Chapter Seven
Paris
The drive to Asheville took longer than it should have, because I took my sweet time behind the wheel just to extend our time alone.
Like yesterday, Myles insisted on driving, but this time I stood my ground.
In the end, he had no choice but to relent.
By the time we pull into the long gravel driveway of my family home, the sun is beginning to set.
As the house comes into view, I feel my stomach twist into knots.
Not from hunger, but nerves. No matter how much time passes, there’s something about coming home that makes me feel like I’m seventeen again.
The truck groans to a stop, and before I can even take the keys out of the ignition, the front door flies open.
“Paris!”
Mom rushes out, arms flung wide. Her hair’s shorter than the last time I saw her, a soft brown bob streaked with silver, and her apron is dusted with flour like she’s been baking all day. She meets me halfway, pulling me into one of those hugs that squeeze the air right out of me.
“Hi, Mom,” I mumble against her shoulder, trying not to get emotional.
She pulls back, holding me at arm’s length, her eyes bright and wet. “You’re still driving this old thing?” she teases, patting the hood of the truck.
I force a laugh. “She gets me where I need to go.”
But my chest tightens. I keep driving the truck because it’s the only thing left to remind me of Tonia. And even if Mom doesn’t say it, we both feel the weight of grief hanging between us. I paste on a smile before it drags me under.
Dad’s slower coming down the steps, but the second I see him, my heart warms. His salt-and-pepper hair is thinning at the top, his glasses sliding down his nose, and that same easy grin spreads across his face.
“There’s my girl,” he says, wrapping me in a hug that smells like aftershave and sawdust.
“I missed you, Dad.”
“I missed you too, kiddo.” He pulls back, and for the first time notices the man standing just behind me. His brows rise slightly, curiosity sparking in his brown eyes.
Mom’s gaze darts to Myles, then back to me, and I can see the wheels turning before she smiles slyly. “And you brought company.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Uh—”
“Boyfriend?” Dad guesses, extending a hand toward Myles.
I should correct them. I should tell them the truth.
But the word “bodyguard” feels wrong on my tongue.
That’s not what Myles is anymore. And I know he agreed to be my fake boyfriend, but nothing about what we have feels fake.
I don’t know what to call him, what I can say that won’t open a door to questions I don’t want to answer.
So I don’t say anything.
Myles takes Dad’s hand in his big, scarred one. “Myles Carter,” he says simply, his deep voice smooth, steady.
Dad nods in approval. Mom beams like she’s just won a bet. I force myself to smile, even as my pulse kicks up.
“Come inside,” Mom says, clapping her hands together. “Dinner’s almost ready. Everyone’s waiting.”
“Everyone?” I repeat, unease prickling at the back of my neck.
And then I see him.
Sitting at the table in the dining room when we walk in—Danny Meyers.
Older, broader, his boyish features replaced with something rougher.
His once-bright green eyes are dimmer now, a little too sharp, a little too calculating.
The easy smile I remember is gone, replaced with a smirk that feels… off.
“Paris.” His voice is deeper too, but the way he says my name makes my skin crawl. “Been a long time.”
I freeze for half a second, but then I feel Myles’s hand brushing lightly against my back, grounding me. Just that small touch is enough to steady me.
“Danny,” I manage, sliding into a chair across from him. Myles takes the seat beside me, and I swear the air shifts around us.
Mom bustles around with the turkey, Dad opens a bottle of wine, and the table fills with mashed potatoes, green beans, cranberry sauce—the works. Thanksgiving, in all its glory.
Danny leans forward, elbows on the table. “Your mom didn’t mention you were bringing someone home. Didn’t think you’d ever settle down.” His gaze flicks to Myles, sizing him up. “Guess miracles happen.”
I stiffen, but Myles doesn’t so much as blink. He carves into the turkey like Danny’s not even there.
Mom clears her throat. “Danny doesn’t have family in town anymore, so we thought we’d invite him to join us. Nobody should be alone on Thanksgiving.”
“Of course,” I say quickly, forcing my lips into a smile. But I can feel Danny’s eyes lingering too long, his smirk widening every time I shift in my seat.
Myles notices. I know he does, because his hand finds mine under the table, his grip firm, possessive. My heart skips, and I squeeze back, grateful.
The rest of dinner passes in a blur of chatter; Dad telling stories, Mom fussing over everyone’s plates, Danny cracking crude jokes that make my skin prickle.
Myles’s steady presence keeps me anchored through it all.
Every time Danny pushes, Myles’s thumb strokes my palm, reminding me I’m not alone.
When the clink of silverware dies down, and the last crumbs of pumpkin pie are cleared away, Mom claps her hands lightly. “Alright, everyone. Into the living room. Fire’s waiting.”
We shuffle away from the table, Danny dragging his feet behind us. The fire crackles, throwing shadows across the walls as we all settle into the couches and armchairs. Dad pours coffee, Mom curls up with her tea, and for a moment it feels…good. Normal.
