Chapter 8 #3
"Sometimes you save yourself," Heather said. "Sometimes family saves you. Maybe I could have handled Brett, my ex, on my own when he came looking for me. But having Lyle and his brothers to help me fight that battle actually gave me strength."
Liv knew she was subtly telling her it was okay to lean on Mike and his family.
They worked in silence for a while, the rhythm soothing.
Then Heather said, "I need to know if you’re planning to stay.”
Liv's hands stilled in the dough.
Heather didn't look up. Just kept rolling. "Because if you’re not, I need to prepare Charlotte. She's already attached to you. And that kid's been through enough loss."
Liv's throat went tight. "I don't want to leave. It’s hard to think past the moment. I told Mike I feel absolutely irrational at times. I know it, but I can’t shake it. I really am trying. And the last thing I want to do is to hurt Charlotte."
"But you're thinking about it."
"Every day." Liv's voice cracked. "Every time someone walks in the door. Every time I hear a car on the road. I'm thinking, is this it? Is this when it all falls apart?"
Heather finally looked up. Her eyes were kind but steady. "Then let us help you stop thinking that way."
"I think you already have. The shooting practice did a lot for my self-esteem. Can’t say the same for the bruise forming on my shoulder, though.”
Heather laughed. “I’ll have Lyle bring over some horse liniment that’ll fix you right up.
At supper that evening, Lyle told a story about a cow that had kicked him into a water trough, and the kitchen filled with laughter.
Despite the ever-present threat lurking, Liv sat at the table, surrounded by noise and warmth and family, and felt something shift in her chest.
This. This was what she'd been running toward without knowing it. This was what she’d never had.
After the dishes were cleared and the others drifted off to evening chores or the living room, Mike grabbed two mugs of coffee—one black, one with vanilla creamer—and carried them out to the porch.
Liv sat on the swing, legs tucked up beneath her, sweater pulled around her shoulders against the evening chill.
Mike handed her the mug and settled beside her.
Close. Close enough that their thighs touched.
Liv's breath hitched, but she didn't move away.
They rocked slow, the chains creaking soft overhead. The world narrowed, just the two of them, the stars waking up, the wind carrying the smell of hay and horses.
"You were brave today," Mike said quietly.
"I was terrified."
"Brave and terrified aren't mutually exclusive." He turned toward her, and his knee pressed more firmly against hers. "You hit those targets like a pro."
“Now that’s a bit of exaggeration.” She stared down at her mug. "I keep waiting for you to change your mind. To decide I'm too much trouble."
"Not gonna happen."
"You don't know that."
His hand came up, slow and careful, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered, just a second too long, against her jaw.
She looked up.
His eyes were dark. Serious. But warm in a way that made her stomach flip.
"I know," he said, "that the second I saw you step off that bus, covered in dust and looking like you'd fight me over a biscuit recipe, I knew you were trouble." His thumb traced the edge of her jaw. "The good kind."
Her pulse kicked.
"Mike—"
"And I know," he continued, voice dropping lower, rougher, "that when you laugh in my kitchen at five in the morning, the whole damn world makes sense."
Her breath caught.
He leaned in. Slow. Giving her time to pull away.
His forehead rested against hers. Noses almost touching. Breath mingling. "Tell me to stop," he whispered.
"Don't you dare."
He took the mug from her hands and set it on the side table. And then he kissed her.
The kiss started soft. A question.
Then Liv's hand came up, fisted in his shirt, and pulled him closer.
Mike made a sound low in his throat—surprise, relief, need—and his hand slid into her hair, tilting her head, deepening the kiss.
His other arm came around her waist, pulling her across his lap. She went willingly, pressing close like she was trying to memorize the shape of him, the warmth, the very essence of his soul—battered as it was.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Mike rested his forehead against hers again.
"I'm falling for you," he said. Voice rough. Honest. "And I don't know how to stop."
Liv's eyes filled. "I can’t make you any promises, Mike."
“I’m not asking for them. Yet.”
He kissed her again. Softer this time. Making her wish there was a fairy-tale ending in her future. When he pulled back she smiled, even though she could feel tears burning in the back of her throat.
They sat there, wrapped around each other, the swing rocking slow beneath them.
Inside, the house glowed warm. Voices drifted out—Heather laughing at something Lyle said, Charlotte singing nonsense, the clatter of dishes being washed.
Home.
Liv let herself lean into Mike's chest, let his arms come around her, let the steady thud of his heartbeat anchor her.
"I don't know what happens next," she whispered. “My life is so up in the air . . . New York, my business, this whole Russo mess. But I do know that right this minute, I’m exactly where I want to be.”