2. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Katherine
I slip into my favorite leggings, the fabric still faintly warm from the dryer. The scent of lavender and creamy vanilla curls through the room from the candle flickering on the coffee table—soft, familiar, calming. I scoop up my laptop and The Bridge Between Us —the book Dad handed me last week with a look that said there was more to it than just a good read. I’ve been pretending to read it all week, skimming the pages without taking in much of anything. Still, I carry it with me, like maybe osmosis will do what my heart and mind aren’t quite ready for. I cross the living room slowly, letting the plush carpet press into my bare feet like moss beneath a forest path.
I was still unpacking boxes in my Albany condo when Dad called. The sun was pouring through my kitchen window, lighting up the stainless steel like it was auditioning for a magazine spread. I was proud of that place—my first home, bought on my own after landing a job with one of the top brokerage firms in the city. But the moment I heard Dad’s voice—steady, but tired—I knew.
“It’s time,” he said. “I can’t do it all alone anymore.”
That was all he needed to say. I pictured Grandpa’s old desk, the one with the carved legs and the deep drawer that always stuck, and the photo he kept of his first ‘Sold’ sign—tilted, sun-bleached, full of pride. Cold Spring wasn’t just a dot on the map. It was home. And the family business wasn’t just real estate. It was legacy.
So I packed up. Moved back. Not because I had to—but because I couldn’t imagine not.
***
"I appreciate the offer, Daddy," I'd said firmly. "But I'm not moving back in with you and Mom. I want my own place."
"You don’t want to live with us again?" Dad had replied, his tone teasing. "It would be just like old times. I can even give you a curfew and everything."
"How about you help me find a rental?" I’d said. "At least until I sell my condo. Then I can start looking for a place to buy. I don’t want to juggle two mortgages."
"That’s my girl," he’d said, his voice filled with pride.
"I learned from the best, Daddy."
***
"Does it come fully furnished?" I asked as Dad and I stepped into the small bungalow before I signed the rental agreement.
"It does," he said.
It felt perfect. "And the lease is for a year?"
"It is."
I walked down the hall to the first bedroom. The space exuded quiet masculinity—comfortable, simple, and effortlessly refined. A dark wood bed frame anchored the room, dressed in crisp white linens and a charcoal-gray duvet that added a sleek, polished touch. A matching dresser and nightstand, free of clutter, hinted at quiet organization. The deep slate-blue walls, warm and sophisticated, complemented the rich hardwood floors.
A leather armchair sat by the window, inviting late-night reading or quiet contemplation. Soft light from an industrial-style lamp cast a golden glow. No excessive decorations, just clean lines and functional pieces—like the room belonged to a man who valued both style and substance.
The faint trace of a man’s cologne lingered in the air—rich and alluring. Whoever he was, his taste was impeccable—in furnishings and fragrance alike.
"Can I meet him?" I asked. Not sure why I wanted to.
"Meet the owner?" Dad sounded surprised. "He lives out of town."
"That's too bad," I murmured, glancing around the room again. Too bad indeed.
***
As I unpacked a box of cookbooks, I looked around, wondering who else had stood in this space before me. The name on the lease was just an LLC, but I couldn’t help but wonder if my landlord had ever lived in the house himself. It’s not like I’ve seen a photo of him. I don’t even know what he looks like. But I’m curious in a way I can’t explain.
Maybe it’s the house itself—how it already feels like it knows me. How the worn floorboards creak in a way that feels... lived in, not broken. Like someone took care of it, not just structurally, but thoughtfully. There’s a warmth here I can’t quite shake, like part of him still lingers in the walls. And I want to know why.
It’s stupid. I know that. But I’m not usually this... intrigued.
***
The neighborhood is quiet and safe, and the screened-in porch has quickly become my favorite retreat—a peaceful sanctuary where I can unwind every night.
The extra bedroom is perfect as an office, but most of my work gets done on the porch swing, my legs curled up beneath me and a hot cup of coffee within reach.
