10. Chapter 10
Chapter 10
Katherine
I’m standing in front of the coffee pot, willing it to brew faster, when the doorbell rings. I walk over and open the door. Denial is futile—the man is beautiful. His hair is still damp from a shower, dark and wavy. He’s wearing a slate blue T-shirt and jeans, his frame tall and strong. But what strikes me most are his eyes—hazel and looking at me like no one ever has before.
"Good morning," I smile, trying to keep my composure. "I see you didn’t get lost along the way."
"Is that what you were hoping?" he teases. "That I’d get lost and never show up?"
"Then who would make me breakfast?" I joke, raising an eyebrow.
He steps inside, carrying two small suitcases.
"Is this all you have?" I ask, surprised by how little he’s brought.
"Yep, this is it. I’m renting my condo in Cortland to my foster brother, fully furnished."
"Renting out your condo there, renting out your house here," I say, glancing at him with a smirk. "I see a pattern here, Mr. Morgan."
"It's just how things worked out for me," he muses, a slight shrug in his shoulders. "Next thing I knew, I was homeless. Story of my life, really."
"Not anymore," I say, and just as the words leave my mouth, a scene flashes in my mind. It’s so vivid, it’s overwhelming—me, Adam, and four kids, two girls and two boys. I blink, quickly looking away, trying to shake the strange sensation. What was that?!
"Are you okay?" Adam asks, his hand gently brushing my elbow. "You went pale, like a ghost."
I force a smile, a rush of emotion threatening to spill out. "Yeah, I'm fine," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. But deep down, a jolt of certainty consumes me—that what I just saw in my mind's eye was a glimpse of our future. Adam and me. Together.
"Want some coffee?" I ask, hoping the question will ground me, hoping I’m just imagining things.
“Coffee sounds good,” he replies.
I pour two cups and hand him one. “Today, I’m teaching you how to make scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon.”
"Am I going to be your roommate or your cook?" he teases, a smile spreading across his handsome face.
"Both!" I laugh. "But by the time I'm done with you, you'll be more of an accomplished chef than a simple cook."
***
"I love the house," I say, gently swaying back and forth on the swing. "As soon as I walked in, I fell in love with it."
"Me too," he says. "The wrap-around porch is what sealed the deal for me."
"Was the swing already here?" I ask.
"No," he replies. "I built it."
"You built this?" I ask, completely shocked. "No way! I love this swing!" We talk about the many attributes this house has to offer: the expansive front lawn dotted with massive trees, the amazing backyard with plenty of shade, and the deck where family barbecues were probably a regular event for the previous owners.
When he talks about the things he loves, his eyes twinkle. I catch glimpses of gold and blue specks in them. When he speaks to me, he looks directly into my eyes, giving me his full attention, like he's memorizing every detail of my face. What he's doing doesn't bother me because I'm doing it too. The boy I remember has grown into a man with broad shoulders, strong arms, and big hands. I can smell his cologne. A scent that wraps around my senses, pulling me in like a bee to honey.
We talk about college life, roommates, friends, enemies. The kind of casual topics that come easily. Then, almost without realizing it, the conversation shifts, and the topic of past relationships naturally comes up.
“Nope,” I say, “I’ve never met Mr. Right. What about you?"
"I've been in three serious relationships," he begins, his voice reflective. "The longest one lasted two years. She kept dropping hints that she wanted to get married, and when I didn't propose, she broke up with me. She said she couldn't keep giving me everything—her time, her heart—knowing fully well mine was never really available. Oddly enough, I had heard that before, so after that, I decided to remain single."
"You didn’t love her?" I ask, leaning forward slightly, fully committed to learning everything there is to know about him.
He hesitates, looking off into the distance like it might hold the answer. "I loved her," he says finally. "But I wasn’t in love with her."
The distinction makes my heart ache a little. I hold his gaze. "You’ve never been in love?" I ask softly.
He lifts his head, his hazel eyes locking onto mine. "Have you?" he retorts, a challenge in his tone.
"I asked first," I counter, my voice playful, refusing to back down.
A small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. "Fair enough," he says, leaning back in the swing. He doesn't answer right away, and the pause lets me know he's weighing his words carefully. "When I think about being in love," he finally says, his voice low, "I always picture your parents' relationship. The Baldwins. My foster brother and his wife. The way they look at each other, how they show up for each other—even on the hard days. I was never able to get there." He glances down at his hands, his thumb brushing over the calluses on his palm. "That kind of love—the kind authors write about in books, or the kind you see in movies—the love that makes you want to rearrange your entire life for someone else."
Kind of like he did for me. Letting me live in his house while he stayed in a hotel. The thought grips me unexpectedly, making my chest tighten. My gaze flickers to him, searching for signs that he realizes what he’s done. How much it means.
He catches me off guard when he lifts his gaze to mine. “What about you?”
“I’ve had two boyfriends,” I begin, shifting a little on the swing. “Both in college. Neither lasted more than six months.”
“What happened?” he asks, his curiosity genuine. I hesitate, feeling the warmth of a blush creeping up my neck. “I think that’s a talk for a different time,” I say, attempting to deflect.
