Chapter 38
Daisy
And what do all the great words
come to in the end, but that?
I love you — I am at rest with you
— I have come home.
~ Dorothy L. Sayers
I glance at the house behind Patrick. This neighborhood is familiar—one I’ve driven through over the years.
The house next door has well-loved touches—pumpkins and hay bales tastefully stacked near the steps.
Two stone planters of mums flank the porch steps.
A former house turned dental office sits beside it.
Across the street, an accounting firm occupies the bottom half of another old craftsman.
Patrick’s gaze meets mine. Relief floods his face the instant our eyes meet. He steps forward, then falters—like he’s afraid I’ll change my mind and drive away.
I wouldn’t dare. Not until he explains the podcast reveal and tells me why that porch is overflowing with packages and papers.
What on earth is he up to?
“You came,” Patrick’s voice breaks the silence as he moves toward me.
His movements are uncharacteristically cautious—almost reverent—so different from the way he charged at me that day on the lawn of Moss and Maple—the day he kissed me.
“I came,” I say, holding my arms out wide and letting them fall to my sides.
“I wasn’t sure you’d actually come.”
“You’re really the host of Burning Through the Pages.”
I can’t take my eyes off of him. Despite the hours I spent reconciling the two men, seeing him in person feels surreal.
He nods slowly. “And you’re M&M.”
I nod. Ten feet stretch between us—a moat of nerves and unspoken conversations.
“What is all of this?” I ask, waving my hand toward the porch.
He glances over his shoulder, exhales and closes the gap between us.
I meet him halfway, looking up into his eyes. He’s the man who listened to me pour my heart out in the late night hours, the one who always had my back.
The high school boy who left me stranded that day grew up to be this man standing before me.
His gaze drifts over my face, landing on my eyes, soft, searching, and filled with a warmth I’ve never seen in him before.
He turns so he’s facing the house with me. His palm finds the small of my back and rests there. It should feel awkward. Instead, his touch steadies me—he steadies me.
I glance up at him, confirming the truth I’ve resisted for years. It’s him. He’s the one.
“This …” He gestures to the house. “... is the new home to Moss and Maple.”
He looks down at me, a boyish hesitation in his expression. “That is—if you want it.”
My brow pulls tight. “It’s what?”
Did I hear him right? A house for Moss and Maple?
Patrick stays silent—his hand still warm against my back, grounding me as I try to absorb everything.
“You bought … a house?”
I study the building again, this time with new eyes—imagining a hand-carved sign over the doorway, customers crossing the porch. The location is perfect—a few blocks from downtown, convenient, safe from future development. But … How could this even be possible?
“My dad won’t relocate Home Mart. So I started a campaign …”
“A campaign?” My voice cracks. I’m lightheaded from awe and disbelief.
My knees feel weak. If Patrick’s hand weren’t on my back, I might crumple onto the sidewalk.
“To save your shop. Once Dad’s store opens, that whole area will be overrun with traffic, congestion, and noise. He’s traded the quiet—the soul of that place—for profit and pavement.”
Patrick’s lips thin. His eyes shut. He lightly shakes his head. “And I let him.”
He exhales—a long, ragged sigh that tells me more than words ever could.
I wasn’t sure what to expect coming here today. Patrick’s tender expression of grief as deep as my own was definitely not on the list. And this house? Is he really saying it’s mine?
As if he could read my thoughts, Patrick gestures toward the house. “It’ll never be the old Moss and Maple. If I could have saved that, I would have.”
“You would have?” I wince at the surprise in my voice. I’m still adjusting to all of this—to him, to his heart, to his unexpected intentions.
He nods his head once with a certainty that brooks no room for doubt. “I’d have given anything to save it.”
“But you never said a word at the town hall meetings.”
I’m not trying to stir trouble, but we’ve lived too many years with a painful silence festering between us.
“I was foolish.” His expression is raw, lines of regret carved deep. I fight the urge to reach up and run my fingers over the divot in his brow, smoothing the worry, touching him like he’s touching me. “I thought I could please my father and protect Moss and Maple. I was wrong.”
Clarity breaks through like streaks of light piercing a cloudy sky.
“You couldn’t have stopped him,” I say softly.
This—all of it—is too much. And I can’t let him bear the weight of a decision so complex as the imposition of Home Mart on our community.
Our town made way for the development. Conrad O’Connell strong-armed his way to that outcome.
Collectively, the townspeople didn’t stop him. That isn’t Patrick’s fault.
And I’ve been living like it was.
“I could’ve tried harder,” he says, still shouldering far more than his share of the blame.
“Maybe. But in the end, he still would have won. That’s what he does.”
“I know. I figured that out when I went to him—begging him to change his mind.”
“You went to him?”
Just when I think I’ve heard it all, he adds another unbelievable detail. I try to imagine Patrick, toe-to-toe with his father—on my behalf.
He simply nods, eyes dark with the memory of their exchange.
“My father only sees progress when he plans new developments,” Patrick explains.
He’s not defending his dad. He’s obviously frustrated—and disappointed.
“In his mind, he’s doing the community a favor.
He figures they’ll come around in time. I thought he could be persuaded.
When I saw how unwavering and truly blind he is, I shifted gears. ”
“And bought me a house?” I chuckle at the absurdity.
“I didn’t buy it. Not yet. The people of Waterford did this.
They raised funds, wrote notes and letters expressing what Moss and Maple has meant to them over the years—what you mean to them.
Some gave a token of appreciation, others were beyond generous.
