Chapter 40
Peter parked beneath the shade of the big macrocarpa, the gravel crunching softly as the engine quieted. My home looked different stepping out with Dane behind me, smaller, softer, older. Like a memory wrapped in real life.
I held the flowers for Gracie close to my chest as the warm wind swept across the yard. The scent of cut grass from somewhere far off tugged a thread inside my heart.
Dane stepped up beside me.
“You ready?” he asked quietly.
No.
Always.
Never.
“Yes,” I said anyway.
We walked to the back of the property where her little place rested. The ground was uneven, dew drying in patches, the old swing creaking gently even though there was no wind.
Gracie’s spot was peaceful, shaded by the umbrella tree's branches. The solar lights around the garden had fallen, some knocked over by the storm a few weeks back. I had never bothered correcting them, drowned by endless heartache and grief.
I crouched, placing the flowers down, smoothing the soil with my hand. My throat tightened but didn’t close. I whispered something only she could hear.
When I stood again, Dane was already rolling up his sleeves.
“Peter,” he called, “grab the mower. I’ll trim the edges.”
Peter nodded and disappeared into the shed like he’d known exactly where everything was. Minutes later, the sunlit yard filled with the hum of the mower and the sharp buzz of the weed eater. Dust motes rose. Grass clippings flew. The air filled with the scent of summer.
I stepped back, watching them work.
God.
Dane looked…unreal.
Sweat rolled down his neck, tracing the thick curve of his shoulders before disappearing under the edge of his shirt.
The tattoos along his arms flexed with every movement, dark ink shifting over tanned skin, disappearing into the sleeves of his tee as he bent, lifted, adjusted.
Then, almost casually, he tugged the shirt over his head, letting it fall and tucking it into the waistband of his shorts.
The sun hit the planes of his chest and abdomen like liquid gold.
He used the inside of his forearm to wipe the sweat from his forehead, and I couldn’t help but watch.
Every motion, fluid, natural, and achingly precise, set a thousand thoughts flickering behind my eyes.
The way his muscles rolled under his skin, the sheen of heat and work, the shadowed curve of his arms and chest, it was almost impossible to look away.
My lips parted slightly. I could feel the heat rising in my chest, an ache that had nothing to do with the sun or the effort.
I let my gaze linger for just a heartbeat longer before finally rising.
I stepped slowly up the small path from Gracie’s grave, letting the scent of freshly cut grass, the faint salt from the afternoon air, and the warmth of the sun settle over me.
My legs felt a little wobbly from awe, from longing, from the sheer pull of him being everything I didn’t realise I’d been missing.
When I reached the porch, I let myself collapse into my grandparents’ old loveseat, the cushions worn but holding memories like a gentle, unspoken promise.
The swing rocked softly under me, shifting with the slow sigh of the breeze, and I lifted a glass of cold peach tea to my lips.
Sweet. Smooth. Alive. A pitcher and two glasses sat beside my laptop on the small wooden table, waiting for Peter and Dane.
Every detail whispered that someone had thought of everything, that the world could be held in these small, perfect arrangements, and I hadn’t seen it coming.
I let myself breathe. Let myself watch. Dane moved through the yard like a force of nature—sunlight catching the sweat on his skin, muscles rolling under tanned, inked arms, power radiating from him in slow, effortless waves.
Every movement whispered control, every glint of sweat teased thoughts I had no right to think.
And I didn’t care. I couldn’t look away.
He was beautiful. Beautiful in a way that burned, that made my chest hitch, my heart stutter.
Beautiful and real. Beautiful and unreachable.
The world the work, the grief, the deadlines -faded to shadows behind him.
My gaze traced the curve of his back, the way the sun caught the fall of his hair, the way he brushed it back with his forearm, flexing a muscle I wanted to memorise.
The line of his jaw, the taut sweep of his abdomen, the power in the bend of his legs as he adjusted the mower—it was all dangerous, all impossible, and all I could hold onto.
Even Peter, older, calmer, with soft spots and sun-speckled arms, had shed layers into shorts and a tee, moving with ease and precision that betrayed years of experience and quiet strength.
They flowed around each other naturally, the rhythm of two men who understood unspoken signals, who moved together without effort.
I sank deeper into the loveseat, opening my laptop and letting the words come, letting them flow out of the tight cage in my chest. Love Me With Lies.
