Chapter 14
Gianna
Mary’s house was exactly what I’d pictured when someone said “cozy cottage.” Small and warm, with wooden beams across the ceiling and floral wallpaper that should have been outdated but somehow worked.
The smell hit me immediately when we walked in—fresh bread, herbs, something sweet baking that made my stomach remember I hadn’t eaten since this afternoon.
“Come in, come in,” Mary said, already taking our wet jackets and hanging them by the door. “You poor things, you must be frozen. I’ll get towels and blankets. Make yourselves comfortable.”
She disappeared down a hallway before either of us could respond, leaving Archie and me standing in her entryway dripping on hardwood floors that had probably been there for half a century.
“She moves fast for someone who looks seventy,” I said quietly.
Mary reappeared with an armful of towels and blankets, thrusting them at us with instructions to dry off and warm up while she heated soup. Then she was gone again, leaving us no room to protest or offer to help.
“I feel like we’ve been adopted,” I said, wrapping myself in one of the blankets.
“By a very determined grandmother who refuses to take no for an answer.” Archie dried his hair with a towel, making it stick up in different directions. “Could be worse.”
“Could be better. I could be at the interviews I was supposed to conduct.”
“Or we could be here, warm and dry with soup incoming.” He reached over and fixed a piece of my hair that had escaped my braid. “I’m voting for here.”
The living room had a fireplace already burning, flames crackling against logs that filled the room with warmth.
Furniture that had clearly been loved for decades sat arranged around it—a worn couch with floral cushions, two armchairs that matched, a coffee table covered in magazines and photographs in mismatched frames.
I moved closer to look at the photos. Children at various ages, grandchildren I assumed, family gatherings where everyone looked genuinely happy to be together. And in a silver frame with a black ribbon attached, a man in military uniform looking young and serious and proud.
“That’s Harold,” Mary said, returning with two bowls of soup that smelled incredible. “My husband. Army, two tours in Vietnam. Came home and married me three weeks later.”
She handed us the bowls and settled into one of the armchairs like a queen claiming her throne, watching us with bright eyes that missed nothing.
“Eat,” she instructed. “You both look half-starved.”
I took a spoonful and nearly groaned. Whatever was in this soup, it was perfect. Warm and rich and exactly what I needed after hours in a freezing car.
“This is amazing,” Archie said, already halfway through his bowl.
“Family recipe. My grandmother taught me when I was eight.” Mary smiled. “So. How long have you two been married?”
I choked on my soup.
Immediately, Archie’s hand was on my back, rubbing gentle circles while I coughed and tried to breathe. My eyes watered and my throat burned and I could feel my face turning red.
“We’ve been together a few years,” Archie said smoothly, his hand never leaving my back. “Married recently though.”
His other hand found mine under the blanket and squeezed, and I could feel him fighting back laughter.
Mary beamed at us like we’d just given her the best news of her life.
“I knew it. You have that newlywed look about you. All that unspoken communication, the way you gravitate toward each other without thinking about it.” She gestured at us with her spoon.
“Harold and I were like that. Everyone said we were crazy—three weeks between meeting and marriage—but we knew.”
I finally got my breathing under control and shot Archie a look that promised retribution later. He just smiled innocently and squeezed my hand again, absolutely delighted with himself.
“How long were you married?” I asked Mary, deciding to go along with the charade rather than correct her and make things awkward.
“Fifty-two years. Would have been fifty-three this December, but he passed last spring.” Her expression stayed warm despite the sadness in her voice. “Best fifty-two years of my life though. Worth every minute.”
She talked about Harold for the next hour while we finished our soup and the fire crackled and the rain continued its assault outside.
How they’d met at a church social, how he’d proposed after three weeks with a ring that belonged to his great grandmother, how everyone thought they were making a mistake but they’d known. Some things you just knew, she said.
I found myself leaning into Archie while she talked, and his arm came around my shoulders naturally, like we’d done this a thousand times before. I fit against him perfectly, my head on his shoulder and his warmth seeping into my bones.
“You two have that,” Mary said, gesturing at us. “That certainty. I can see it in how you look at each other.”
I felt my face heat but didn’t pull away from Archie. His thumb traced patterns on my shoulder through the blanket, gentle and unconscious.
Eventually Mary stood, announcing that she needed her afternoon nap and that we should rest too. The spare room was upstairs, second door on the left, with fresh sheets and plenty of blankets. She’d wake us when roadside assistance arrived.
Before either of us could protest or offer to sleep on the couch, she was gone, disappearing down the hallway with a wave and instructions to make ourselves at home.
Archie and I looked at each other.
“We don’t have to,” he said immediately. “I can sleep on the couch. Mary won’t know.”
“That’s ridiculous. We’re adults. We can share a room without it meaning anything.” Even as I said it, I knew I was lying. Everything with Archie meant something.
We climbed the stairs in silence. The spare room was exactly like Mary had described—small and cozy, dominated by a bed that was definitely meant for couples.
Candles lit up the place. Clean white sheets, a handmade quilt in shades of blue and green, pillows that looked soft enough to sink into.
Windows showed rain still pouring outside, gray and relentless.
I sat on the edge of the bed while Archie stood by the window, looking uncertain for the first time since I’d known him. His hands were in his pockets and he was deliberately not looking at the bed like if he ignored it, the situation would become less complicated.
“Stop hovering and come here,” I said.
He turned to look at me. “Gianna—”
“Just come here.”
