Chapter 5 – Nora
I wake to golden autumn sunlight streaming through my bedroom window, warming patches of rumpled sheets and illuminating dust motes that dance in the morning air.
For a moment, I keep my eyes closed, savoring the delicious ache in my muscles, the lingering scent of cedar and spice on my pillow, the memory of hands and lips and whispered words.
Then I reach out, and my fingers find empty space where a warm body should be.
My eyes snap open. The indent in the pillow beside mine is still there, but Devin is gone. A flutter of panic rises in my chest, was last night just another chapter I wrote in my head?
Then I hear the soft clatter of dishes from the kitchen, followed by Pudding's insistent meow. Relief washes through me, then a new kind of nervousness. Devin Turner is in my kitchen.
I slip out of bed, wincing slightly at the pleasant soreness between my thighs. After a quick trip to the bathroom to brush my teeth and attempt to tame my wild bedhead, I pull on an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of sleep shorts.
I pause at the bedroom doorway, suddenly shy. Which is ridiculous, considering what we did last night. But morning light has a way of making everything feel more vulnerable, more real.
The sight that greets me in the kitchen steals my breath. Devin stands at my stove, his broad back to me, wearing nothing but his jeans slung low on his hips. Morning light catches the defined muscles of his shoulders as he flips what is definitely a pancake.
"Are you bribing my cat?" I ask, leaning against the doorframe.
Devin turns, and the smile that spreads across his face makes my knees weak. His hair is adorably mussed, a shadow of stubble darkening his jaw, eyes warm and bright in the morning light.
"Good morning," he says, voice still rough with sleep. "And yes, absolutely bribing him. He's been eyeing these pancakes like they're personally insulting him."
"That's just his face." I move into the kitchen, hesitating slightly before pressing a kiss to his bare shoulder. "I didn't know you could cook."
"Pancakes barely count as cooking." He turns fully toward me, spatula still in hand, and tugs me closer with his free arm. "But I make a mean omelet, too. If you're lucky, maybe I'll show you sometime."
The casual reference to future mornings together sends a flutter through my stomach. "I'll hold you to that."
His eyes darken as they roam over my face. "You look beautiful in the morning."
I snort, acutely aware of my tangled hair and makeup-free face. "Now I know you're just angling for more of what happened last night."
Instead of the teasing response I expect, his expression turns serious.
He sets down the spatula and cups my face in his hands.
"You do, Nora. All sleep-warm and soft." He kisses me gently, and I melt into him despite my morning breath fears.
"And yes, I'm definitely angling for more of last night. "
"The pancakes are burning," I murmur against his lips.
He curses softly and turns back to the stove, rescuing a slightly blackened pancake. "Worth it."
We eat at my small kitchen table, knees touching beneath it, as sunlight pools around us. Devin has somehow found my maple syrup stash and insists on drowning his pancakes, while I prefer mine with just a light drizzle and fresh berries. Pudding weaves between our legs, hoping for dropped morsels.
"So," Devin says, taking a sip of coffee, "am I going to appear in your next book?"
I nearly choke on my pancake. "What?"
His grin is wicked. "The ex-quarterback who sweeps the heroine off her feet? Seems like prime romance novel material to me."
"That would be extremely unprofessional," I say primly, though heat creeps up my neck. "Besides, my current hero is a wilderness guide with a troubled past."
"I could be troubled," he offers. "I've got at least three brooding expressions."
"Only three? Amateur."
He laughs, reaching across the table to tangle his fingers with mine. The gesture is casual, comfortable, like we've been doing this for years instead of hours. "Seriously, though. What are you working on?"
The genuine interest in his eyes makes something warm unfurl in my chest. Most men I've dated have treated my writing as a cute hobby, not a legitimate career worthy of discussion.
"It's the third book in a series about sisters who inherit their grandmother's lakeside resort," I explain.
"This one focuses on the youngest sister, who's always felt overshadowed.
She's determined to prove herself by leading a wilderness expedition, but her guide is her ex-boyfriend's older brother, and they have. .. history."
"Complicated," Devin observes, thumb stroking the inside of my wrist in a way that makes it hard to concentrate.
"The best love stories are."
His eyes hold mine across the table. "And what about this one? Is it complicated?"
My breath catches. "Which one?"
"Ours," he says simply. "The quarterback and the novelist."
