4. Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Katherine
There he is. My unwelcome housemate.
He’s taller than I remember—and more handsome, too, though I hate how easily I notice. His hazel eyes, warm and far too expressive, lock onto mine. A small, familiar smile tugs at his lips, and despite every silent warning I’ve rehearsed, something inside me softens. My breath catches, and my knees… well, they clearly didn’t get the memo to stay strong.
Before my brain can catch up, he closes the distance between us. I feel the warmth of his body just inches from mine as he leans in, brushes a gentle kiss against my cheek, and whispers, “Hi, Katie.”
My heart, which has been thundering erratically in my chest since Dad’s phone call, now skips a beat. Traitor.
“Can I come in?” he asks, his voice low. Has his voice always been this deep?
Then he smiles again. That damn smile will be the end of me.
"Yes, come in," I say, stepping aside as I open the door wider. He walks past me, and that’s when I catch it—the faint, familiar trace of cologne that lingered in my bedroom for days.
The scent that wrapped around me at night, until I finally fell asleep… and the one that made me smile each morning without quite knowing why.
Suddenly, my senses are on high alert.
I shut the door and turn—and he’s standing closer than I expected. Close enough to steal my breath.
Has he always been this tall?
“These are for you,” he says, handing me a bouquet of white and yellow roses I hadn’t noticed until now.
“Thank you,” I reply, taking the flowers from him.
“I just realized something,” he adds. I glance at him, questioning, and he continues, “You didn’t correct me when I called you Katie.”
“What you call me is the least of my problems,” I snap, my voice sharp. “What are you doing here?”
I’m fully aware that my words are more for show, a way to cover up the panic creeping in. Because in that moment, when he whispered my name, I forgot who I was and where I was. All I knew was that Adam was standing in front of me, and it took every ounce of willpower not to step forward and hug him.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Katie, we need to talk.”
I motion to the couch, but he takes the armchair instead, keeping some distance.
“I know my being here, in your space, isn’t ideal,” he begins.
“You think?” I respond, my sarcasm sharp.
“Your dad was just trying to help,” he says, as though that’s supposed to make everything okay. “He probably feels a little responsible, after accepting my offer to have you stay here.”
“So, this was your idea?” I ask, gesturing around the room.
“I didn’t know I’d be moving back this soon,” he says, his tone defensive. “It just so happens that I tied up some loose ends faster than expected. So here I am.”
“Yeah, here you are,” I retort, crossing my arms and rolling my eyes before I can stop myself.
And in that moment, I catch a fleeting glimpse in his eyes—a flash of recognition. The Katherine he knows far too well. The girl who hates him.
“Okay, your moving in was Dad’s idea,” I continue. “He forgets that I’m an adult who wants to live her own life without any family interference.”
He doesn’t respond, but his eyes plead with me, silently asking for understanding. I take a deep breath.
“Would you like something to drink?” I ask—more to avoid his gaze than out of politeness. Have his eyes always been this... ugh!
“I have coffee, tea, diet soda, and ginger ale. I don’t drink, so I don’t have anything stronger.”
“Coffee would be great,” he responds. “Thanks.”
I walk across the room to the kitchen, the open concept allowing me to continue our conversation as I pour out the cold coffee and start a new pot. My cup of coffee, sitting outside, is cold and forgotten.
"So, where have you been for the last fourteen years?" I ask.
"After I graduated from NYU, I got a job in architectural marketing in Cortland," he says, glancing over at me. "I was there for six years. I moonlighted as a handyman most evenings and weekends. Everything your father taught me, I put to work—and it paid off. Four years ago, I started my own real estate business."
"Right. And here you are," I say, the words clipped, sharper than I intended. But I don’t bother softening them.
He doesn’t flinch. "Katie, I always knew I'd be coming home sooner or later."
The way he says it—calm, certain, like it's some universal truth—grates against me. Like I should’ve known, too. Like this—him standing in my living room—is something I should’ve prepared for.
"So, no wife? Girlfriend?" The second the words leave my mouth, regret floods in like a wave. Why did I ask that? Why do I care? Why do I give a—
"No," he says simply. I wait for more—some kind of clarification or offhand comment—but he stays quiet. His gaze lingers, steady and unreadable, hovering just long enough to stir something beneath my skin. And now my brain’s doing that thing it does—reading too much into everything.
I start separating the roses from the bunch, focusing on keeping my hands busy as I place them carefully in a vase, one by one. Still, my mind drifts—to his eyes, his smile, the warmth of his lips on my skin. I’m still trying to process the way it made me feel.
I sense his gaze before I look up—and when I do, I meet his eyes.
Oh no. I think I’m blushing.
I fill the vase with water and set it on the counter, adjusting the roses to make them look prettier—or maybe just to calm my nerves. Then I pour two coffees, the warm steam rising in the air, and walk over to him, handing him a cup.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice steady.
I sit on the couch across from him, preparing myself for what I know is coming.
He takes a sip of his coffee, then sets it down on the table between us, his eyes locking with mine.
“Katie, I’m going to be perfectly honest with you," he says, his voice calm. "I’ve wanted to have this conversation for years, but every time I visited your family, you were always conspicuously absent. Every single time. This talk is long overdue, so I’m just going to ask—what is your problem with me?”
I stare at him, insulted by his bluntness. My reply comes out sharp, oozing with contempt. “The fact that you have to ask is insulting, Adam. You took my father from me. I couldn’t turn around in my own house without bumping into you—morning, noon, and night. The only thing you didn’t do was sleep there. You are not my brother.” I regret my words too late. They’ve hit their mark. I see the hurt in his eyes, and a wave of guilt crashes over me.
“Listen, Katie, ever since I’ve known your father, there’ve been two topics that never fail to come up: sports and his family. I feel like I know you and your sisters better than anyone, because your dad’s always kept me in the loop. We talk about a lot of things—him, Sharon, the business—but more than anything, he talks about his beauties. That’s what he calls you all, his beauties. Your father is a good man, and I know that no matter how much time he gave me, he always made sure there was more than enough for you, your mom, and your sisters.”
I want him to stop, but I remain silent. Is it possible that I’ve been wrong all this time? Have I built up all this resentment from my own insecurities? Was it envy towards a boy who seemed to have more in common with my dad than I did? As a kid, I wanted to play with dolls, not throw a football. I wanted to curl up with a book, not watch a game on television.
I always felt like Adam had so much more to share with my father than I ever could. But had my father ever truly held back his time or love from any of us?
Before I have a chance to speak, he continues, “I’ll stay in a hotel until I find a new place. I would never ask you to move out, nor would I force you to put up with me. I'm perfectly aware of how you feel about me.”
His words are laced with hurt, and I instantly feel regret.
He stands up, adding, “For now, I’ll go. Thank you for the coffee.” He picks up the cup—still full—and hands it back to me. I take it and stand, my knees suddenly weak.
Wait... is he leaving?
“I’ll talk to Jon tomorrow,” he says. “Please don’t give it a second thought. This isn’t your problem. You have six months left on your lease. For now, this is your house.” He smiles. “Good night, Katie.”
He reaches over and gently tucks a small strand of hair behind my ear. His touch feels like a thousand flames, and this time, I know I’m blushing.
He walks toward the door, and I don’t say a word. I’m frozen, rooted to the spot, as I hear the door open and then close softly behind him. He’s gone, leaving the night to settle in around me.