Chapter 6
NETTIE
Shannon’s arm locked through hers before Nettie even had the chance to resist.
“C’mon, Chicken,” Shannon teased, her voice light and carefree as she practically dragged Nettie across the wide porch and toward the looming doorway of the Cassidy house.
The Cassidy house.
A place that had once been almost as familiar to Nettie as her own home.
She and Shannon had spent entire summers running barefoot across this porch, chasing Gina through the yard, collapsing in giggles beneath the oak tree in the side yard.
As adults, the house hadn’t lost its warmth—but Nettie had stayed away.
A whole year, give or take, since her grandmother’s funeral.
Since the house she lived in had gone quiet and empty, and every little reminder of laughter made her chest ache.
How Shannon and Gina had managed to talk her into this was beyond comprehension. She should’ve known better. Should’ve guessed where this night would lead. The odds of Tate being here were too high. Her stomach twisted at the thought.
Why hadn’t anyone warned her? Why now, of all nights, did she have to risk making a complete fool of herself in front of the one man who still haunted her thoughts?
Again.
Oh no, she wasn’t going to forget the other, most recent moment, that was a true doozy. No, she would be cringing and blushing about that when she was eighty and in a nursing home. Remember that one time you tried to be sexy… with the wrong person?
Yep.
Traumatized. For. Life.
“Tate’s not coming, right?” she hissed under her breath, panic sharp in her voice as they stepped inside. The familiar scent of baked rolls and something savory hit her nose—Gina’s mother’s cooking always did. But instead of comfort, it only made her nerves rise higher.
Shannon gave a breezy shrug, far too unconcerned for Nettie’s liking.
The kitchen was lively, a soft chaos of voices and clattering pans.
Gina stood by the counter with her mother, spatula in one hand, smile bright as ever.
She waved at them—and then froze as a smear of mashed potatoes toppled from her utensil onto a glass picture frame on the wall.
She yanked a paper towel free and began to wipe it up, muttering under her breath.
Nettie almost sighed in relief. Maybe, just maybe, she’d make it through the night unnoticed. Maybe Tate wouldn’t be here. Maybe this evening would be safe with warm food, laughter, and shared memories…
But then Nettie turned—and collided headfirst into someone.
Someone who grunted.
A six-foot someone wearing black who grunted angrily.
Nettie’s heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach.
Tate.
He straightened, dark eyes flashing with irritation, his tall frame filling the space with that unmistakable presence she remembered all too well.
“Watch it,” he snapped, his voice low and edged like steel, his glare sweeping over them both. His eyes—still that same piercing shade, dark enough to swallow her whole—locked on hers for a single heartbeat before flicking away like she was nothing.
Like usual… she thought painfully, freezing in place as her pulse hammered in her ears. She could almost hear David Attenborough speaking over her, almost like a commentator on the scene.
And here, we have the innocent gazelle about to partake of her meal with her adopted family – until she sensed a threat, recognizing that she’s now become the prey…
“And why wouldn’t I come to my parents’ house for dinner?”
Her throat tightened. She couldn’t answer even if she wanted to.
“I think I lost my appetite,” she whispered, but his glare sharpened instantly, like he’d heard every syllable. The heat of it made her want to shrink into the wallpaper.
“Maybe he’d be halfway decent looking, if he didn’t give off serial-killer vibes?” Shannon leaned close to her, voice mischievous and low. “I’m telling you – dark, broody, looming… like some hockey-obsessed gargoyle…”
“I heard that,” Tate muttered, rolling his eyes before stalking toward the kitchen. “Dad, where’s the remote?”
“We’re not watching television—it’s family night,” Mr. Cassidy’s voice boomed warmly, accompanied by the affectionate ruffle of his son’s hair, which only seemed to make Tate bristle more.
“Family night is when family is present,” Tate shot back, his words sharp as knives.
Ouch.
Nettie’s fingers curled into fists at her sides, every instinct urging her to run.
“Ignore him,” Gina said brightly, handing Shannon a roll of paper towels like the tension wasn’t filling every corner of the room. “I do—and I’m so much happier for it. I mean, when a dog growls, you back away slowly…”
“Or muzzle it,” Nettie muttered before she could stop herself.
Tate’s glare sliced straight into her, cold and dangerous. Nettie flinched, instantly regretting the slip.
“I really, really should go.”
“Nobody is leaving,” Mrs. Cassidy cut in sharply, her smile returning a heartbeat later as if she hadn’t just scolded them. “It’s been much too long since I’ve had everyone under this roof for dinner and…”
“Maybe we should make it a little longer,” Tate snapped.
“No time like the present,” Nettie retorted before she could stop herself, her discomfort sharpening her tongue. She wanted to disappear, but instead she stood there, matching his glare for one reckless moment.
“Oh my gosh, would you two just kiss and get it over with?” Shannon blurted, her exasperation slicing through the tension like a blade. “I swear – will they? Won’t they? I’m getting whiplash over here!”
Both Nettie and Tate froze. Their eyes collided—hot, startled, electric—and then, as if burned, both looked away. Nettie’s cheeks burned, her heart in chaos. Tate was pale; his entire face was pinched in what could only be described as dismay… or disgust?
“I wish I had a camera…” Shannon muttered.
“Did you see their faces?” Gina preened excitedly.
“Shannon, behave—or you’re sitting next to Tate,” Mrs. Cassidy warned.
“Why is that a punishment?” Tate snapped, bristling again.“Seriously, Mom?”
