Chapter 10
Ten
Thanksgiving morning came in on a hard frost and a too-bright sky, the kind that made every bare branch look edged in glass. Lydia lay awake long before the alarm on the nightstand would’ve gone off, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling and replaying last night in a loop she couldn’t seem to break.
Tom’s voice on the phone, poison-soft and knowing.
“You think he can keep you safe, Lydie?”
Ethan’s arms around her, solid and warm and steady when the world had been tilting sideways.
Her mouth on his, desperate and fierce, like she’d been falling for months and finally hit something solid enough to catch her.
She should feel ashamed. Should be mortified that she’d thrown herself at a man who was only trying to help her, who’d taken her in out of kindness and gotten her fear and neediness thrown in his face.
Maybe she did feel ashamed, a little. The embarrassment was there, lurking at the edges of her consciousness, waiting to pounce the moment she let her guard down.
But mostly she felt … steady. Grounded in a way she hadn’t been in a very long time. Maybe ever.
Tom had made her feel small. A year of his drinking, preceded by growing bitterness over the disappointments of life, had taken its toll on her in ways she hadn’t realized until the divorce.
She’d learned to hold her tongue and not point out what he might have done to create his circumstances, lest she set off a tirade about the unfairness of every aspect of living.
Tom had not understood that everyone has their burdens to bear, their troubles to deal with.
He became convinced that the world was picking on him, and by walking away, she had become the enemy, too.
But last night, in Ethan’s arms, she hadn’t felt small. She’d felt seen. Valued. Like she mattered enough to hold onto.
Downstairs, a floorboard creaked. Then another.
The old house was settling into its morning routine, familiar sounds that had become comforting over the past week.
She smelled coffee, rich and dark, and something appetizing that made her stomach rumble.
Bacon, maybe. And the kids’ voices floated up the stairwell, sleep-mussed and excited in that particular way children got on holidays.
For a moment, Lydia let herself pretend that this was normal.
That waking up in a safe house on Thanksgiving morning with her children breathing softly in the next room was simply life, not a miracle she’d borrowed on sufferance.
That the man downstairs making coffee was hers to keep, not just a kind stranger who’d be relieved when she finally found somewhere else to go.
The fantasy was dangerous. She knew that. Knew better than to let herself imagine permanence in a situation that was temporary by definition. But lying there in the gray morning light, listening to Rosie’s giggle drift up from the kitchen, Lydia couldn’t quite make herself let it go.
She slid out of bed, the hardwood floor cold beneath her bare feet, and pulled on jeans and one of Ethan’s flannel shirts she’d borrowed a few days ago and hadn’t quite gotten around to returning.
It smelled like him, cedar, clean laundry, and something indefinably masculine that made her pulse skip.
The sleeves were too long, falling past her hands, and she had to roll them up twice.
Stop it, she told herself firmly. Stop building castles in the air. This is temporary. He’s being kind. Don’t make it into something it’s not. He’s a single man in his thirties who has no reason to get involved with her hot mess of a life.
But her traitorous heart wasn’t listening. She hadn’t felt this way in years.
She padded down the stairs in bare feet, following the scent of coffee and bacon and the sound of her children’s voices.
At the landing, she paused, suddenly uncertain.
What if Ethan regretted last night? What if he’d spent the hours since the kiss wishing he’d pulled away, horrified that he’d let himself get pulled into her anarchy?
What if he looked at her this morning and she saw pity instead of?—
“Mom!” Eli’s voice called from the kitchen. “You’re awake! Come see what we’re making!”
No more time for cowardice. Lydia took a breath and stepped into the kitchen.
The scene that greeted her was bedlam and perfection in equal measure.
Eli stood on a chair at the counter, whisking something in a bowl with fierce concentration under Ethan’s supervision.
Eli’s tongue was caught between his teeth in that way he had when he was focused, and there was a dusting of flour on his nose.
Rosie sat at the table with a pile of paper grocery bags spread around her, carefully cutting out wobbly leaves with child-safe scissors.
Her blonde curls were still mussed from sleep, and she was wearing her favorite purple pajamas with the unicorns on them.
And Caleb Byrne, large and quiet Caleb who’d risked his life to save them, had claimed a corner of the counter, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms, hands deep in a bowl of what looked like cornbread stuffing. He glanced up when she entered and offered a small, slightly awkward smile.
