Chapter 17
Ihave just enough time to shower, slip into a soft T-shirt and comfortable sweats, and pour myself a glass of wine before the doorbell rings.
Neptune is on his feet instantly, tail wagging as he follows me down the hall, his nails clicking against the floor. With my glass in hand, I head for the door, already smiling.
“You’re here just in time,” I say as I open the door.
Then I stop, because the man standing on my porch is not the one I was expecting.
“Finn.” Surprise slips straight into my voice. “I…I wasn’t expecting you.”
His brows lift slightly, something cautious flickering across his face. “Were you expectin’ someone else?”
He’s still in his work uniform, jacket unzipped, a bouquet of red roses held loosely in one hand.
“Um… yeah.” I wince, immediately aware of how ungraceful that sounds. “Sorry. Hi. How are you?”
“Grand.” The word lands a little flat as he holds the flowers out to me. “These are for you. I’m sorry to drop by unannounced. I just… didn’t get the chance to see you leave earlier.”
I take the roses, my fingers closing around the stems as I look from them back up to him, still trying to process the fact that he’s actually here—on my doorstep, with flowers, instead of sending a text like a normal human being.
At the same time, a very specific hope forms in my chest. The hope that he is not expecting to be invited inside, because that would turn awkward very quickly.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
“There’s a charity thing tomorrow night,” he continues, shifting his weight. “Town’s hosting it at the winery. Thought I’d ask if you’d like to go with me. As my date.”
I’m still opening my mouth to respond when Neptune suddenly bolts past my legs.
“Neptune!” I call, instinctively reaching out.
Finn steps aside just in time, and that’s when I see why.
Aiden and Skye are standing on the front lawn.
Aiden has a bottle of wine in one hand and a Dutch oven in the other, looking like he stepped straight out of some domestic fantasy I did not ask for but am apparently living in. Skye and Neptune immediately lose their minds, circling each other, tails wagging, bodies colliding in pure joy.
Finn turns at the same moment I do.
“Holloway,” he says, his tone unreadable.
“O’Donoghue,” Aiden replies easily as he makes his way toward the porch.
The dogs rush past all of us and straight into the house, nails skidding across the floor. I step aside, holding the door open as Aiden passes us, close enough that I can smell the clean soap and faint ocean clinging to him.
“I’ll be inside in a minute,” I tell him quietly.
He nods and disappears into the house.
When I look back at Finn, his expression has shifted—tightened, something sharp and wounded flashing there before he smooths it over and meets my eyes again.
“So,” he says lightly, as if nothing just happened. “What d’you say, lass?”
I take a breath. “Is there a particular dress code for this charity thing?”
His mouth curves into a smile. “I’m sure whatever you wear’ll be perfect.”
“So… jeans.”
He chuckles. “Works for me. I’ll pick you up at seven?”
“I’ll see you at seven.”
He gives me a quick wink, turns on his heel, and heads back toward his truck, leaving me standing on my porch with a glass of wine in one hand, roses in the other, and my heart about to split itself in two.
I close the door and lean against it for a moment, the wood cool at my back as I try to catch up with my own life.
What is happening here? How is this happening?
There’s a man bringing me flowers and asking me out, while another is already in my kitchen with my dog, quietly preparing dinner like he belongs there. None of this is normal. None of this is me. It’s so far outside my comfort zone that I don’t even know where to put the feeling yet.
I take a slow sip of wine, letting it ground me, then push myself off the door and make my way toward the kitchen.
Skye and Neptune have already claimed their spot by the window, stretched out side by side, bodies pressed together. The sight softens something in my heart.
Aiden’s at the counter, focused, sleeves pushed up, carefully scoring a perfect round of bread.
“Hey.” He looks up when he notices me. “I started heating the oven. Bread takes about forty-five minutes, and it needs a bit of rest before we cut it.”
“Sounds perfect.” I smile as I set the flowers and my wine on the counter. I grab another glass, pour, and slide it toward him.
“Sorry about that,” I add. “I didn’t know he was going to come by.”
He glances up, his expression easy. “That’s okay.”
In one smooth motion, he opens the oven, lifts the lid of the Dutch oven, and lowers the dough inside. He closes it again, sets the timer, then reaches up and opens the highest cabinet above the stove—the one I haven’t touched yet because I can’t reach it.