Now, I lean against the granite countertop in the spacious kitchen, staring at the coffee pot, willing it to hurry up and finish brewing. Patience has never been my strong suit.
Two minutes later, I step out the back door, a hot cup of coffee in one hand, my book and laptop in the other. The porch swing greets me like a loyal, lifelong friend. I settle in, adjusting one of the throw pillows to fit snugly against the small of my back. A cool breeze brushes across my face as I place my coffee cup on the small end table beside me. Opening my laptop, I type in the password for my email account: IhateAdam4ever . A small chuckle escapes me.
My thoughts inevitably drift to Adam Morgan, the bane of my existence. What has he been up to all these years? Not that I care to know. They say there’s a fine line between love and hate, but when it comes to Adam and me, it’s not a line. It’s a deep, wide, inescapable chasm—dark, unbridgeable, and permanent.
The last time I saw him I gave him a piece of my mind—sharp and to the point. It must have done the trick because he’s kept his distance ever since. My parents and sisters still see him, but thankfully, he’s made it a point to stay out of my way and my life. I still have to endure Dad’s occasional Adam updates—usually accompanied by a look that tells me he’s hoping I’ve softened. I haven’t. At least I don’t have to see him. The fact that he's doing well gives me hope that he'll never have a reason to return to Cold Spring.
My phone rings, jolting me back to reality. A quick, unexpected rush of guilt sweeps through me—like a child caught red-handed. I glance at the screen, and there it is: DAD flashing in bright, insistent letters, perfectly matching the shrill ringtone echoing through the quiet.
I answer the phone with a smile. "Hi, Daddy."
"Katherine," my father’s familiar voice greets me, warm and comforting as always. "I’ve got some news."
His tone sparks my curiosity. "What kind of news?" I ask, leaning forward on the porch swing and cradling the phone closer to my ear.
"It's about Adam."
My smile falters, and my grip on the phone tightens. Adam Morgan. My pulse quickens.
"What about him?" I say evenly, though my tone carries a sharp edge.
There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line, as if my father’s carefully choosing his words.
He clears his throat, that subtle tell he always has when he’s about to deliver a message I don’t want to hear. "He’s back in Cold Spring."
The words hang in the air. My chest tightens, and I sit back against the swing, staring blankly at the trees swaying gently in the breeze.
"Adam," I say, the name tasting sour in my mouth. Adam. My father's favorite. Adam. The son my father never had.
"Yes," Dad confirms, his tone betraying nothing, though I know he's waiting for my reaction. "He’s been back in town for a few days."
"And you’re telling me this because...?" I ask, my voice sharper than I intend, but I can’t help it. The very mention of his name still gets under my skin.
There’s a brief silence on the other end, like Dad’s weighing whether or not to continue down this path.
"I thought his life was in Cortland," I say. The idea of Adam leaving his life there after all these years to return here feels like a personal slight. It’s as if he’s come back to invade my space once again.
My father takes a moment to respond. "Cold Spring is his home, Katherine. Let's not forget that. He's coming home."
Fury bubbles up inside me, and before I can stop myself, the anger spills out in sharp words. "Dad, you know how I feel about him. He was always your favorite child. And don’t bother denying it. He was the son you never had. Why is he back? And more importantly, what does it have to do with me?"
There's a pregnant pause on the other end, and I can almost hear my father sigh. "Katherine, I’ve never understood your insistence that somehow I love Adam more than I love you. It’s simply not true. You are my daughter, my princess, my little girl.”
But not a son , I want to say.
“But you have to understand,” he continues, “Adam is like family. I’m not going to belabor the same point again.”
"Okay, so he's back in town," I say, choosing to get to the point. "As long as he stays in his lane, there's no reason we should have any issues."
"Sweetheart," Dad says, and the way he says the word immediately gives me pause. "Adam needs a place to stay, so I've suggested that he stay with you."
I must have heard him wrong. Misunderstood. "Pardon me?" I murmur, my eyes growing wide as shock and disbelief set in. "You've what?"