The word 'ours' sends a thrill through me that I try desperately to temper. It's been one night. Incredible, yes. Possibly life-changing, yes. But one night nonetheless.
"I think it's too early for a plot summary," I tell him.
Something like disappointment flickers in his eyes before he masks it with a smile. "Fair enough. We're still in the first act."
After breakfast, we clean up together, hips bumping in my tiny kitchen, hands brushing as we pass dishes. When he catches me around the waist and kisses my neck while I'm loading the dishwasher, I allow myself to lean into the fantasy that this could be every Sunday morning.
"What are your plans for today?" he asks, arms still wrapped around me from behind.
"I should probably work," I sigh, letting my head fall back against his shoulder. "Those three chapters aren't going to write themselves."
"Hmm." His lips find my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "Sounds boring."
"Some of us don't have trust funds from NFL careers," I tease, turning in his arms.
His expression shifts, just slightly. "Actually, most of that money is gone. Medical bills, bad investments. Another reason I'm back in Whitetail Falls."
I blink, surprised by the confession. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"It's okay." He brushes a strand of hair from my face. "It's not something I advertise. But I want you to know the real story, not whatever version the town is probably telling."
The vulnerability in his admission makes my heart ache. "Thank you for telling me."
"I'm hoping to stay a while," he says, gaze steady on mine. "Not just passing through."
The implication hangs between us, weighted with possibility. Before I can formulate a response, he continues, "How about we take a walk? Get some coffee from that place you love? I promise to return you to your manuscript by noon."
"The Enchanted Bean?" I smile, relieved at the slight shift in mood. "Their pumpkin spice lattes are legendary."
"Sold." He kisses me quickly. "Let me grab my shirt from your bedroom, and we can head out."
Watching him disappear down the hallway, I press a hand to my chest, where my heart is performing Olympic-level gymnastics.
Thirty minutes later, we're strolling down Willowbrook Lane, the neighborhood quiet in the Sunday morning lull. Overhead, maple trees form a canopy of gold and crimson, leaves occasionally drifting down to crunch beneath our feet.
Devin's hand is warm around mine, his thumb absently stroking my knuckles as we walk. I'm secretly pleased at the obvious morning-after evidence, even as part of me wonders what the neighbors must think.
"Mrs. Finch is watching through her curtains," I murmur, nodding toward the Victorian house on the corner.
Devin chuckles. "Should I wave?"
"Only if you want to be the subject of the Ladies' Garden Club meeting tomorrow."
"Would that bother you?" he asks, voice casual but eyes watchful.
I consider the question as we turn onto Foxglove Lane, where storefronts are just beginning to open for the day. Paper leaves and miniature pumpkins decorate windows, and Harvest Festival banners flutter in the breeze.
"No," I say finally. "It wouldn't bother me."
His smile is slow and warm. "Good to know."
The Enchanted Bean sits on the corner of Foxglove and Acorn Circle, its windows steamed from the heat inside, the scent of coffee and spice wafting out whenever the door opens. A brass bell jingles as we enter, and warmth envelops us immediately.
The coffeehouse is my second home. The weekend barista, Lily, waves from behind the counter.
"Nora! Your usual?" she calls, already reaching for a mug.
"Please. And whatever he wants," I reply, nodding toward Devin.
As we wait for our order, I notice two familiar figures in the corner booth.
Amber Hayes, my friend from book club, sits with her boyfriend Tucker, their heads bent close together over shared pastries.
Amber spots me and her eyes widen comically, gaze darting between Devin and me with undisguised interest.
"Friends of yours?" Devin asks, following my gaze.
"Amber's in my book club. And Tucker—well, everyone knows Tucker."
Before I can suggest we grab our coffees to go, Amber is waving us over, her expression gleeful.
"Be nice," I mutter to Devin as we approach their table. "She'll interrogate you mercilessly."
"I can handle it," he assures me, hand warm against my lower back.
"Nora Bell!" Amber exclaims, her hair bouncing with excitement. "And Devin Turner. Together. On a Sunday morning. How interesting."
Tucker extends his hand to Devin. "Good to see you back in town, man. Your grandmother would be pleased."
"Thanks," Devin says, shaking his hand. "I'm working on the cottage. Might need to stop by your store for supplies soon."
"Anytime," Tucker offers. "First box of nails is on the house. Welcome home gift."
