Chapter 6 #2
“Not trying at all. Not taking the chance. Spending the rest of my life wondering what could have been if I’d just been brave enough to stay.”
Grant’s hand came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone. “You’re the bravest person I know.”
“I don’t feel brave. I feel terrified.”
“That’s what brave is. Being terrified and doing it anyway.” He leaned in, his lips finding hers in a kiss that was gentle and searching, full of questions and promises.
When they pulled apart, Liza’s eyes were dark and full of want. “Grant—”
“I know this is fast,” he said. “I know it’s crazy. We’ve known each other less than two days. But Liza, I need you to know—”
“I know,” she whispered. “I feel it too.”
The kiss deepened, became something hungry and desperate and real. Grant’s hands moved to her hair, and she pulled him closer, needing the warmth of him, the solid reality of him.
He was careful even in his passion, mindful of her injured ankle, his touch both tender and urgent.
“Your ankle—” he murmured against her mouth.
“Will be fine if you’re careful.” She smiled against his lips. “And you’re always careful with me.”
He was. His hands were gentle as they learned the shape of her, as they discovered what made her gasp and sigh. And when he made love to her in the flickering firelight, it was with a reverence that brought tears to her eyes.
Liza woke to pale morning light filtering through the cabin windows and the warmth of Grant’s body beside her. She was curled against his chest, his arm around her, holding her close even in sleep. The fire had burned down to embers, but the cabin was still warm, still safe.
She studied his face in the soft light. The strong jaw covered in dark stubble. The scar that ran along his jawline—she’d traced it with her fingers in the darkness, had kissed it and felt him tremble. The lines around his eyes that spoke of too many years carrying too much weight.
The mouth that could be hard or tender, depending on the moment.
This man had carried her through the forest. Had protected her, cared for her, chosen her. In less than two days, he’d become essential.
His eyes opened, dark and warm as they found hers. “Morning.”
“Morning.” She traced the scar with her finger, gentle. “Does it still hurt?”
“Sometimes. When it’s cold, or when I’m tired.” He caught her hand, brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss to her palm. “But right now, I don’t feel anything but you.”
“Good answer.”
He smiled, slow and easy. “I’ve gotten pretty good at knowing what you want to hear.”
“Is that so?”
“That’s so.” He pulled her closer. “Want me to prove it?”
She did. And he did. And the morning passed in a haze of touch and whispers.
They made breakfast together—or rather, Grant made breakfast while Liza sat at the wooden table and supervised, her ankle elevated on a chair. He heated canned beans and made coffee on the woodstove, and somehow it tasted better than any meal she’d had at a five-star restaurant.
The coffee was strong and bitter, the beans were bland, but sitting across from Grant in the warm cabin with morning light streaming through the windows felt right. Felt like something she could do for the rest of her life and never grow tired of.
“Tell me about summers here,” Liza said, wrapping her hands around the warm mug. “You said you spent them with your uncle’s family?”
Grant’s expression softened with memory.
“Every July and August from the time I was thirteen until I went to college. My parents…they fought a lot. Loud, ugly fights that left the house feeling like a war zone. So they’d pack me off to Uncle Ray’s ranch outside Laurel Valley, and for two months I got to pretend I had a different life. ”
“That must have been hard. Being sent away.”
“At first, yeah. Felt like I was the problem they needed to solve. But Uncle Ray and Aunt Martha, they made me feel wanted. Like I belonged there.” He took a sip of coffee. “And then there was Blaze.”
“Tell me about him. About you two as kids.”
Grant’s mouth curved into a smile. “He was everything I wasn’t.
Confident, fearless, completely comfortable in his own skin.
I was this skinny city kid who didn’t know anything about horses or ranching or surviving in the mountains.
Blaze took one look at me and decided I was his project for the summer. ”
“What did he teach you?”
“Everything. How to ride a horse without falling off. How to fish in the river. How to read the forest—which plants were edible, which tracks belonged to which animals, how to find your way using the stars.” Grant’s voice went soft.
“But more than that, he taught me what it felt like to have a real friend. Someone who had your back no matter what. Someone who didn’t judge you for where you came from or what your parents were like. ”
Liza heard the emotion beneath the words. “You loved him.”
