Chapter 21 #2
I pushed the oversized shopping cart, its wheels rumbling unevenly on the concrete floor, searching for the specific marine-grade sealant Harper had mentioned needing for a minor repair near the pool pump house.
A practical problem with a practical solution.
Unlike the tangled mess currently occupying my thoughts.
Losing the Thorne bid stung like hell. And Harper was tangled inextricably with that professional anxiety. Harper, whose presence in my life was both essential and fundamentally destabilizing to the ordered world I’d always inhabited.
It took a while, but I located the sealants in aisle nine.
I scanned the labels, my focus blurring from lack of sleep and too much caffeine, and found what I needed near the bottom.
Given Siesta Sunset’s oceanfront location, I grabbed an entire case.
My eyes drifted past the caulking guns to the endcap display.
Bright primary colors snagged my attention.
A child-sized tool belt, complete with a miniature hammer, wrench, and screwdriver clipped neatly into loops.
I moved the cart toward the display.
My hand reached out, almost of its own accord, and picked up the tool belt. The red canvas fabric was sturdy yet lightweight. The tiny hammer head was blunt and safe, but pretty well made. It was exactly the sort of thing Finn would adore.
A faint smile raised my lips as a vivid image flashed in my mind—Finn, his face screwed up in concentration, wearing this very tool belt as he “helped” me measure a two-by-four on the worksite.
Or maybe using the little hammer as we built a birdhouse for the backyard.
Or standing beside me at my drafting table back home, his small hand reaching for one of my specialized pencils, wanting to draw buildings too.
Before I could analyze it, before logic could intervene, I tossed the tool belt into my cart alongside the marine sealant. It landed with a soft clatter next to the sensible, necessary item I’d actually come here for.
I pushed the cart toward the checkout lanes, feeling slightly dazed.
After checking out, I walked out into the bright, humid glare of the parking lot, the automatic doors sliding shut behind me.
Inside the quiet sanctuary of my SUV, I placed the box of sealant onto the floor but placed the child’s tool belt deliberately on the passenger seat beside me.
I stared at it. At the cheerful red belt, the tools designed to build interest without smashing fingers. It looked out of place against my sleek black leather upholstery. A gaudy, innocent anomaly in my controlled environment.
And I knew, with a certainty that made my breath freeze in my lungs, why I’d bought it.
It wasn’t a random impulse. It wasn’t because Finn might like it.
It was because when I saw it, I hadn’t just thought of Finn.
I’d thought of us. Me, Harper, Finn. Building something, and not just sandcastles. Something real.
A family.
The realization hit me with the force of a physical impact.
My hands closed over the leather-wrapped steering wheel, my knuckles pale and ghostly.
This feeling for Harper wasn’t just intense attraction or deepening affection anymore.
It had expanded, shifted, and grown roots that now intrinsically included her son.
I wasn’t falling only for the competent, beautiful, frustratingly guarded woman who challenged and captivated me.
I was also falling for the idea of a life with her, a life that included bedtime stories and scraped knees, and coaching little league, maybe.
A life filled with the kind of messy, unpredictable, warm chaos I’d witnessed in her cottage, so different from the cool, ordered quiet of my own upbringing. Or my present life.
Panic, icy and razor sharp, immediately followed the revelation.
A family? Me?
The concept was enormous, terrifying. My parents’ marriage had been a masterclass in emotional distance, a polite arrangement devoid of warmth or genuine connection.
I’d spent my adult life prioritizing control, precision, professional success—things I understood, things I could manage.
I could calculate wind shear and load-bearing capacity, but the physics of falling in love were entirely beyond my expertise.
The pressures I was already juggling magnified exponentially.
Latitudes Design, teetering financially after the Franson near-disaster and the lost Thorne bid.
The massive, complex Sunset Siesta renovation, where my professional reputation and personal investment were deeply intertwined with Harper and her family.
What if I failed?
What if I failed them?
I needed control. I needed stability. I needed to focus on the tangible, the solvable—the architectural plans, the budget spreadsheets, the construction schedules.
That was my territory. That was where I felt competent.
I needed to get a grip on these emotions.
I wanted Harper and Finn in my life. But in order to feel secure with that, I had to get the business on firmer footing.
I started the SUV, the engine humming smoothly, a familiar sound of controlled power.
I relaxed my clenched hands and shook them out.
The child’s tool belt sat on the passenger seat, a bright red symbol of both the future I impulsively reached for and the overwhelming vulnerability it represented.
I pulled out of the parking space, heading back toward the resort, toward Harper.
Not with a plan, not with any clear answers, just with the terrifying, sinking realization that I was out of my depth, drowning in these uncharted waters of actually giving a damn.
And I had absolutely no idea how to swim.