Chapter 15
Bodie
I’d moved a dozen times in my life—dorms, apartments, the two rentals I’d used while saving for this house—and I’d never seen anything like the convoy that rolled up to Emmaline’s house at eight on the dot.
Three Gibson trucks, a borrowed trailer, and my entire damn family hit the driveway like a pit crew at Talladega.
It was July, the kind of hot that made the air taste like metal.
Grandma Elsie’s blue Buick was parked half in the grass, the trunk packed with enough food to feed a football team—which, to be fair, is often exactly how much it took to feed us at any Gibson family event.
Uncle Dee arrived right behind me, fanning himself with a catalog and dressed in linen the color of a traffic cone, declaring the day “an event.”
Emmaline stood on the porch in cutoff shorts and a tank, her hair up in a knot, trying hard not to look overwhelmed by the Gibson invasion.
A dozen neatly labeled boxes, each one small enough for her to lift on her own, sat in the entryway to the house.
It wasn’t much, but it was tidy and intentional—like her.
I hopped out and met her halfway. “You ready for this?”
Her mouth curved in that quick, self-deprecating way I was already too fond of. “Define ready.”
“Ready enough.”
“Missus Gibson.” Gunner bowed, ridiculous and sweet. “We work for cookies and spite.”
“Then you’ll be highly motivated,” she said, dry as a bone, and for a second some tension slid off her shoulders like it had been waiting for the right joke.
I stepped in to take the box she carried.
Our fingers brushed. A little shock jumped up the inside of my wrist like I’d hit a live wire.
For the tiniest beat, neither of us moved.
Vanilla and paper and some clean citrus clung to her skin.
Practical words came out of my mouth because they were safest. “Careful, this one looks heavy.”
“It is.” She let me have the box labeled Gran’s Cookbooks.
I felt the shift of weight, not just the books but the part of her life that had rubbed its ink into those pages.
Our fingers brushed, warm skin against warm skin, and something electric jumped between us.
She pulled back fast, like she’d been stung.
I pretended to adjust my grip, but my pulse was doing a stupid little double-time.
Fletcher whistled low. “You two planning to move or just stare at each other all day?”
I ignored him. “This one’s fragile,” I said, more to myself than anyone.
My brothers were a well-oiled machine, already clearing half the porch by the time I set the box of cookbooks in my truck and came back for more.
Emmaline caught her lower lip between her teeth.
I reached out to brush her hand with mine. “They’ll be careful. Promise.”
Her smile was a little wry. “I’m not used to this much help.”
Grandma Elsie bustled over, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Many hands make light work. Do you need help packing the rest?”
“I’ve got a few bags with clothes and stuff in the bedroom.”
“On it.” I strode down the hall to her room.
I hadn’t seen it before. Whatever personality had been here had been packed up into the duffel bags and suitcases that I was pretty sure were older than we were.
The bed had been stripped of linens, any art pulled off the walls.
The only things remaining were the battered dresser across from the bed and the curtains hanging at the window.
I grabbed the two nearest bags. Gunner was right behind me, snagging the others. Those, too, went into the back of my truck.
Emmaline carried light things—pillows, the bag with her shoes—while my brothers and I handled the boxes and the heavier stuff.
Every time she tried to help more, I found something to keep her from lifting too much.
Not because I thought she couldn’t, but because it felt like the only burden I could lift from her today.
Those shadows in her eyes as she left the only home she’d known for more than a decade weren’t easy to see.
Outside again, I spotted a few pieces of furniture already strapped into the back of Fletcher’s truck. One small dresser. A pie safe that looked like it might’ve been brought over the mountains on a wagon. A low bookcase.
Uncle Dee clapped his hands. “What’s next, sugarplum?”
“That’s everything,” Emmaline said softly.
Damn, we’d way overdone it. Fletcher looked like he might pout at not getting the chance to use his fancy dolly.
Colter lifted the last small box on the porch with one arm and said, “That’s it?”
I saw the flash of embarrassment in Emmaline’s eyes before I could stop it.
“Careful,” I said mildly, stepping in. “That’s the heavy stuff. Don’t throw your back out trying to show off.”
He grinned, clueless. “Yes, Chief.”
Uncle Dee swept past with a Tupperware of deviled eggs. “Honestly, the less you own, the freer you are, darling. Just think—less dusting!”
That got her smiling again.
“All right, then. Let’s roll out.” I made a circling gesture in the air, and my family leapt back into motion.
I followed Emmaline over to her car, mostly because I couldn’t stop myself. The little sedan was older than my truck by more than a decade, paint faded to a soft blue that used to be brighter. I spotted her stand mixer riding shotgun, seat-belted in like a toddler.
She slid behind the wheel, cranking the engine. It gave a faint whine. Belts, maybe. Or the alternator.
As I braced myself over the driver’s side door, she rolled the window down and peered up at me. “Need something, Chief?”
“You planning on driving this long?” I asked lightly.
She squinted at me. “Until it quits or I do.”
“Mm-hmm.” I made a mental note to check it this weekend. Quietly. She didn’t need a lecture about maintenance on top of everything else. I tapped the top of the car. “See you at the house.”
By the time we reached my place—our place now—my brothers already had the pie safe halfway off Fletcher’s truck. Uncle Dee had the front door wide open, calling directions.
“Living room, right wall!” he barked, gesturing with his fan in case they were confused about which direction that was. “Mind the molding. Some of us have taste.”
Dean groaned. “Some of us have bad knees.”
