Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Wade
The kitchen table was small, smoothed by years of use, and decorated with food Nigel had clearly prepared with overwhelming joy.
The oxtail soup sat in the center, steam rising, but surrounding it were dishes I recognized from my time on the island. Roti folded perfectly, cheese melting over the top, apple cider in mismatched glasses.
Marie's eyes had filled with tears the moment she saw it. "Papa, you made this.”
"Your favorites." Nigel's voice was thick. "Every single one. I kept the recipes your mother wrote down, and had been making them for myself every Sunday, hoping—" He stopped, cleared his throat. "Hoping you'd come home to eat them with me."
Marie ate as if she were starving, and maybe in some ways she was.
Not for calories, I’d been feeding her well at the estate, but for this.
For home food made with love by her father in the kitchen where she'd grown up.
For tastes that brought back memories of who she'd been before everything was stolen.
I sat beside her, close enough that our thighs touched, eating my own portion and watching her face glow with each bite.
Happy tears mixed with smiles, and Honey's head rested heavily on her lap, serving as a vacuum for any crumbs that fell. She hadn't moved from Marie’s side since we'd come in, pressed against her like she was making up for lost time.
“The food,” Marie said between bites, her voice awed. "It's exactly how Mama used to make it. Papa, how did you do it?”
"I had lots of time to practice.” Nigel smiled through teary eyes. “I had every step, every measurement. Your mom knew I'd need them someday. I just didn't think it would be because…” He stopped, shaking his head. "You're home now. That's what matters."
We ate in comfortable near-silence that didn't need filling with words. Just the sounds of utensils on plates, Honey's contented sighs, and the bay visible through the kitchen window.
Eventually, Nigel set down his fork and looked at his daughter with something heavy in his expression. "Marie, baby girl, I need to tell you something."
She tensed immediately, and my hand found her thigh under the table, grounding her. "What is it?"
"Your apartment. The one you had near the marina.
" He swallowed hard. "I couldn't—I tried to keep paying for it.
I kept it for a year, thinking you'd come home and need somewhere to go.
But after that first year, the rent increased and I just—I couldn't anymore.
It hurt too much, keeping that empty space. "
"Papa—"
"I brought everything here." He rushed on, needing to get it out.
"All your boxes, your trinkets, your clothes.
Everything that was yours. I put it in your old bedroom and promised myself I wouldn't look through any of it.
Those are your things, your private things.
I just—I needed them here. Needed to know they were safe. "
Marie's hand found mine on her thigh and squeezed it tight. "Thank you for keeping everything. For—" Her voice faltered. "For never giving up."
Nigel stood, came around the table, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Long and lingering, a kiss that said everything words couldn't. "Go look. Take your time. I'll clean up here."
It was a gift. Giving her space to process, to see her past, to reconnect with who she'd been without him watching. Good father instincts.
I stood and helped Marie to her feet. "Bathroom first, darling."
Her cheeks puffed out immediately, a pretty pout I was learning to love. "Wade, seriously?”
"You've been sitting for over an hour and have had two glasses of cider." I tried to hide the amusement from my voice. "Bathroom, and then we'll look at your room."
She ducked her head, embarrassed but compliant. “Fine.”
Nigel showed us to the small bathroom, and I waited outside while Marie attended to her needs. When she emerged, still blushing, I took her hand and let her lead me to the second bedroom.
She opened the door, and I immediately understood that I’d messed up.
Pink. Everything that wasn't covered by boxes was aggressively, unapologetically pink.
The walls were a soft pink color, posters of beaches and sunsets tacked up with care. A white dresser was covered in pink accessories—hair clips, bracelets, and a collection of seashells painted pink.
And spilling out of every box, draped over the bed, hanging from the closet door, were clothes.
All pink. Short sundresses in coral, fuchsia, and rose.
Tank tops in every shade of pink imaginable.
Jean shorts with pink stitching. Ribbons and more accessories were scattered everywhere like an explosion of femininity and color.
Marie stood in the doorway, glancing up at me nervously through her lashes, as if she was waiting for me to judge, to comment on how childish or impractical these were, compared to the cream and white clothes I’d been giving her.
