Chapter 19
Harmony
The smell of coffee reached me before the light did: rich, dark, and familiar.
It sliced through the leftover chill in the room, warm enough to coax me out of sleep but not strong enough to chase away the memory of last night.
My fingers tightened around the blanket, just for a second, grounding myself.
Maple Valley.
Eric’s family home.
Safety… or the closest thing I’d felt to it in years.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed.
The floorboards were cold against my feet, the kind of cold that always followed a storm.
Pale light filtered through the curtains, soft and gray.
My reflection ghosted in the window, my hair tangled, dark circles under my eyes, but less panic than before. Less… haunted.
Downstairs, I heard a blur of voices, dishes clinking, the hum of pipes.
Real, lived-in sounds. The kinds that used to fill the home I had before everything went wrong.
I wrapped myself in a sweater and slipped on a pair of flannel pants, then followed the warmth into the kitchen.
Sandy stood at the stove in a thick cardigan, stirring something that smelled faintly of maple and cinnamon.
Pierre sat at the table with his glasses low on his nose, scanning the local paper.
“Well, good morning, sweetheart,” Sandy said, smiling. “Coffee? Strong? Sweet?”
“Both,” I murmured.
She laughed softly and poured me a mug.
“You sleep all right?” she asked.
I nodded, but Pierre’s eyes lifted over the newspaper, sharp in a way that made me wonder if he heard me come downstairs last night.
He folded the paper. “Eric’s been out since dawn,” he said. “Checking the foundation near the creek with the contractors. That boy’s determined to outrun winter.”
I moved toward the window. Outside, mist clung low over the orchard. The leaves were a mix of amber, rust, and gold. And there was Eric, hauling lumber like he’d been doing it his entire life. Even from here, he looked steady. Rooted. A vibration buzzed in my hand, and I looked down at my phone.
System alert: Failed login attempt — 3:17 a.m.
The blood froze in my veins. I hadn’t had a message like this.
. .in I couldn’t remember how long. One attempt.
Wrong passcode. Someone had tried to get in.
I flicked the notification away before Sandy could turn from the stove.
Old reflexes. Old skills. Ones I tried not to use anymore.
What on earth was going on? Who was trying to log into my accounts?
Pierre tapped his tablet. “Noah updated the Main Street camera feeds last night. He said the festival committee wanted tighter coverage with tourists coming in.”
The words sat wrong in my stomach. Noah had been everywhere lately, from Main Street to the square, even stopping by Sandy’s shop with vendor lists.
People trusted him easily. Pierre especially, but with my upbringing I was taught to never trust, especially a handsome guy with a slippery smile.
I didn’t comment. I stayed quiet, mostly because I was still irked by the failed log in attempt.
Who would try to access my old channels?
Olivier and Nico didn’t seem that sophisticated, although a lot could’ve changed in the last eight years.
After breakfast, I borrowed one of Sandy’s scarves and stepped outside. The cold nipped at my nose. The storm had left everything slick and quiet, the world scrubbed clean.
Eric looked up as I approached, breath fogging in the morning air.
“You didn’t have to come out,” he called. “It’s freezing.”
“I’ve survived worse,” I replied.
Much worse. Even if no one here knew it.
He grinned, brushing sawdust off his glove. “Yeah? You sure about that?”
“Pretty sure.” I grinned.
He nodded toward the staked outline on the ground. “This’ll be the house. Small. Close to the orchard. Something that finally feels like mine.”
I stepped closer, boots sinking into soft mud. “It’s beautiful here. Peaceful.”
He gave me a soft, searching look. “You could have that too.”
I laughed under my breath. “Peace and I don’t get along. We tend to ruin each other.”
“I don’t believe that,” he said quietly.
The wind carried a handful of leaves between us. For a moment, it felt like the orchard was holding its breath. We walked the rows in near silence. When I slipped in a muddy patch, his hand shot out, steadying me. His fingers curled around my waist. A warm, grounding touch.
“Still clumsy,” he murmured.
“Still bossy,” I shot back.
But his thumb brushed my hip before he let go. And the warmth lingered. I wanted to tell him about the message but something was holding me back, and I knew exactly what it was.
By evening, the house glowed with lamplight and the smell of roasted chicken. Dinner buzzed with laughter, Pierre teasing Sandy about her cooking, Asher dropping by and leaving muddy tracks everywhere. It felt… normal. Like a life borrowed from someone else’s story.
After dinner, Sandy nudged my shoulder.
“You’ve got a good man looking out for you,” she said.
“He’s not mine.” Although, I wished he was.
“I didn’t say he was.” She smiled gently. “But you’d be lucky if he was.”
Her words sank deep, knocking something loose in my chest. The place where my mother’s warmth still lived in memories: her humming while we baked, the smell of lemon tarts, her teasing me about licking the bowl.
Then the memory of the crash. Of the police saying it was an accident. Of Marcel’s rage.
Of the whispers that followed. I stepped onto the porch to clear the tightness in my throat. The air was crisp, the orchard shimmering with frost. A thin ribbon of mist drifted through the trees. Winter was coming early and my life was unraveling faster than I could blink.
Behind me, the door opened softly. Eric stepped out, hair damp from a shower, wearing a charcoal thermal shirt and flannel pants. He handed me a mug of tea, fingers brushing mine.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
He sank beside me, shoulders barely touching. “Cold?”
“Always.”
He looked out over the orchard. “Becket said there’s talk of a hearing next month.”
My heart stopped.
“A hearing?”
“For Marcel’s appeal,” he said softly. “Nothing official yet. But if it gets approved…”
My throat tightened. Marcel out of prison meant danger wasn’t coming, it was already here. And whoever had left that thistle in my loft was part of it.
“I’m tired,” I whispered. “Not the kind that sleep fixes. The kind that comes from running.”
“You don’t have to run anymore,” he murmured.
“How do you know?” I watched the lines of his face, his square jaw, the depth in his coal eyes looking for an answer.
His gaze met mine, steady and fierce. “Because you’re not facing this alone.”
“And if I don’t know how to stop running?” It was the honest truth.
His hand covered mine—warm, solid, and patient. “Then let me show you.”
My breath hitched, something fragile and terrified opening in my chest.
“I don’t want to be scared anymore,” I whispered.
“You don’t have to be.” His voice was raspy and soft and filled with so much promise.
He leaned in slowly, giving me every chance to pull away.
I didn’t. I couldn’t if I wanted to, because I had always been drawn to him with an intensity that terrified me.
His kiss was soft at first, then deepened like every unspoken thing between us finally had a place to land.
His thumb brushed away a tear I hadn’t felt fall.
The porch light glowed warm behind us as he took my hand and guided me inside, the quiet house wrapping around us like a confession.
For the first time in years, maybe ever, I wasn’t afraid of what came next.