“Some of us have no patience,” Elsie shot back, marching past with a casserole dish the size of a small child. “Kitchen, counter, fridge, freezer. I’m stocking you up, Emmaline. Don’t argue. A woman shouldn’t have to cook the week she moves.”
Emmaline just smiled faintly and held the door while they carried her things inside. I caught the edge of that smile and felt something pull tight behind my ribs.
My brothers worked like they were racing each other. Fletcher called dibs on unloading, Colter claimed stacking rights, and Gunner just kept asking who got the prize for best forearms.
“You’ve already won that contest,” Fletcher said, deadpan.
“I know.” Gunner flexed anyway.
It took perhaps twenty minutes, start to finish.
Barely enough time to break a sweat, even in the appallingly humid July morning.
They were built for this kind of job—organized chaos and muscle memory.
When the last box hit the living-room floor, Fletcher wiped his forehead with his shirt and declared victory.
“There. Done in less time than it takes Dad to mow the front yard.”
“That’s ‘cause there wasn’t much to move,” Colter said, meaning nothing by it but still earning a sharp glance from me.
Uncle Dee clapped his hands. “Boys, boys, let’s not insult the newlyweds with your work-ethic posturing. Take your sweaty selves home. You’ve done the goddess’s work.”
Gunner leaned against the doorframe. “We could stay. Help organize. Make sure—”
“No,” Dee said. “You could not. Leave the poor things to their… privacy.” He said it with enough wink in his voice to make Emmaline’s cheeks go pink.
“Uncle Dee,” I warned.
He fanned himself like I’d complimented him. “I’m just sayin’, sugarplum, even saints need a little alone time after moving day.”
Grandma Elsie was last to go, patting Emmaline’s arm. “You holler if you need anything. Don’t you skip meals.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Emmaline said softly.
When the screen door finally shut behind them, the house fell into a hush thick enough to have weight. The kind that made you suddenly aware of your own breathing.
She stood in the middle of the living room, surrounded by boxes and good intentions, looking smaller than she was. “It’s kind of sad,” she murmured, almost to herself. “How little there is.”
I leaned a shoulder against the wall. “You brought what mattered.”
“Maybe.” Her fingers traced the door of the pie safe, following an old scratch in the finish.
“You sure you got everything you wanted? We can go back without the circus.”
She shook her head. “No. That was all of it.”
“Alright.” The word seemed too loud in the quiet.
She stayed put, arms crossed, eyes darting around like she didn’t know where to land. I’d seen that expression on rookies before—people out of place in their own skin. So I did what I’d do for any partner walking into a new post. I gave her a tour.
“C’mon,” I said, nudging her toward the kitchen. “Let me show you where things go.”
The lemon-cleaner scent still hung in the air, fighting with Grandma Elsie’s casserole. I opened a cabinet. “Cleared these shelves for your baking stuff. Figured you’d want it close to the counter.”
Her brows lifted. “You didn’t have to.”
“Didn’t hurt anything.”
“I don’t want to mess up your system.”
“If it works better your way, then it’s our system now.”
She looked up at me with that quiet frown she got when she was processing something too big for words. “Our system.”
“Yeah.” My throat felt dry.
“Bodie…” she started, then stopped.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head and smiled like she didn’t trust it yet.
“Half bathroom’s down the hall. Laundry’s off the mudroom.” I gestured as we walked. “And—uh—bedroom’s up here.”
She followed me upstairs to the doorway, hesitating just inside.
Sunlight cut across the floorboards, catching the edge of the big bed I suddenly regretted owning.
King-size. Still rumpled from where I’d rolled out of it this morning.
It was far too easy to imagine tumbling her back onto it and finding all new ways to mess up those sheets.
Ruthlessly cutting off the thought, I opened the closet.
“I, uh, moved some of my stuff.” Half of my shirts were shoved to one side, the other half was empty hangers.
“Figured it’d look more convincing if your things were in here.
My family’s nosy. They’ll peek. There’s room in the right half of the dresser, too. ”
Her gaze lingered on the space, then flicked to the bed behind me before she caught herself. “You made room for me.”
“Always.” The word slipped out before I could choke it back.
She looked up, startled. For a second, neither of us breathed. Then she smiled, small and unsteady. “That’s… kind of you.”
“Practical.” But the word sounded like a lie. I turned toward the hall before I could go back to imagining what that bed would look like with her in it. The thought hit anyway, low and hot.
“Come on,” I said too quickly. “Got you something as a welcome home present.”
Her brow creased. “Bodie, you didn’t—”
“I did.”
Back in the kitchen, I pulled the oversized jar off the counter where I’d hidden it behind the coffee canister. A red bow drooped over the lid.
She stared. “You bought peanut butter?”
“The good kind. Crunchy. Figured it beats flowers.”
Her laugh burst out, light and surprised. “You remembered.”
“Hard to forget. You practically lived on this stuff one winter.”
“I was twelve.”
“And stubborn.”
She shook her head, still smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Efficient.” I nudged the jar toward her. “Welcome home.”
That knocked the last bit of tension out of her. She laughed again, softer now, and set the jar on the counter with a little thump. “Thank you.”
“For peanut butter?”
“For this.” Her eyes flicked around the room—boxes, light, Rubble snoring on her bed in the corner because she’d decided all this was too much to stay awake for. “All of it.”
I didn’t have an answer, so I gave her a nod and reached for the nearest box.
She joined me, unwrapping mugs and sliding them onto shelves.
The sound of her moving through the kitchen—quiet humming, the clink of glass, the occasional soft curse when she dropped paper—settled into the walls like it had been missing.
My house had never seemed empty before. But standing there watching her fill it, I realized that maybe it always had been.
And that was a problem.