But it was Ethan who made her breath catch.
He stood at the stove in worn jeans and a dark blue henley that brought out the green in his hazel eyes, his hair still damp from a shower, his jaw dark with morning stubble.
He looked comfortable in his kitchen, at ease in a way that made Lydia’s chest ache.
This was his space, his home, and he’d opened it to her without hesitation.
And last night, he’d kissed her back like he’d been wanting to for days.
“Morning,” Ethan said, looking up. For half a heartbeat, something awkward flickered between them. A flash of memory, heat and desperation and the taste of hot cocoa. But then Rosie launched herself off her chair and barreled into Lydia’s side.
“Mommy! We’re making Thanksgiving!” she announced, like they’d invented the concept themselves. “And I’m making decorations and Eli’s making eggs and Mr. Caleb is making the bread stuff, and Mr. Cole is in charge of the turkey!”
“You are, are you?” Lydia caught her daughter up in a hug, breathing in the scent of sleep and strawberry shampoo. “Looks serious.”
“It is,” Caleb said dryly, his deep voice carrying a thread of amusement. “We’ve been assigned very important tasks. I am, apparently, in charge of bread cubes and onion tears.”
“The onions made him cry,” Rosie stage-whispered loudly. “A lot.”
“They were very powerful onions,” Caleb said solemnly. “Possibly magical.”
Eli grinned, not looking up from his whisking. “I get to do the eggs for the casserole. And Mr. Cole says I can help with the turkey if I don’t drop anything.”
“I have faith in you,” Ethan said, checking something in the oven. Then he slid a mug across the counter toward Lydia, his fingers brushing hers for just a second as she took it. “Coffee. One sugar, splash of cream.”
Heat crept up Lydia’s neck, spreading to her cheeks. He remembered. After the fire, the investigation, Tom’s call, the kiss, he’d remembered exactly how she took her coffee.
“Thank you,” she managed, her voice coming out softer than she’d intended.
Their eyes met over the steam rising from the mug, and something passed between them. An acknowledgment of last night, maybe. Or a promise that they’d talk about it later, when small ears weren’t listening, and large firefighters weren’t pretending not to notice the tension crackling in the air.
Ethan’s mouth curved into the smallest smile, and Lydia felt something in her chest unfurl like a flower turning toward the sun.
“What do you need me to do?” she asked, setting the mug down before her shaking hands could betray her.
“Potatoes,” Ethan said. “They’re in that pot, already boiled. Just need mashing when you’re ready.”
“I can do that.”
They worked around each other for the rest of the morning, the four of them moving in a clumsy little dance around the kitchen.
Lydia mashed potatoes at the counter while Ethan basted the turkey.
Caleb mixed stuffing with the quiet competence of someone who’d cooked plenty of Thanksgiving dinners before, answering Rosie’s endless questions about why bread had to be in cubes and whether you could make stuffing with cookies instead.
“Technically, you could,” Caleb said thoughtfully, “but I don’t think anyone would eat it.”
“I would eat it,” Rosie declared. “I like cookies.”
“We all like cookies, sweetheart,” Lydia said, adding butter to the potatoes. “But let’s stick with Mr. Caleb’s recipe for today, okay?”
Eli, freed from his egg-whisking duties, had appointed himself official taste-tester and was attempting to sneak cookies from the jar on the counter. Ethan caught him on the third attempt and gently redirected him to setting the table instead.
“But I’m quality control,” Eli protested.
“Quality control doesn’t get cookies before dinner,” Ethan said, but he was smiling. “Nice try though.”
Lydia watched them interact, watched the easy way Ethan spoke to her son, the patience he showed, and felt her throat tighten.
Eli hadn’t had this. Hadn’t had a man in his life who was gentle and steady and didn’t use his size to intimidate.
Tom had screamed at the kids when he was drunk, had made them walk on eggshells, and had taught Eli that men were unpredictable and dangerous.
But Ethan was teaching him something different. Teaching him that men could be safe. Kind. Present.
The knowledge made her want to cry and kiss Ethan senseless in equal measure.
The house didn’t feel like a borrowed refuge or a crime scene waiting to happen. It felt … full. Warm, despite the November chill pressing against the windows. Lived-in, instead of haunted by the fact that they were here because hers had burned.