“Oh, no you don't” he says, a playful grin softening his serious expression. “I poured my heart and soul into this conversation. It’s your turn.”
I let out a nervous laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “There’s not much to tell, really. I’m old-fashioned, and they wanted something I wasn’t willing to give them.”
His eyes widen as realization dawns. “Okay, enough said.”
The awkwardness of his reaction is too much, and I can’t help but laugh. It’s the kind of laugh that bubbles up unexpectedly, breaking through the tension.
He chuckles along with me, shaking his head as if to clear the moment. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“A little,” I admit, wiping at the corner of my eye. “You look so uncomfortable.”
“Well, I wasn’t expecting that answer,” he says, grinning now, the tension between us fully gone. “But fair enough. I respect that.”
“Thank you,” I reply, still smiling. “It’s how we were brought up.”
“And there’s nothing wrong with that,” he says, his tone turning sincere again. “If anything, it says a lot about your character.”
The compliment takes me by surprise, and for a second, I can only look at him, caught off guard by how genuine he sounds. We shift the conversation to family, and the topic naturally turns to Dad—how his kindness and unwavering support changed Adam’s life forever.
We talk about Adam’s parents, about the accident that left him an orphan. It’s something I already knew, but we’ve never spoken about it before.
"Do you remember them?" I ask softly.
"I have memories of special moments," he says, his voice quiet. "But there aren’t many."
"Do you mind sharing some with me?" I ask, hesitant but hopeful.
His expression softens as he leans back in the swing, the faint creak of the chains filling the silence before he speaks.
"I don’t mind," he says quietly, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "I remember my mom singing to me at night. She had this soft, sweet voice—it always made me feel loved. I remember the smell of her perfume. Something light and floral. Every now and then, I catch a scent like it, and for a split second, it’s like she’s there,” he says, his eyes flickering with a mixture of longing and warmth.
“And my dad... he had this laugh—deep and full, like he was laughing with his whole chest. I don’t remember the sound of it exactly, but I remember how it made me feel. Safe. Like nothing bad could ever happen when he was around.” He pauses, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I also remember the texture of their hands. My mom’s were soft, always warm, and my dad’s were a little rough—calloused, probably from work. Like mine.” He looks down at his own hands, examining them. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How those little fragments stay with you?”
"It's not strange at all," I say softly. "It's actually beautiful."
He nods. "I think that’s why your dad means so much to me. He stepped in when I needed someone the most, when everything felt like it was falling apart. Your family—they saved me."
The raw emotion in his voice tugs at my heart, and for a moment, we sit in silence, the swing creaking rhythmically beneath us, mingling with the soft chirping of crickets around us.
"I'm sorry I gave you such a hard time," I say after a beat, the guilt bubbling to the surface. "I didn’t understand back then. I didn’t know what you were going through.”
His eyes lift to meet mine, warm and forgiving. "You were just a kid," he says gently, offering a small smile. "You didn’t owe me anything."
"But you deserved better," I counter, my throat tightening. His smile widens, and for a second, I think he might reach for my hand, but he doesn’t.
"You don’t have to apologize," he says, his voice reassuring. "The important thing is that we’re here now. And I’m back in my house."
A grin spreads across my face, and I can’t help but laugh. He joins in, the sound deep and genuine, carrying away whatever lingering hurts remained between us. In that moment, surrounded by the creak of the swing and the hum of the night, something shifts between us. The laughter feels like a thread, weaving our hearts together in a way that’s exciting, new, and somehow forever.
***
During lunch—turkey sandwiches and cucumber salad—we talk about our faith. How going to church on Sundays was mandatory when we were growing up. During the four years Adam spent almost living with my family, he joined us for service every Sunday. Dad would swing by and pick him up from his foster parents’ home. We’d go to church, then he’d stay for lunch, sometimes even dinner.
We talk about the fourteen birthday cards he sent me, which I never opened. Guilt courses through my veins, but he puts me at ease, reassuring me that it’s okay.
"I did open the card you sent me when Tater died," I say. "My heart was so broken. I really needed words of support, and somehow, I knew that your words would comfort me."
"I'm glad it helped," he smiles.
His gaze is so intense, I can feel it touching my heart. I look away, immediately changing the subject. "Do you want to play a game?" I suggest.
"That depends," he smiles. "What are the stakes?"
"If you win, I make you dinner tomorrow," I say. "If I win, I watch you make me dinner tomorrow."
"What's the game?" he asks, already grinning ear to ear.
"It’s called Do You Really Know Me? "
"Okay," he says. "I'm game but let me warn you. Thanks to your dad, I know you pretty well."
"Yeah, well, my Dad kept me informed about you as well," I confess.
He wasn’t kidding though. He got every single question right.
"Why is green your favorite color?" I ask, giving myself another point.
"Because your eyes are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen," he says. His words are so full of candor that I'm left speechless. I glance down at my watch to avoid his gaze and realize dinner is in two hours. "Adam, it's four o'clock!" I exclaim. "If I miss dinner at my parents' house one more time, they'll disown me."
After cleaning the kitchen, we both retreat into our separate bedrooms to get ready. A smile spreads across my face as I spot my laptop sitting on the bed. I make a mental note to change my email password to AdamMadeMeSmile .