I couldn't help my smile. Couldn't stop the warmth of seeing this glimpse of who she was. Bright and colorful, and beautifully feminine.
"You love pink," I observed, a hint of wonder in my voice.
She looked down, fidgeting with her hands. "I know the clothes you've been giving me are more sophisticated, and they're nice, but…”
"But they're not you." I turned her to face me, tilting her chin up with gentle fingers. "Darling, tell me honestly. How much have you hated wearing all those neutral colors I've been putting you in?"
Her eyes went wide, caught. "I didn't hate them! They're beautiful and expensive, and I'm grateful—"
"Marie,” I said her name with amused patience. "The truth."
She bit her lip, and I could see her weighing honesty against politeness. Finally, she let out a small huff. “They're not really my style. I mean, they're nice, but I like—" She gestured at the explosion of pink around us. "I like color, short things because it's hot here, and—”
"Pink," I finished for her, grinning now. "You like pink, darling. Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you were already doing so much!" Her voice rose slightly, distressed but undeniably cute. "You helped the girls and me, gave me a place to stay, beautiful, expensive clothes, and I wasn't going to complain that they weren't pink enough!”
I kissed her—I couldn't help it. I just leaned down and pressed my mouth to hers, swallowing whatever else adorable things she was going to say. When I pulled back, she was flushed and breathless, looking at me with confused eyes.
"I'm going to remedy this immediately," I said seriously. “We're shopping, and you're going to pick out everything you want that’s pink, short, beachy, whatever makes you happy. You're going to let me buy all of it without arguing."
"Wade, that's too much!”
"It's not nearly enough." I stroked her cheek, letting her see how much I meant it. "I want you comfortable, I want you in clothes that make you feel like yourself. Pink dresses and tank tops and all the ribbons you want, understand?"
She stared at me like she couldn't quite believe I was real. "You really don't mind? That my style is so..."
"Young? Colorful? Adorable?" I smiled. "I think it's perfect. I think you're perfect, and I can't wait to see you in all the pink your heart desires."
Hours later, after Marie had gone through boxes with tears and laughter, after she'd shown me pictures and trinkets, told me stories about growing up in this house, she'd found me in the living room where I was talking with Nigel.
"Papa," she said quietly, and her voice made both of us look up. "I don't think I can stay here tonight."
Nigel's face fell immediately, confusion and hurt flickering across his expression. "Oh. Of course, baby girl. If you need time, if it's too much coming back after everything, that’s okay.”
"It's not that." She glanced at me, then back to her father, and I could see her struggling with how to explain.
"I feel safe with Wade at his estate. In his bed, specifically. I know that probably sounds strange, but after everything,” She stopped, not elaborating on what 'everything' meant.
"I just can't imagine sleeping without him nearby.”
Nigel looked between us, and I could see him thinking through it. His daughter had been gone for years, had been through trauma she wasn't ready to share, and now she was telling him she needed to sleep in another man's bed. A man he'd met only hours ago.
"Marie, I need you to help me understand." His voice was careful. "You've known Wade for how long?"
"Four days." She answered almost proudly, like it explained everything instead of nothing.
"Four days,” Nigel repeated, looking at me with something harder in his expression. "And you're already…”
"He saved my life, Papa." Marie's voice was stronger, more certain.
"He saved the women because I asked him to.
He's kept me safe, made sure I eat, rest, and take my medication.
He carries me when my feet hurt and reminds me to use the bathroom when I forget.
He makes me feel—" She stopped, swallowing hard.
"He makes me feel like I don't have to be strong all the time. Like it's okay to need someone."
"And that's important to you?" Nigel asked softly. "After what you've been through?"
"Yes." She answered immediately. "I know it's fast. I know it doesn't make sense from the outside, but Wade makes me feel safe.” She glanced at me, her cheeks flushing slightly. “And we're not doing anything we shouldn’t. I'm thirty-two, Papa. An adult. Wade is just—”
"Taking care of her," I finished quietly, meeting Nigel's eyes. "That's all I'm doing, Mr. Rivers. Taking care of your daughter because she needs it, and I'm capable of providing it."
Nigel studied me, a father scrutinizing his daughter’s choice. "What exactly are your intentions with my daughter, Mr. Easton?"