other. “Aunt Maddie, can we go make muffins now?”
Willa laughs, the sound warm and grating on my skin. “Muffins? That sounds like a good plan.”
“It was part of the deal,” I say, trying to keep my voice light.
“It was lovely to meet you, Madison,” Willa says, handing me my drink. “Hope to see you around the cafe soon.”
“You too.” I smile, the motion a little forced.
Jackson takes my hand and we head for the door. He looks up at me as we step outside, a wide smile on his lips. “I like her.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. She’s nice.”
I wish I could say he’s wrong, but I’ve got nothing to prove the contrary.
Back at the house, I’m unloading groceries as Jackson sits at that kitchen counter with the crayons and paper I set out for him. He’s quiet and focused on his drawing of what appears to be a truck with an improbable number of wheels, and I figure that buys me enough time to get everything put away.
I’m halfway through putting the groceries away when I hear him gasp.
Turning I find him by the counter next to the window, the one where I’ve been collecting the origami flowers Beckett leaves by the coffee pot before eventually taking them upstairs to join the rest on my dresser.
There hasn’t been a single day since the first one showed up that I haven’t found a new one for me.
Tomorrow will be the first time I don’t find one, and I keep telling myself it doesn’t matter.
Jackson takes them over to the table, picking each one up, turning it over before arranging them in a careful line.
He’s gentle, the way he is with things he thinks are important, but paper is paper, and four-year-old fingers are four-year-old fingers.
I don’t have a chance to stop him before I hear the small pop of paper shifting.
His face crumbles instantly—his lip trembling as tears fill his eyes—and he holds the ruined flower out to me like it’s something broken that he’s responsible for fixing.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Maddie. I didn’t mean to. I was being careful, I promise.”
I’m on my knees in front of him in seconds, hands on his shoulder, trying to calm him down.
“Hey, hey, hey. Look at me. You didn’t ruin anything.”
“It broke,” he whispers, a tear running down his cheek.
“It didn’t break. They’re meant to come unfolded, see?” I gently take the flower from him and unfold it the rest of the way, my eyes catching on a set of words.
It’s Beckett’s handwriting. Small, neat letters I almost miss because I’m so focused on Jackson’s tears. But there they are. A little note hidden inside an origami flower.
Just so you know, I’m grateful for this. All these little moments.
It’s such a Beckett thing to do. Leave me hidden notes and say nothing about it. Patiently waiting for me to find them, or not.
I stare at the note, my mind spinning. If this one has writing, it’s likely they all do. Every single flower. Another note I never read.
“Aunt Maddie?” Jackson’s voice pulls me from the note in my hands. “Are you mad?”
I look at his red, worried eyes and pull him into a hug. “Not even a little bit. You know what? I think that flower was always supposed to be open.”
He pulls back, confused. “It was?”
“It was. It had a little secret inside, and you found it.” I smile and smooth his hair back. “Thanks for finding it.”
He considers this for a moment and a small smile appears. “Like a treasure?”
“Exactly like a treasure.”
I smooth the note carefully and set it aside. The rest of the flowers are still on the table and my fingers itch to open every single one, but Jackson’s watching me and the muffins aren’t going to make themselves. My curiosity will just have to wait.
“Okay, mister. You ready to bake?”
His face transforms and he wipes the last remnants of tears from his eyes. “Yes!”
One messy kitchen later, we’ve finished mixing the muffins and I’m slipping the first tray in the oven.
“Twenty minutes,” I tell him. “Why don’t you pick a show to watch while we wait.”
He groans, but makes his way to the living room. I hear the TV click on and the theme song to his favorite show starts a few moments later.
I’m cleaning up our mess ten minutes later when I hear it. A scratching noise coming from the front door.
I pause—hands wet—and listen. There it is again. A faint dragging sound, like something brushing against wood.
I dry my hands on a dish towel and head toward the front door, but only make it halfway when Jackson’s voice stops me. “Aunt Maddie? Can I have some milk?”
I hesitate, glancing toward the door, but the scratching’s stopped. Maybe it was a branch or the wind.
“One sec, buddy.”
I grab a cup, pour the milk, and take it to Jackson who’s already absorbed in his show. He takes it with both hands and a quiet “thank you” without looking away from the screen.