He pulls out a vase and sets it in front of me.
“Thank you.” I carry it to the sink to fill it with water. I pick up the bouquet, hesitate, then glance back at him. “I have no idea what to do with these.”
He laughs softly. “I can take care of them, if you’d like.”
“That would be great,” I tell him, handing them over.
He opens a drawer, pulls out a pair of scissors, and gets to work. Sometimes I forget how familiar he is with this home, how easily he moves through my kitchen, but instead of unsettling me, it makes everything feel easier.
I turn my attention to dinner. I start chopping an onion, a bell pepper, and fresh garlic, letting the familiar routine settle my nerves.
“Would you like some music?” he asks, taking his phone from his pocket.
“Sure.”
I’m expecting something mellow, maybe acoustic, but when the first notes fill the room, I freeze mid-chop.
Luis Miguel.
I look up at him, stunned. He’s already set his phone down and gone back to trimming stems, completely unfazed.
“What?” he asks when he notices me staring.
“I just…” I trail off, shaking my head. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
“What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know, I thought you’d be more of a Jack Johnson, Dave Matthews kind of guy,” I admit
“Oh, I am,” he laughs. “But this is what my mom used to play on quiet nights when we stayed in. It just felt right.”
I nod and turn back to the cutting board, blinking a little faster than necessary.
Because this exact music is what my mom played while she cooked dinner after long shifts at the hospital, the sound filled our kitchen the same way it’s filling mine now, warm and familiar and impossible to explain out loud.
So I keep chopping, let the music play, and allow the moment to exist without trying to name it.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt this comfortable with anyone else in a kitchen.
When Mom cooked, I liked to help. She gave me precise, step-by-step instructions, and I followed them carefully, wanting to do it right.
With my sisters, it was always chaos. Somewhere along the way, we learned that if one of us was cooking, the other two needed to stay out of the kitchen if we wanted the meal to get finished without arguing.
We all have our own way of doing things, and none of us is particularly good at compromising when it comes to food.
With Aiden, though, it’s different.
While he worked on the flowers earlier, I chopped vegetables and started the sauce.
When it was time to open the tomato cans, he was already there, handing me the can opener without a word.
When I rolled the meatballs, he filled a pot with water, salted it just right, and set it on the stove to boil.
As the sauce simmered and I grated Parmesan, he set the table, placed the flowers in the center, and lit a candle.
He never got in my way. Never hovered. He simply paid attention.
The rhythm between us feels unspoken, like we both know when to step forward and when to step back. It’s easy. Comfortable. Quiet teamwork that doesn’t need commentary.
Conversation flows just as naturally.
We sit across from each other at my small table, talking as we eat, the food disappearing between stories.
I tell him about my sisters. He tells me he’s an only child.
I talk about growing up in Great Lakes; he tells me he’s lived in Depoe Bay most of his life.
He shares how his uncle has been more like a father to him, and how caring for him now feels less like a responsibility and more like a privilege.
Somewhere between bites, I learn his mom was Colombian, that he’s fluent in Spanish, and that she used to call him Adrián whenever he was in trouble. The way he says it fondly, and a little amused, sticks with me.
Aiden is, in every possible way, the boy next door every woman hopes to meet. Being with him doesn’t feel like effort. It feels like exhaling.
When I stand to carry our plates to the sink, he follows, glasses in hand.
“Thank you for dinner. It was delicious.”
“I’ve got the dishes,” I answer. “But you do need to share the recipe for that sourdough, because oh my God, it was incredible.”
He smiles, a hint of color creeping into his cheeks. “Actually, I was hoping you might be free on Saturday.”
I glance at him. “Are you baking bread?”
“Among other things,” he replies with a small laugh.
“I’m going blueberry picking in the morning, then making jam and sourdough for the senior home.
They’re having a farmers' market on Wednesday, and I like to contribute. I thought maybe you’d want to come with me.
The fields are about thirty minutes away.
And then,” he adds, quieter, “I could show you my sourdough recipe.”
“And your jam recipe.”
“And my jam recipe.”
“And you’ll give me a bit of your starter,” I continue. “So I don’t have to start from scratch.”
He grins. “I’ll even commit to making you bread whenever you want it.”
I laugh, warmth spreading through me. “You’ve got a deal.”