“Don’t you sass me, young man,” Mrs. Cassidy clapped back with all the authority of a woman who had raised two strong-willed children and wasn’t about to be challenged.
“I brought you into this world, changed your diaper, and kissed every boo-boo… and when I pick up an iota of attitude from you—you’re gonna get it back tenfold. ”
“Listen to your mother, Tate,” Mr. Cassidy said simply, as if that closed the argument. He reached across the table to squeeze his wife’s hand. “She rules the roost—and my heart.”
“Y’all are too sweet,” Gina sighed, and then immediately stuck her tongue out at her brother. “Too bad for you that I got it all - and you got none of it.”
“Is this what I showed up for?” Tate grumbled.
Nettie wanted to laugh, but her chest was too tight.
“Nettie, dear, take a seat and… Shannon, you too, sweetie.”
“I’m by Gina in the corner,” Shannon announced quickly.
“It’s a round table, Dummy,” Tate muttered, dragging out two chairs with jerky, impatient movements before plopping down farther around the table. “Dad, where are you sitting?”
“By your mother.”
Tate rolled his eyes again. “Mom—where are you sitting?”
“By your father,” Mrs. Cassidy chuckled as she leaned in to kiss her husband’s cheek. The tender smack on her backside that followed made her squeak and giggle like a girl.
Everyone saw it. Nettie most of all.
Her throat tightened again, but for a very different reason. Envy. Longing. That ache of watching something so simple—love made ordinary, constant, and unshakable—and knowing she didn’t have it. Had never had it. The silence of her grandmother’s house felt heavier in her chest.
“Are you sitting down or are you going to stand there all night?” Tate’s voice cut through her thoughts, sharp and impatient. He set a glass of iced tea in front of a plate with a pointed slam. “Pick a spot and plant your butt in a chair.”
Swallowing back her first instinct to snap, Nettie reached for a chair. Tate’s glare stopped her cold.
“My father is sitting there.”
“Oh.”
She shifted to the next one, but he cut her off again. Her jaw clenched. The heat rising in her face was half embarrassment, half fury.
“My mother is sitting in that one,” he bit out, his scowl deepening before he yanked out a chair and shoved it toward her.
A chair beside him.
Her breath stuttered.
Every instinct screamed at her not to take it, not to put herself that close to the one man who could undo her with a single look. But the room was watching. And Gina’s raised brows left her no escape.
So she sat. Right next to him. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, to catch the faint scent of soap and cedar that clung to him. Close enough to remember all the reasons why she didn’t want to run into him, why she avoided him like the plague.
The air was thick, suffocating, and tense.
Too tense.
Nettie couldn’t breathe.
“I think I need to go,” she blurted, shoving back from the table. All eyes swung toward her. “I’m sorry—I don’t feel good.”
“You’re kidding me,” Tate growled, his glare sharper than ever. But beneath it—something flickered. Hurt? Anger?
She couldn’t tell.
It didn’t matter.
That was it. She was done.
Her purse was in her hands before anyone could stop her, and she was halfway to the door when Gina hissed, “Tate—I told you to chill out…”
“You told me that he wouldn’t be here,” Shannon snapped.
“I grew up here!” Tate snarled. “I’m entitled to be here…”
“All of you need to stop,” Mrs. Cassidy ordered, her tone sharp as glass. “Everyone, sit down and relax. We’re all adults and…”
“I’m sorry—but I need to go.”
“Nettie…”
“I forgot my tea kettle on…”
“You don’t own a tea kettle…”
“Nettie, wait…”
“No,” she whispered, bolting through the front door before anyone could grab her arm, before Tate’s glare could pin her in place again. She didn’t wait for Shannon, didn’t wait for anything.
The evening air was cool against her flushed skin as she darted down the alley, skirt and hair flying. She didn’t stop until she’d run three blocks, until her grandmother’s house loomed ahead, dark and quiet, waiting for her.
Slamming the door shut behind her, Nettie flicked her phone to ‘Do Not Disturb’ and pressed her back against the wall, heart racing.
Never again, she thought. Never again.
Thirty minutes later, just as Nettie had finally convinced herself she wasn’t wrong for leaving, that she couldn’t endure a meal with Tate glaring at her and giving her dirty looks—there came a knock at her door.
She froze.
The sound wasn’t loud, but a firm, measured rap that seemed deliberate. For a heartbeat, she debated whether to answer. The silence that followed was heavier than the knock itself, pressing against her chest.
Slowly, she rose and crossed the room, each step careful, hesitant, as though she was avoiding some nightmarish creature, refusing to face her demons… or just one of them. When she finally turned the knob and pulled the door open, she didn’t find anyone standing there.
No eyes meeting hers.
No words hanging awkwardly in the air.
Nothing.
Her gaze dropped—and her breath caught.
A plate sat neatly centered on the welcome mat, foil tucked tightly around its edges to keep the heat in.
Steam had already left a faint trace on the metal covering, proof that whatever lay beneath had been placed there not long ago.
Balanced on top, held down by the slightest curve of the foil, was a folded scrap of paper.
Nettie bent, fingers trembling more than she cared to admit, and picked it up.
Three bold letters, written in a hand that was firm and unadorned, stared back at her.
Eat.
She recognized that handwriting and swallowed hard, blinking against the sudden sting at the corners of her eyes. No one had told her to eat in a long time—no one watched out for her… much less the one person she didn’t want to be around tonight or ever.
Tate.