My gaze moves back to the door just as headlights sweep across the front window. I recognize the shape before it even parks.
Opening the front door, I stand in the frame watching Aiden climb out of his cruiser. He lifts a hand in greeting, walking up the path with that easy, unhurried stride that’s so uniquely him.
“Hey,” he says as he pulls me into his side, a one-armed, solid hug. “Got off early and thought I’d come pick up the little man. Give you back a little of your afternoon.”
“You’ll have to wait. We just put the muffins in the oven.”
He pulls back, eyebrows raised. “Muffins?”
“Blueberry. Jackson picked the flavor. They have ten minutes left.”
“Well, you don’t have to twist my arm.” He grins, pulling me back into his side.
We step into the house side by side, and I hear Jackson’s excited shout from the living room followed by the sound of small feet hitting the floor.
The house is quiet and I hate it.
Aiden took Jackson home an hour ago, the muffins packaged up in a container, and my nephew waving from the back seat. I cleaned up the small mess from our easy dinner and rushed upstairs.
Now I’m sitting on my bed surrounded by the remnants of Beckett’s origami flowers like a garden of unfolded paper.
I opened all of them. All forty-eight flowers.
I didn’t keep track of the order he left them, but the first ones were easy to spot, the tone of them almost formal.
Thank you. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.
Simple. Polite. The kind of note you write when you’re still figuring out the rules of a new relationship.
But as the weeks go on, the notes shift. They get warmer, more personal. Less like a thank you and more like a conversation he’s having with me even when I’m not in the room—or aware we’re having one.
You told me today that you’re not good at asking for help. I’m sure it won’t surprise you to know that I’m not good at that either. Let’s try better together.
I wrote a song today. It’s definitely about you. I don’t know if I’ll share it with anyone, but I think that might have been the point.
I know you have your reasons and I’m going to respect them, but I’m still going to work on proving you wrong.
I’m not entirely sure what I’ve done in this life to deserve you, but I’m not questioning it anymore.
I read each one twice. Some of them three times. I stack them in order, the earliest ones on the bottom and the most recent on top, and by the time I’m done, my eyes are burning, my throat tight. I can’t stop from asking the questions I’ve been avoiding for weeks.
Did I make the right decision?
I’ve been telling myself I did. That pushing him away was the responsible thing—the fair thing. But sitting here, surrounded by the evidence of a man who folded paper flowers and hid notes inside them because he couldn’t say the words out loud, I’m not so sure.
I know how I feel about him. I realized it on Saturday when we felt the baby kick. The way his face changed at the feel of my son’s little kick—the wonder and pure, unguarded joy—it changed something in me.
No, not changed. It opened my eyes.
And then Aaron called and pulled him back to the city. The fear that washed through me at the idea I might never see him again. That when he left he might never return…it nearly broke me.
I can’t go back to a life where he’s not in it. Where his smiling face isn’t there to greet me in the morning and there are no more paper flowers by the coffee pot.
It’s terrifying to think about going back on what I already said, but the words my mom said to me on Sunday before we sat down to dinner keep running through my mind.
You know, darling. You may regret some of the risks you take, but you’ll always regret the ones you miss.
I didn’t respond to her at the time. I had no idea what to say to something like that. But sitting here, surrounded by the signs of the type of man Beckett is, I can’t deny she’s right.
How much will I regret not taking a chance on more with Beckett?
With that simple thought everything changes.
The next time I see Beckett, I’m going to tell him I was wrong.
That I want to explore something more with him.
That I’m terrified and pregnant, and I know it’s complicated and messy, but I want to try.
If he’s willing, I want to give this thing between us a real shot.
I stack the smoothed notes neatly on my dresser, his words facing up so I can see his most recent note on top.
I know it’s only a few days, but I’m going to miss you…quite terribly.
I turn off the light and climb into bed, my hand resting on my stomach where the baby’s still—for now. The house settles around me, the quiet still taunting me, but not as aggressively as before.
And then my phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I know without looking it’s the man I want to hear from most. I reach for it and the screen lights up in the dark, Beckett’s message right there for me to see.
Beckett
Tell the little nugget good night for me. I don’t want him, or his mother, forgetting I’m here for them.
I press the phone to my chest and close my eyes. And all of a sudden, the quiet doesn’t feel so empty.