Chapter 27 #2
Then she opens her eyes and balances the slice in one hand while counting off on her fingers. “I have you—”
“Pretty sure you already had me then,” I confess. Because it’s the truth. She had me the moment I laid eyes on her.
Hattie smiles, but she doesn’t stop counting. “I have figured some things out—like what I want a career to look like.”
I serve myself a slice but give her my full attention. Hattie and I talked a little more last night on the phone, and she told me how the time at Summit House had been good for her, but she hasn’t shared any details about what comes next.
She keeps counting. “I’m learning how to better communicate boundaries with others—especially my family.”
Confidence and resolve. That’s what I find in her face.
The swell of pride in my chest is sudden and fierce.
Then she shrugs, but it’s not the shrug of uncertainty. She looks happy. “I don’t know. I just… feel more like me.”
“Feeling more like you.” I nod. “I like the sound of that. You being my favorite person and all.”
“I-I’m still your favorite person?”
I set down my half-eaten pizza and grab her hand. “Hell, fucking, yes.”
She wipes her mouth with her free hand, eyes searching mine. “Are you still mad?”
The knot of tension in my chest—this residual fear that she’ll disappear on me again—gives.
“No.” I shake my head hard. “I just don’t want to lose you.”
I might be able to survive losing the farm, but I don’t want to think about facing that future without her.
The joy I feel just watching her eat a slice of pizza? It’s a hell of a coping mechanism.
“No chance. You’re stuck with me.” She leans in, kisses me hard on the mouth, and pulls back before I can grab her and take it further. “I love you, Beck.”
And hearing that? That will never get old.
“I love you, too. Like crazy love.”
I expect the admission to make her smile, but she studies me instead.
“You don’t look as happy as I feel.”
Wincing, I settle a hand on her knee. “Hattie, honey, that’s got nothing to do with you and everything to do with this.” I wave my other hand to indicate the farm and how my career and calling are about to go up in smoke.
“I don’t think you should sell the farm,” she says softly.
I sigh, then pick up another slice to stall. I offer it to her before taking one for myself.
But even around a mouthful, Hattie has plenty to say. “You’re not happy now just thinking about selling,” she says, all certainty. “You’ll be even less happy if you do it.”
I snort. She has a point. But what else can I do?
“You’re right.” I admit. “I don’t think I’ll ever be happy about it.”
She holds my gaze for a long moment. She knows what I’m up against, and I can tell it hurts her to see me struggle over it.
I squeeze her knee. “You get it.” I clear my throat. “That means a lot. I’m glad you’re with me.”
“I’m glad I’m here too. I’m sorry I went away when things were so hard for you.” Now it’s her turn to wince. “Thinking about that makes me feel awful.”
I shake my head and let my touch travel beneath her knee. “You’re back. That’s all that matters.”
Guilt still hangs on her shoulders, so I give her leg a gentle squeeze, lean in, and press a hard kiss to her mouth.
When I pull back, she’s blinking like a flash bulb just popped. Like my kiss cleared her cookies.
Good.
“Enough about the farm. Tell me everything about these career plans.”
So she does.
She tells me about the mornings spent in career counseling, the assessments she took that confirmed things she knew instinctively about herself.
That her focus and productivity are better later in the day.
That the clear, concrete, step-by-step instructions on a sewing pattern are both centering and invigorating for her.
That the more control she has over her environment, the more creative she is.
She tells me—with a sense of triumph in her voice—how liberating these sessions were.
How they gave her practical recommendations like prioritizing her creativity and using supports for her executive functioning.
Outsourcing whenever she can. How they normalized traits like not being a morning person.
Like doing things differently from other people.
And how that healed some old wounds in her.
I have to swallow back the simmering anger when she tells me about the shame she’d carried for so long because she wasn’t like everyone else in her family and couldn’t fit into their mold.
She tells me about discovering Viv Couture, and the magic and community that a place like it offers. She tells me her ideas about opening such a store. About how the owner, Vivian, encouraged her to finish her degree.
And the whole time, the energy that’s rippling off her is like a heat signature.
Damn.
She’s excited. She’s impassioned.
And it’s fucking beautiful.
“That’s killer, Hattie. I’ll help however you need,” I promise, already picturing this future, knowing she’ll want to set up shop in Lafayette, not here in Carencro, and wondering for the first time in my life if I might be able to see myself living somewhere else.
Somewhere other than right here.
The thought of losing this place is still like a flamethrower to the chest.
But building a future with Hattie might be the shield I need.
Hattie takes the empty pizza box and leans over, setting it on the open tailgate of the truck. And then she proceeds to blow my mind.
“That’s how I feel about the farm. And your distillery plans.
” She shakes her head, eyes blazing. “You shouldn’t give those up, Beck.
If you can believe in a neurospicy girl like me opening a business, you should at least believe in yourself.
Shit, you’ve got way more experience to fall back on.
You’ve got experience in your DNA. It’s kinda dumb to think that the worst could happen and you wouldn’t be able to deal. ”
Even if I know it can’t change things, her belief in me triggers a full-body bolt of love. And, holy fuck, desire.
I wrap my arms around her and haul her to me.
“Christ, I missed you.”