He continues without taking a breath. "He's going to need a place to stay, and you have an extra room. I know it's sudden, but I know you'll understand."
The only thing I understand is the volcanic fury rising inside me, but I don’t want to lose my cool. Dad is supportive, caring, and a wonderful father—but he’s my father, not Adam’s. I need a moment to collect myself. I take a deep breath, trying to calm down as I clasp my phone tighter.
My next words come out short, strained, and full of emotion. "Dad, why can't he stay with you and Mom, since you guys love him so much?"
My father's voice softens. "Katherine, you're both adults. I need you to be mature about this, find a way to get along, and work things out."
“Dad," I snap, consciously choosing to let my anger take over. "Adam was in our home all day, every day for four long years. I was a child, and I didn’t have a say in the matter. Now that I’m an adult, I wish you would treat me like an individual with free will—the ability to choose who lives with me .” I put emphasis on the last four words. I hang up the phone without letting him respond.
What the hell just happened? The rage I feel is palpable. My heart pounds against my chest so hard it feels like it could explode. The mere mention of his name has me riled up. The idea of sharing my house with him makes me want to vomit. Why is he back after all these years? I can't live with him—the mere idea is absurd!
I stare at the phone still clenched in my hand. I can’t believe I just hung up on my father, but I’m furious. Five minutes ago, I was preparing to sit on my swing, surf the internet, and enjoy my now-cold cup of coffee. I was completely oblivious to what had been conspired against me behind my back. My own father and his golden child—not my brother, my enemy.
I have to come up with a plan of attack in one hand and an apology in the other. I’ll start with the apology. I pick up the phone and dial.
"I accept your apology, Princess," Dad says after picking up on the first ring. I feel chastised.
Knowing perfectly well that he won’t relent, I brace myself for another pitch. “Katherine,” he begins. “Adam is part of the family. You’ve known him all your life. If you don’t feel comfortable letting him stay with you, then you can come home. Your room is just how you left it.”
I bite my tongue and let him continue. “Katherine, are you still there?”
“Yes, Daddy, I’m listening,” I assure him.
“Sweetheart,” he begins, “there's one more thing.”
I inhale sharply, bracing myself for whatever's coming next.
"I never told you this," he continues, his words measured, "because I knew you wouldn’t have agreed to live there, but Adam owns the house. He’s your landlord.”
For a moment, I consider hanging up on him again, but instead, I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. I can feel the panic rising, and I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose with my fingers, willing myself to keep it together.
I love this house. My swing. My quiet, undisturbed existence. I refuse to let Adam Morgan drive me out of it.
“Okay, Daddy,” I say, the words coming out more to end the conversation than out of agreement or submission. “Give me his number. I’ll call him first thing in the morning.”
Like hell I will.
“Katherine,” he says gently, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “I’m texting you his number, but I think it would be best if you two spoke in person. Adam is on his way, and he should be there soon.”
I say goodbye to my dad, and as I end the call, I realize my hands are shaking, and my head is splitting.
Am I ready to face him? It’s not that I’m intimidated by him—I just can’t stand him. I don’t want to see him. The day he left for college was one of the happiest days of my life. And honestly, our last interaction should’ve been enough to keep him away for good. The fact that our paths haven’t crossed in all these years, even with his frequent visits to my family, has been an unexpected blessing—one I consider a small miracle, sent by the Lord Himself.
Dad said he'd be here soon. But how soon is soon? I rush to the bathroom, checking myself in the mirror. I fluff my hair, straighten my T-shirt. Should I change? I pull on my college sweatshirt, the warmth and familiarity easing my frayed nerves. A touch of blush, a swipe of tinted lip-gloss. Then it hits me—I'm primping for a man I care nothing about. I quickly blot off the lip-gloss.
Let’s see who cries “uncle” first, Mr. Morgan. I can guarantee it won’t be me. Come hell or high water, I won’t be the one to budge. Crossing my arms, I sit on the sofa and wait for the battle ahead.