Then Mom leans forward with that mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “Tradition time. Who wants to start us off?”
Dad clears his throat, ever the steady one. “I’ll go first. I’m thankful for another year with my family, for good health, and for the roof over our heads.” He pats Mom’s knee, smiling. “And for your sweet potato casserole, hon. Best one yet.”
Mom beams, her cheeks pink. “Oh, stop. Alright, my turn. I’m thankful for…all of you.” Her voice wavers, eyes glistening as she looks toward the old truck parked outside. “And for the memories of the ones who couldn’t be here tonight.”
My throat tightens at the obvious shadow of Tonia’s name left unsaid. I squeeze my hands together in my lap.
Danny shifts, clearly impatient. “Guess I’m next. I’m thankful for…opportunities.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Not everyone gets second chances in life. I plan to make the most of mine.”
Mom gives him a polite smile, though her lips press a little too tightly. Dad sips his coffee.
Then all eyes turn to Myles.
He sits forward, forearms braced on his knees, expression unreadable. When he finally speaks, his voice is steady, deep. “I’m thankful for Paris.”
My breath catches.
Mom gasps softly, her hand flying to her chest. “Oh, that’s beautiful.”
Dad grins, nodding his approval. “Good man.”
Danny snorts under his breath, but no one pays him any mind.
I force myself to swallow, my throat dry as sand. My hands twist in my lap. Everyone’s waiting. It’s my turn.
“I, um…” My voice trembles at first, but I push through. “I’m thankful for being home. For family. And for the people in my life who…who make me feel seen.”
The words wobble, but they’re true. I risk a glance at Myles, and his gaze is still there, steady, burning. I have to look away before I combust.
Danny mutters something under his breath, but Mom shushes him with a look.
Dad clears his throat and pushes himself up from his chair. “Well, before I turn in, I should take care of that loose board on the porch and check the gutters. Myles, Danny, you both mind giving me a hand?”
Myles leans back, casual, but his gaze drags over me one last time before he answers. “Sure.”
That look lingers, heavy enough to leave my insides fluttering, before he follows Dad and Danny out the door. The night air slips in for a second before the door clicks shut.
Mom waits until they’re gone before scooting closer on the couch. Her smile is knowing, mischievous. “So…” She draws the word out like she’s savoring it. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing someone home.”
I blink, caught off guard. “I wasn’t—he’s not—”
“Not what?” Mom tilts her head, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Because the way he looks at you? That man is smitten.”
My cheeks burn hotter. I grab a cushion and hug it to my chest like a shield. “Mom…”
“What?” She grins, leaning in. “You can tell me. How long have you two been—”
“Mom,” I cut in, desperate. “Please.”
Her grin softens, but she pats my knee. “Fine, fine. I just… I’m glad. You deserve someone steady. Someone who makes you feel safe.”
The words hit too close, and my chest aches. Safe. If only she knew.
Before I can scramble for a response, Myles’s phone buzzes against the side table. I wouldn’t normally glance at it, but the screen lights up and my stomach twists.
His lock screen isn’t a photo of mountains or some army insignia. It’s the image of a single red rose.
The same roses that have been showing up on my doorstep for weeks.
My breath catches in my throat. My hand moves before I can stop it, swiping the screen. No code. Just his home screen staring back at me.
And it’s worse.
It’s me. A picture of me, walking down the street, bags in hand, hair messy, caught off guard. Not a selfie. Not anything I ever posed for.
A cold chill ripples through me. My hands tremble as I open his photos. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Me at the café. Me in class. Me unlocking my door. Me asleep in the lobby waiting for a package.
The roses. The shadow in my room. The feeling of eyes on me.
All of it.
The front door opens again. Laughter carries in as Dad and Myles step inside, Danny trailing behind. Myles looks relaxed, almost at ease until his eyes find me. Until he sees his phone clutched in my hand.
“What is this?” My voice cracks, sharp and broken. I shove the phone at him, the screen glaring between us. “What the hell is this, Myles?”
Dad freezes, confusion etched across his face. Danny perks up, interested for the first time all night.
Myles’s face drains of color. “Paris—”
“You’ve been stalking me.” The words burn my throat. “The roses. The texts. It was you.”
“I can explain.” His voice is low, urgent, hands raised slightly, like I’m about to bolt.
“Explain?” My laugh is harsh, strangled. “How do you explain this? How do you explain making me feel safe when you were the one I needed protecting from?”
His jaw clenches. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”
“But you did!” My voice cracks again. My chest aches like it’s caving in. “You lied. You made me trust you. You made me—” My throat closes before I can finish. I throw his phone at him and he catches it before it can hit him in the face.
Something in his eyes fractures, raw and desperate. “Paris—”
“Leave.” It comes out a whisper, then stronger. “Leave, Myles. Now.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just stares at me, like maybe if he holds on long enough I’ll change my mind. But then he nods once, stiff, and turns for the door.
I watch him go. And even as fury burns through me, something deeper hurts worse.
My heart, breaking piece by piece.