Amber pats the seat beside her. "Join us! I want to hear everything about how you two..." she waggles her eyebrows suggestively, "reconnected."
"We actually just met," I admit, sliding into the booth beside her while Devin takes the seat across from me, next to Tucker. "Yesterday, actually."
Amber's jaw drops. "Yesterday? And now you're doing the morning coffee walk of subtle shame? Nora Bell, you dark horse!"
"Amber," Tucker warns, but his lips twitch with amusement.
"What? I'm impressed, not judging." She turns to Devin, eyes narrowing. "But I will judge if your intentions aren't honorable. Nora's special."
To his credit, Devin doesn't flinch under her scrutiny. "I'm well aware," he says simply.
Amber's expression softens. "Good answer."
Lily brings our coffees along with a plate of cinnamon-sugar donuts.
Conversation flows easily after that. Tucker and Devin discover they both enjoy fishing the Whitetail River, while Amber peppers me with whispered questions. Beneath the table, Devin's foot hooks around my ankle, a casual point of contact that keeps me grounded.
It feels surreal—sitting in my favorite coffeehouse, surrounded by the familiar sights and sounds of Whitetail Falls, with Devin Turner across from me, looking at me like I'm something precious. Like I'm worth coming home to.
That thought sends both thrill and terror through my veins.
"—Christmas market this year," Amber is saying. "You'll help, right, Nora? We need someone to run the book stall."
"Of course," I agree automatically, though Christmas feels a lifetime away. Will Devin still be here then? Will we still be... whatever we are now?
His phone buzzes on the table, and he glances at it, expression shifting to something more guarded. "Sorry, I need to take this," he says, standing. "It's Coach Briggs."
He steps outside, phone pressed to his ear. Through the window, I watch him pace along the sidewalk, his face serious as he listens to whoever is on the other end.
"So," Amber says, reclaiming my attention. "Spill. Everything. Now."
I tear my gaze from Devin's retreating form. "There's not much to tell. He moved in across the street. We met. We... connected."
"Connected…" she repeats, eyes dancing. "Well, I’m just so happy for you!"
Tucker chuckles.
But I barely hear them, my attention drawn back to Devin outside. His posture has changed—shoulders straighter, stance wider. Even from here, I can see the shift in his demeanor. He nods several times, runs a hand through his hair.
"Earth to Nora," Amber waves a hand in front of my face. "You're gone on him already, aren't you?"
"It's just been a day," I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
Her expression softens. "Sometimes that's all it takes."
When Devin returns, there's a new tension in his jawline, a slight furrow between his brows. He slides back into the booth beside Tucker.
"Everything okay?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual.
"Yeah." His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Just some business stuff."
The conversation resumes, but I notice Devin's responses are shorter, his attention slightly divided. When we finally say goodbye to Amber and Tucker, promising to meet for dinner soon, the autumn air outside feels colder.
We walk back toward Willowbrook Lane in silence, his hand still holding mine but his mind clearly elsewhere. The weight of unasked questions hangs between us.
"So," I finally venture as we approach my house, "Coach Briggs? Was he one of your NFL coaches?"
Devin nods. "Yeah. He's working with ESPN now. Wants me to come to Chicago next week to discuss some commentary work." He pauses, glancing at me. "It's a good opportunity. Getting my foot in the door for post-playing career options."
"That sounds great," I say, ignoring the sinking feeling in my stomach. "Chicago's not far."
"No, it's not." But he doesn't elaborate, doesn't offer reassurance that he'll be back, that this thing between us will continue.
On my porch steps, we pause, the moment heavy with things unsaid. Down the street, children laugh as they jump into a pile of freshly raked foliage.
"I should let you get to those chapters," Devin says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "And I need to make some calls about this Chicago thing."
"Right." I force a smile. "Duty calls."
He kisses me, a tender, lingering kiss that feels like both a promise and a goodbye. Against my lips, he murmurs, "Last night was incredible, Nora."
Was. Past tense. A completed chapter, not an ongoing story.
"For me too," I manage, stepping back slightly. "Good luck with your calls."
He studies my face, something unreadable in his expression. For a moment, I think he might say more, might address the sudden distance between us.
Instead, he nods, presses one more quick kiss to my forehead, and descends the steps.
"I'll call you later," he says, already walking backward toward his house across the street.