“Like a brother. Still do.” Grant looked at her. “That’s what the O’Haras do. They take you in, make you family, and then they never let you go. Once you’re theirs, you’re theirs forever.”
“Is that what you want? To be theirs?”
“I want to belong somewhere again. To have people who know me, who count on me, who I can count on.” His gaze held hers.
“I want Sunday dinners that are loud and chaotic. I want to coach Little League and help with barn raisings and know my neighbors’ names.
All the things I thought I didn’t care about anymore. ”
“What changed?”
“You.” The word was simple, but the weight behind it was enormous. “Meeting you made me want a future again. Made me want to build something that lasts.”
Liza’s throat tightened. “Grant—”
“Tell me about Aunt Rose,” he said, changing the subject before the emotion could overwhelm them both. “I don’t remember her, I’m sorry to say. What was she really like?”
Liza felt the familiar ache in her chest, but it was softer now. Sweeter. “She was magic. Not literally, but she had this way of making everything feel special. Like making cinnamon rolls at four in the morning was the most important work in the world.
“We stayed in touch after I stopped visiting,” Liza continued, her voice going quieter.
“Emails mostly, sometimes letters when I was somewhere remote. I’d send her photos from my travels—skydiving in New Zealand, the temples in Thailand, that marathon in Vancouver.
She’d write back with recipes and news about the town, always ending with Come visit when you can, Liza girl. ”
Grant heard the shift in her tone. “But you didn’t.”
“I kept meaning to. I’d be in New York thinking ‘next summer.’ Or in Peru thinking ‘after this trip.’ There was always something else, somewhere else pulling me forward.
” Her throat tightened. “I told myself we had time. That I’d make it back for her eightieth birthday, or for Christmas, or just… someday.”
She was quiet for a moment, and Grant waited, letting her find the words.
“The lawyer called three months ago. Died in her sleep. She was gone before I even knew she was sick.” Liza’s voice cracked.
“Fifteen years of emails and photos and promises that ‘next time’ I’d visit.
And she never stopped believing I would.
Every email ended the same way—Come visit when you can.
Like she knew. Like she was giving me all the time I needed, even when she was running out of it herself. ”
Grant’s arm tightened around her. “She knew you loved her.”
“I hope so. But I’ll never know if that was enough.
If she died wondering why I never came back.
” The tears came then, hot and guilty. “I was so busy collecting experiences, proving I was living this big adventurous life, that I missed the one person who actually mattered. And now all I have are emails and regrets and this bakery she left me—probably hoping it would finally bring me home.”
“What’s your best memory of her?”
Liza thought about it, sifting through summers of memories. “There was this one time—I must have been ten or eleven. My parents were in the middle of their divorce, and I was so angry at everything. At them for fighting, at myself for not being able to fix it, at the whole world for being unfair.”
She could still smell the cinnamon and butter, could still feel the cool marble counter beneath her hands.
“Rose sat me down in the bakery after closing and taught me how to make her famous apple pie from scratch. She said that when the world felt out of control, creating something with your own hands could give you back your power. That you might not be able to fix your parents’ marriage, but you could make a beautiful pie. And that had to count for something.”
“Smart woman.”
“She was. And I didn’t appreciate it at the time.
I was so busy trying to be anything except what she was—so busy running from anything that felt like settling—that I didn’t see the gift she was giving me.
” Liza’s voice went thick. “She was teaching me how to build a life. How to create something that mattered. How to put down roots and grow something beautiful.”
Grant reached across the table for her hand. “You see it now.”
“Yeah. I see it now.” She met his eyes. “I think she knew. I think she left me the bakery because she knew someday I’d be ready to stop running. To build something that mattered. To stay.”
“And are you? Ready to stay?”
“I am.” She squeezed his fingers. “Especially now. Especially with you.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, finishing their coffee, watching the play of light through the windows. Outside, a bird called, and the wind whispered through the pines. The world felt very far away.
“There’s a place I want to show you,” Grant finally said. “When this is over and your ankle is healed. A spot by Forgiveness River where the water runs clear over smooth rocks.”
“Tell me about it.”