The title felt weighty, heavy, true. Here, in this shade, with the hum of work behind me, with the sight of these men I trusted and admired, the words finally found air.
I sipped my peach tea, letting the glass sweat against my fingers, the breeze teasing at my hair, the warmth of the sun balanced by the faint cool of the swing beneath me. Awe wrapped around me, thick and intoxicating, a blanket I hadn’t realized I needed.
Awe for what they were doing. Awe for the way Dane moved through my world, bending it, tending it, commanding it with a touch that was both protective and effortless. Awe for the safety, the quiet, the feeling of being truly seen.
Hours melted like honey in sunlight. By the time the yard was trimmed, the edges clean, the grass gleaming, the garden lights standing proud again, Gracie’s little space looked almost new, tended, gentle, alive with love.
My chest ached not with sorrow, not with grief but with something raw and right, a kind of longing sated by the simplest truths: that this place, this care, this strength, this man Dane was here, breathing life into everything I thought I had lost.
And I let myself watch, let myself feel, letting my heart swell and ache, letting the world settle into the way it should be for a moment, at least, in the warmth of sun and sweat, and the quiet power of love finally visible.
A late lunch arrived more like an early dinner. Some delivery service Dane must’ve used because Peter greeted the driver by name. Boxes of food, containers steaming with warmth, cutlery wrapped in linen.
Dane set everything up under the giant umbrella tree. Fairy lights wound through the branches flickered as the shade swayed. The picnic table looked like something from a magazine.
I shut my laptop and walked over.
Then Carrie’s car rolled through the gate.
She got out already smiling, already knowing she wasn’t leaving without the full story.
But to her credit, she sat down with all of us first.
Dinner was laughter. Warmth. Sunlight through leaves.
Peter talked about his wife Elma and how she’d stayed by his side for forty years.
“She adores Dane more than she adores me,” he said, chuckling into his beer.
“Because she has taste,” Dane shot back.
We all laughed.
“And… do you have any children?” I asked gently, almost hesitantly, because I could see the way people sometimes flinched at that question.
A tiny, familiar slice of regret cut through me.
Yes, I had a daughter once, but she was gone.
“Yes…a daughter. But…she’s dead. This is what I say when asked this same question.
I felt it immediately, the shift in their expressions, the careful softness in their eyes, the way people leaned in slightly, unsure, tender.
Peter cleared his throat, voice low and steady.
“My daughter, Anita,” he began. “She was…she was born with complications. The cord around her neck, multiple disabilities, things doctors now understand better, but back then… it was a mess of unknowns. Medical teams, hospitals… nothing we could do. Not the way you can now.”
I listened, frozen in awe and empathy, heart tightening in recognition of the weight of his story.
“As she grew,” Peter continued, “her needs became more… complex. The care we could give at home wasn’t enough.
Every year it got harder, every milestone…
more challenging. That’s when Dane stepped in.
” He glanced toward Dane, admiration threading his words.
“He built a place. For her, for all the children who needed more than the world could offer. A proper home, proper care. Everything.”
I felt my chest swell with something indescribable, a mixture of relief, gratitude, and awe.
“Holding Space,” he said proudly. “Right on the waterfront. Gardens everywhere—roses, sunflowers, dahlias. Proper fruit trees. A library. A gallery where we sell the kids’ artwork.
Pools for therapy. Everything state of the art.
Some families live there. Some visit. Elma basically runs the entire place now. ”
My chest warmed.
“That’s… beautiful,” I whispered.
“It’s necessary,” Dane corrected softly.
We talked about work after that his company, the shipments, the chaos behind the scenes. Carrie chimed in about my article, my deadlines, my avoidance. .
She nudged me under the table. “Penn. You are too calm. Spill it.”
I smirked. “Later. Maybe.”
She rolled her eyes. “I always knew it was Dane, you know.”
I blinked. “You what?”
She nodded smugly. “Saw him at Gracie’s funeral. Talked to him. Connected the dots ages ago. Don’t be mad. I was waiting for you to figure it out.”
I should’ve been angry.
But all I felt was shock and something like relief.
“You’re impossible,” I whispered, laughing.
The moment felt good. Big. Healing.
Until the gate creaked.
And he walked in.
Blake.
Holding flowers.
My entire body went cold.
He looked…ruined.
Angry.
Wild.
Like he hadn’t slept.