7. Avery
Chapter seven
Avery
By the time evening settles over Stone Ridge, I am tired enough to feel it behind my eyes and restless enough to know sleep will not come easily again.
Cole spends the day close without crowding me. He survives Mrs. Harlow’s tomato warnings, carries my bag when the road turns muddy, and listens to people like their words have somewhere safe to land.
It is dangerous how much I like him.
By supper, the main house is loud again. Tessa sits at the table with one hand on her belly and a plate Declan would approve of, even from Florida. Lena laughs with Grayson. Maris helps me carry in a salad while Scout patrols beneath the table like a furry tax collector waiting for dropped rolls.
Cole comes in last with Wade and Nolan, quiet as always, but different enough that my heart catches. He looks at me once, then takes the open seat beside me.
It should be a small thing. My chest knows better.
“Careful,” I murmur as he sits. “People might think you like us.”
His shoulder brushes mine. “That would damage my reputation.”
“You have a reputation?”
“I’m working on one.”
A laugh slips out of me, and his eyes warm in a way that makes the room narrow down to him for one impossible second.
Then Preston walks in with his phone in one hand and an expression that changes the air.
Maris sees it first. Her smile fades. “Preston?”
He looks at Cole, who goes still beside me, braced like a man trained not to flinch until the blow has already landed.
I set my hand under the table, palm up. For a heartbeat, nothing happens. Then Cole’s fingers close around mine.
Preston clears his throat. “I heard from the investigator in New York.”
The whole table quiets.
Preston keeps his voice even, but I hear the satisfaction beneath it. “They found the backup access logs. Your login was used, but not from your terminal. Someone cloned your credentials and tied the altered invoices to your account.”
Cole does not move.
“The missing parts trace back to Dennis Rourke,” Preston says.
Cole’s voice comes out low. “Dennis was the parts manager.”
“I know. The investigator has enough to turn over to the prosecutor. Your attorney is filing to correct the record and request dismissal.”
Tessa whispers, “Thank God.”
Cole’s fingers stay locked around mine, but his face gives almost nothing away. Only his eyes change, like a door opening to a room that has not seen light in years.
“It’s not done yet,” Preston says carefully. “A judge still has to sign off.”
“But?” Maris asks.
Preston’s mouth curves faintly. “But this is the evidence we needed.”
Grayson leans back, his jaw tight. “So he was set up.”
“Yes,” Preston says. “He was.”
Those two words land across the table like a storm breaking. Cole looks down at his hands, and I want to say something, but the moment does not belong to me. Not first. Not in front of everyone.
Preston seems to understand. He does not turn this into a speech or make Cole wear his vindication like a performance. He only says, “I told you I’d keep digging.”
Cole swallows. “You did.”
“And I’m not done.”
Cole nods once.
Around us, Stone Ridge does what Stone Ridge does best. It makes room. No one demands a reaction, pushes him to celebrate, or asks for details he has not chosen to give. They simply stay.
Under the table, Cole’s thumb moves once over mine. Small, private, and ours.
Dinner resumes awkwardly, then warmer. Cole eats more than I have seen him eat before, answers Wade about a hinge repair, and does not look at the door once.
I notice.
After supper, Cole slips outside before dessert. I wait three whole minutes, which feels like a lifetime and shows tremendous restraint on my part. Then I follow him.
He stands near the porch railing, looking out over the yard where evening has turned everything blue and soft. The house glows behind us, full of voices, but the porch belongs to the two of us for now.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He exhales, almost a laugh but not quite. “I don’t know. I thought I’d feel free.”
“Maybe freedom takes a minute.”
His mouth shifts. “A minute?”
“Or six.”
That earns me the smallest smile.
“Preston said it isn’t finished yet, but it sounds like they have what they need.”
“I want to believe that.” His gaze moves back to the yard. “That might be worse.”
“Hope?”
The word sits between us, quiet and rough.
I reach for his hand, slowly enough that he can move away. He does not. Our fingers lace together beside the railing.
“You do not have to believe it all at once,” I say. “Borrow what you need until you can.”
His eyes find mine. “From you?”
“Yes.”
The answer comes too easily to be anything but true.
Cole looks at our joined hands, then back at me. “You keep saying things like that.”
“You keep needing to hear them.”
His mouth almost curves. “Bossy.”
“Usually.”
“And yet here I am.”
The words settle between us, soft and dangerous. Inside, someone laughs, and Scout barks like he has been personally betrayed by dessert. The sound should pull us back, but neither of us moves.
Cole’s thumb brushes over mine. “I didn’t tell you first because I knew Preston would fix it.”
“I know.”
“I told you because I wanted you to hear it from me.”
My heart gives one hard, foolish beat. “I know that too.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, and the night changes.
Every practical part of me remembers we are standing on the front porch of my family home with half the ranch inside and at least one nosy dog capable of bursting through the door. The rest of me does not care nearly enough.
Cole lifts his hand, slower than he did this morning between the cabins. This time, he does not stop. His fingers brush my cheek, rough and careful, and the touch moves through me like heat catching dry grass.
“Avery,” he says.
This time, my name sounds like a question.
I answer by leaning into his hand.
His breath leaves him.
Then Scout barks from inside, followed by Grayson muttering about stolen bread and criminal behavior.
Cole’s mouth curves. “Family porch?”
“Terrible location.”
“Dangerous.”
“Extremely.”
He releases my hand slowly. “I should go before your brothers remember how many of them there are.”
“They’re not that scary.”
“They’re enormous.”
“That’s fair.”
Cole steps back toward the porch stairs, but his gaze stays on me. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For holding on before I knew how to.”
The words hit soft and deep. I do not make a joke or tell him it was nothing.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
He nods once, then walks into the blue-dark yard, his shoulders a little less burdened than they were this morning.
I stay on the porch and watch him go, my hand still warm from his. Inside, my family waits, and questions probably wait too. But Cole walks away with proof that the world might finally owe him an apology, and I want to be there when he learns how to accept it.