He crossed the room and sat beside me, leaving careful space between us that felt wrong after spending the last two hours pressed together in his car. I closed that space immediately, leaning my head on his shoulder and feeling him relax.
We sat like that listening to rain hammer the windows, and I realized I’d never felt safer than I did right now in this stranger’s house with Archie’s arm around me.
“What are we doing?” His voice was quiet, careful, like he was afraid the wrong answer might break something fragile.
“I don’t know.” I lifted my head to look at him. “I’m terrible at casual. Everything with you feels significant in ways that scare me. Maybe we should talk about what this is.”
He shifted to face me fully, taking both my hands in his.
“I don’t want casual either. I want you—all of you, completely, if you’ll have me.
I want to take you on dates and meet your friends properly and be the person you call when something good happens or something terrible happens or when nothing’s happening at all. ”
My chest felt too full, like my heart had expanded beyond what my ribs could contain. “That sounds like a relationship.”
“That’s exactly what it is.” His thumbs traced circles on my hands. “Gianna… I haven’t been able to be reasonable about you since the moment we met.”
I thought about the lie we’d just played downstairs, pretending to be married, and how easy it had been. How right it felt to lean into him and hold his hand and let Mary assume we belonged to each other.
“I want that too,” I said. “I want you. I want to try this thing between us and see where it goes.”
His smile transformed his entire face, made him look younger and happier and completely unguarded. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He kissed me then, soft and sweet and careful. His hands framed my face like I was something precious, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones. I leaned into the kiss, into him, my hands finding his shoulders and then sliding into his hair.
The kiss deepened gradually. His tongue traced my lower lip and I opened for him. He made a sound low in his throat and pulled me closer, one hand sliding from my face to the back of my neck.
I shifted forward, needing to be closer, and he guided me onto his lap without breaking the kiss. My knees settled on either side of his hips and his hands found my waist, holding me steady. The angle was better like this, deeper, and I pressed against him without thinking about it.
His hands moved to my lower back, pulling me flush against him. I could feel his heart racing, could feel the way his breath caught when I tugged his hair.
I rolled my hips experimentally, and he groaned against my mouth, his hands tightening on my waist.
“Gianna,” he breathed, pulling back just enough to look at me. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “We should slow down.”
“Why?”
“Because if we don’t, I won’t be able to stop.” His voice was rough, strained. “And we’re in a stranger’s house and you deserve better than this.”
“What if I don’t want to stop?”
His eyes searched mine. “You’re sure?”
Instead of answering, I kissed him again. Poured everything I felt into it—want and need and three years of wondering what this would feel like. He met me with equal intensity, his control fracturing completely.
His hands moved under my shirt, warm against my skin. I arched into the touch and he made that sound again, the one that went straight through me. My hands found the hem of his shirt and pulled it up. He helped me get it over his head before pulling me back against him, skin to skin.
The sensation was overwhelming. His mouth moved from my lips to my jaw to my neck, finding spots that made me gasp. His hands mapped my back, my sides, anywhere he could reach. I traced the muscles of his chest and shoulders, learning the shape of him.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against my collarbone. “So perfect.”
I pulled him back up to kiss me and he took over immediately, one hand sliding into my hair while the other gripped my hip. The kiss turned hungry, demanding, his control slipping completely as he pressed me back into the mattress.
His mouth moved to my neck and I grabbed his shoulders, my breath coming faster. His hands were everywhere, learning the shape of me with attention that made me forget how to think.
“Archie,” I breathed.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and intent. “Say that again.”
Before I could, his phone rang.
The sound cut through the moment like cold water. Archie cursed quietly against my shoulder, his entire body going tense.
The phone kept ringing, insistent.
He lifted his head reluctantly and glanced at the screen on the nightstand. His expression shifted. “It’s the tow company.”
“Oh.”
He grabbed the phone, still holding me with his other arm like he couldn’t quite let go yet. “Hello?” His voice was rough. He listened for a moment. “Yeah. No, that’s great actually. We found another solution… Yeah, we’re fine. Thanks for letting me know.”
He hung up and looked at me. “They managed to get someone free earlier than expected. Asked if we still needed them.”
“What did you say?”
“That we’re fine.” He set his phone aside, his hand returning to my waist. “Was that okay?”
I nodded, suddenly very aware that we were still tangled together, that his hands were still on me, that we’d been seconds away from something we couldn’t take back.
The room felt different now — like the storm had passed but the air was still charged from the lightning.
“We should probably…take it slower?” I was still catching my breath.
“Yeah.” But he didn’t move immediately, didn’t let go. His forehead pressed against mine. “Though slowing down is the last thing I want to do right now.”
I climbed off his lap and he looked genuinely pained by the loss of contact, but there was something else in his expression too. Relief, maybe. Like he’d been thinking the same thing about moving too fast.
My body missed him immediately, but my mind knew we needed the pause. The moment had been perfect—almost too perfect—and slowing down felt like choosing something real instead of something reckless.
We lay down on the bed, facing each other. The room felt different now—still warm, still intimate, but without the urgency from moments before.
Archie’s hand found mine between us, fingers threading through mine. I studied his face in the candle lights, the strong line of his jaw, the way his hair was completely wrecked from my hands, how his eyes stayed fixed on me.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.
We stayed like that, just looking at each other, hands joined between us. His thumb traced lazy patterns on my skin and I let my eyes drift closed, feeling safer than I had in years.
The last thing I registered before sleep claimed me was his warmth and the steady rhythm of his breathing.