Waterford wants you to keep the doors of Moss and Maple open—only they’ll be different doors.
" He pauses and looks down at me. His eyes are glassy with emotion.
“I hoped maybe we could have a fresh start?”
I get the feeling he’s talking about more than my bookshop now—more than this house.
Tears well in my eyes. Patrick turns to face me—still tentative, but no longer holding back.
The memory of the last time he stood this close crashes over me.
My fingers ache to reach for him. My heart thrums with longing.
Whatever kept me from him has washed away in the river of his apology, the rain of his confession, and the mist of his kindness.
Instead of the kiss I half expect, he pulls a slightly bent stack of papers out of his back pocket—tied with a ribbon.
“Also, there’s this.” He smiles softly.
An envelope rests on top.
I read the scrawled writing on the front: To Daisy from both of us.
“Both of you?” My brows lift.
“Me—and the podcast host,” his quiet laugh warms me.
I can’t help smiling at him, a breath of laughter mingling with his.
Pulling the note out of the bundle, I thumb through the remaining brochures.
“Patrick?” My voice wobbles.
“Those are all MFA programs,” he says. “Ones you can complete online—with residency options.”
My breath hitches, a tear threatens to spill.
“I cost you your shot at Vanderbilt,” he says, his voice rough, a rasp that catches at the edges of his words. “It’s not too late. You always were a gifted writer. If you still want that dream, don’t let anything—or anyone—stop you.”
“You didn’t keep me from Vanderbilt. Your dad made you miss our presentation.
When you didn’t show, I gave up. Maybe my opportunity was blown—but I never looked into any other options.
I was too hurt, too disillusioned.” I need him to hear this.
My eyes are wide and focused on his. “It wasn’t your fault, Patrick. ”
Any residual anger, hostility or blame I’ve carried toward him lifts—floating away like morning fog. What’s left when I stare into his eyes is an all-consuming warmth. New. Unfamiliar. Somehow, home.
His expression softens. “You mean that?”
“I do. You let me down that day. But it was out of your control. What I did after? That’s on me.”
“Are we actually burying the hatchet?” he asks, a playful glint in his eye.
“I’ve wanted to bury the hatchet for a long time,” I say, lifting a brow and smiling at him.
Am I flirting? Most definitely.
“In my head,” he finishes for me.
“Or other body parts. I wasn’t going to be picky.”
He laughs, low and warm, and I feel the heat caress me from the inside out. His hand tugs gently at my back. Goosebumps travel up my arms.
His voice drops low. “We should’ve called a truce years ago. We wasted so much time.”
I can only hum in agreement. I’m dizzy from his nearness—his warmth, his touch, the faint scent of campfire and something undeniably him.
“I’m ready now, Daisy.” His words are a declaration.
“Ready for?” My voice quavers, telling him how ready I am. But I need to hear him say it.
“To rebuild what I broke. To pursue you. To discover what we could be—together.”
He smiles—shy, unguarded. But his gaze is fire.
All the tension that once pushed us apart now pulls like a current, tugging me toward Patrick.
His hand on my back gently pulls me nearer.
His intent, unmistakable. I know what he wants—what we both crave—and I willingly move toward him until our bodies are flush.
The brochures slip from my fingers, scattering at our feet.
I loop my arms around Patrick’s neck, tangling my fingers in his hair.
“I want that too,” I assure him in a whisper. “And not just because you bought me a house.”
“That was a solid move, though,” he winks. “It helped.”
“It most definitely helped,” I say, smiling up at him.
Our words vanish, swallowed by the heat simmering between us. Patrick leans in—slowly enough that I wonder if he’s actually going to kiss me, or if he’ll whisper like before.
“I want you, Daisy.” His voice is rough gravel—thick with emotion and desire.
“I want you too, O’Connell.” I aim for light and flirtatious, but my declaration comes out breathy.
I do want him. Maybe I always have. I just never knew I could trust him—not until now.
Patrick’s eyes search mine and, and when he finds whatever he’s been looking for, he leans in.
His lips brush mine—full, gentle, certain.
The kiss lingers, deepening. I’m not fighting him.
I kiss him back, my hands tracing the ridges in his arms, sliding across his back, fingers tangling in his hair.
All the years of longing rush me. I’d kept it all caged—telling myself I hated him when, really, all I wanted was to believe.
He tugs me closer, our mouths dancing in a reunion that feels achingly like coming home.
I surrender—to his kiss, to our connection, to him.
When he finally pulls away, his eyes are glassy and sedate, a mirror of my own. He cups my cheeks and presses the most tender kiss to my forehead. I nearly cry.
He’s everything—passion, tenderness, strength, protection.
His hand smooths my hair.
The afterglow hums through me—weightless, electric, warm.
He tilts his head down so he can look in my eyes. “Okay?” he asks, smiling with a gentleness I don’t think I’ll ever forget.
“Very,” I smile up at him.
He turns us toward the house. Then he pulls me to himself, tucking my head under his chin, my cheek resting on his chest. We stand there—holding on to one another for the first time in our lives.
“I could get used to this,” I whisper my confession.
“I hope you do,” he says, the words a low rumble.
I tip my head up to look at him. The tears in my eyes are pure gratitude. “Thank you,” I whisper.
“Thank you,” he echoes softly. “For giving us a chance.”
Down the street somewhere, a child’s laughter rises into the air, followed by the rustle of leaves in the trees above us. Patrick’s hand drops to mine and our fingers intertwine. Deep inside my heart, I already know—this isn’t an ending. It’s the first page of everything that comes next.
~ THE END ~