Chapter Twenty-Seven
Nathan
We get back to Hammonton faster than I expected. The private car glides through town like it’s done this a thousand times, even though this is the first time I’m using it here.
It feels surreal.
Like I’m slipping back into a life I should’ve never left.
The second we stop in front of Mrs. Bosco’s house, I reach instinctively for my phone. I have a million things to do.
Calls to make.
Plans to set in motion.
I need to talk to Remy Falco—head of Sigma International, the only security firm I trust with anything important. And this?
Keeping Adrianna and Bella safe?
This is important.
But that comes later.
I leave my phone where it is because right now, I have a wife and a brand-new niece to welcome home.
“Stay in the car,” I tell Adrianna when she unbuckles, reaching for the door.
“What? But we’re home,” she says, giving me this confused, narrowed-eye look like she thinks I’ve completely lost my mind.
Before I can answer, her mother taps the window from outside.
“Actually, dear,” Mrs. Bosco says brightly, “Nathan had your and Bella’s things moved over to Thorn House while we were away. Wasn’t that thoughtful?”
Oh hell.
Adrianna’s entire face drops into a perfect what-the-actual-fuck expression.
I hop out of the car, help her mom onto the sidewalk, nod toward my driver who brings her overnight bag to the front door.
I step aside politely as Mr. Gimble—yes, that Mr. Gimble, the craft store owner—nods and pretends he’s not waiting in his running car for Adrianna’s mom to wave goodbye to us.
Interesting.
I make a mental note to ask Mrs. Bosco about that later.
When I slide back into the limo, Bella practically vibrates out of her seat.
“Are you serious? I have a new room? Like—my own room in your house?” she squeals.
I grin at her, because her excitement is contagious as hell. “Damn straight you do. And it’s your house now too, kiddo.”
“Is it big? Does it have windows? Does it have a desk? Ooh! Does it have a lock? Because Aunt Ad says I have to earn having a lock, but maybe since you’re, um—" she lowers her voice "—famous, maybe famous people have different rules?”
I bark a laugh. “We’ll negotiate the lock situation.”
“Will I get, like, space to hang posters? And my own closet? Oh, and a laptop? Can I have my own piano or a guitar? Oh, my God—can you teach me guitar?”
My heart actually swells.
“Sure, Bella. You wanna learn, I’ll teach you. But you should know, Aunt Ad is better than I am.”
Her eyes go huge.
“No way! Really? Like, really really?”
“Really. Really,” I confirm, covering her tiny hand with mine.
She squeals again, practically levitating.
Beside me, Adrianna shifts but doesn’t say anything. Bella steamrolls on.
“Can I hear your songs before anyone else does? And is it true that you broke sixteen guitars on stage? And did you really do a song with DJ Mars—”
“Oh my God, Bella,” Adrianna says weakly, face going red.
But I’m laughing. Really laughing.
The kind that cracks something old and tight inside my chest.
This kid is a firecracker.
A live wire. A little spark of pure joy.
Just like her aunt.
My heart squeezes for Adrianna’s sister, Bonnie. Of course, I knew her, and it makes me sad her life ended too soon.
So, right then I make a silent promise to always do right by her girl and her sister.
Because I am finally ready to admit I want them in my life. Hell, I need them.
Both of them.
Every day.
For keeps.
I want this. Us. A family.
And everything that comes with it.
“Nathan—” Adrianna begins, quiet, uncertain, bracing herself.
I take her hand and turn my head, pressing a kiss to her temple, and answer another one of Bella’s machine-gun questions because it buys me time.
Truth?
I’m a coward.
Because I know exactly what Adrianna is about to say.
Something like, you can’t just move us in.
Or maybe, I didn’t agree to this.
Or the one that really kept me up all night, this is only temporary, Nathan.
Because here's the thing. She doesn’t believe me yet.
She doesn’t trust that I’m staying.
And, fuck, that hurts.
It slices through me in a way that fame never could.
Because I want her to believe me.
I want her to know that her husband—her only husband—isn't going anywhere.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
Not in sixteen more years.
Bella launches into another excited question, this one about guitars shaped like stars, and I grin and answer her, grateful for the distraction.
But behind her laughter, behind Adrianna’s quiet breathing beside me, my inner voice whispers inside my head, and God, it’s so fucking annoying. But it’s right.
I love Ad with all my heart, and I want her to be mine forever.
Then maybe you should tell her, asshole.
Shit.
I do need to tell her.
Tonight.
Tomorrow.
Soon.
But first?
I need to show her the house.
Show her what I’ve done.
Show her what we can be.
Show her what home looks like—with me.
The second the limo rolls up the long driveway, Adrianna goes quiet.
Not the annoyed quiet.
Not the biting-her-tongue quiet.
The stunned, overwhelmed, heart-on-the-verge quiet.
Thorn House rises in front of us—fresh paint, restored trim, brand new windows catching the late afternoon light.
Contractors worked fast, and it paid off. The place looks like it belongs on a postcard.
But the inside? Well, that part matters most. And I can’t fucking wait to show her.
I help her out of the car, Bella already bouncing ahead, eager to explore everything at once.
“Whoa!” Bella gasps as she runs up the porch steps. “This place is HUGE! I bet there are secret passages and maybe ghosts—”
“Hopefully not ghosts,” Adrianna murmurs.
“But ghosts would be cool!” Bella insists.
I laugh, unlocking the front door.
“No ghosts. Just really creaky floors and old pipes.”
The moment Adrianna steps inside, she freezes.
Warm wood floors shine beneath her heels. Cream-colored walls. Sunlight is spilling through the tall windows.
She walks farther in—and stops in front of the living room.
Her hand flies to her mouth.
“God, I remember this room,” she whispers.
I nod because I do, too.
The nights we spent making out down here in secret.
The days we sat around in the sunlight pouring in from the windows, drinking iced tea and making plans, writing songs.
Next, we move to the main bedroom.
Our bedroom now.
Adrianna’s hands finally leave her mouth, and I’m glad.
She’s way too pretty to cover up. But she gasps, and something inside me squeezes tight.
Because there, placed with quiet reverence, sits my grandmother’s antique furniture.
Every piece has been refinished, polished, restored by my hands, my sweat, my hours bent over sandpaper and stain, remembering every story Grandma ever told about these pieces.
The antique dresser and armoire.
The arched mirror.
The carved settee with velvet cushions.
The narrow side table with the oil-burnished corners.
Adrianna steps closer, fingertips gliding over a smooth edge.
“You did this,” she whispers.
It’s not a question.
“Movers and contractors did a lot of the house,” I say, suddenly too warm in my own damn skin. “But this?” I gesture to the gleaming wood, the carved details. “This was all me, Ad.”
She turns toward me, and something in her eyes makes my breath catch.
“And it’s for you,” I add, because she needs to hear it.
Needs to know it.
Needs to feel it down to her soul.
Her lips part.
She looks at me like she’s seeing the boy I was and the man I became at the same time.
Fuck, I want to kiss her.
And I’m about to.
“What are you doing?” she asks, but there’s a teasing gleam in her brown eyes that tells me she knows exactly what I’m doing.
“welcoming you home, Mrs. Thorn,” I tell her.