Chapter 18 #2
I lean forward slowly, giving her every opportunity to change her mind, but she meets me halfway. When our lips finally touch, it's soft, tentative, and perfect. She tastes like the peppermint tea she was drinking earlier, and her mouth moves against mine with careful exploration.
It's nothing like the desperate, needy kisses of our past. This is steady, sure, and full of promise. When we finally part, she rests her forehead against mine, and we stay like that for a long moment, breathing the same air.
“That was nice,” she whispers, and I can hear the smile in her voice.
“Just nice?”
“Okay, it was pretty amazing.” She laughs, and the sound goes straight to my dick, which is already straining against my zipper just from kissing her.
“Better.”
We don't rush into anything more. We sit together by the fire with her hand in mine, talking quietly about everything and nothing until the logs burn down to embers. When she finally says she should head home, I walk her to her car and kiss her goodnight under the stars.
A few days later, Thanksgiving morning dawns clear and cold, frost painting intricate patterns on the cabin windows.
The days leading up to today have been busy and calm in equal measure, a quiet anticipation building between us.
I wake up earlier than usual, a sense of wholeness coursing through me like electricity.
Today feels significant, like a turning point in whatever story Rhea and I are writing together.
I arrive at her apartment at noon, carrying bags of groceries for my contribution to our meal.
When she answers the door, I step inside and find her kitchen in a state of organized chaos.
She's wearing an apron over jeans and a soft sweater, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, and she looks so fucking beautiful it stops me in my tracks.
“You're early,” she says, but she's smiling as she rises on her toes to kiss my cheek. The casual affection makes my heart race.
“I brought reinforcements.” I hold up bags of groceries. “And I promise to follow all kitchen orders without question.”
“Dangerous promise. I might abuse that power.”
“I'm counting on it.”
We spend the afternoon cooking together, and it's everything I never knew I wanted.
Rhea moves around her small kitchen with confident efficiency while I try not to get in her way.
She tastes everything with the serious consideration of a professional chef, adjusting seasonings with the kind of precision that makes me understand why Emma trusts her to run Mountain Mornings.
“Can you check the sweet potatoes?” she asks, elbow-deep in stuffing preparation.
I open the oven and peer inside. “How do I know if they're done?”
“Poke one with a fork. If it goes in easily, they're ready.”
I follow her instructions, oddly proud when I successfully identify properly cooked sweet potatoes. “Ready for mashing.”
“Perfect timing.”
We work in sync. Our elbows brush as she passes me a spoon. It feels as natural as if we've always shared this rhythm. I hand her ingredients before she asks. She finds the right pan, wordlessly. These everyday moments, quiet proof of what Mrs. Patterson meant, settle between us.
By four o'clock, we've produced a feast that would be impressive even with a full kitchen staff. Turkey, stuffing, mashed sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, and homemade rolls that smell like heaven.
“I can't believe we pulled this off,” Rhea says, surveying our handiwork with satisfaction.
“You pulled this off. I just followed orders.”
“A good order follower, though. You might have a future in kitchen assistance.”
We eat at her small dining table, which she's set with actual cloth napkins and candles that cast a warm glow over everything.
The food is incredible, but it's the conversation that makes the meal perfect.
We talk about everything under the sun, from childhood Thanksgivings and funny tour stories to books she's read and songs I'm working on.
Easy topics that gradually give way to deeper ones.
“What are you most thankful for this year?” she asks as we're finishing our second helpings of everything.
The question could be loaded, but she asks it with genuine curiosity rather than expectation.
“Recovery,” I reply immediately. The contrast between the sharp, hospital-disinfectant smell of rehab and the warm, turkey aroma from today floods my mind, bringing the reality of my journey into focus.
“Getting my life back and getting myself back, but mostly, getting the chance to be here with you, like this.” The layers of past and present sensations intertwine, making my own thankfulness more profound.
She reaches across the table to take my hand. “I'm pleased about your recovery, too, and for the courage to answer your calls, even when I was scared to.”
“What scared you the most?”
“That you hadn't really changed. That I'd fall for the same promises and end up right back where I started.” She pauses, considering. “But also, that you had changed, and I'd have to figure out how to love this new version of you.”
“And? Have you figured it out?” and I hold my breath waiting for her answer.
She looks at me with those eyes that see everything. “I'm working on it, but I think I'm getting the hang of it.”
After dinner, as if drawn by quiet agreement, we both stand and clear our plates from the table. Rhea pours two cups of coffee that she had brewed earlier, and we move to her couch, each carrying our cups to settle in together before the fire.
She curls up against my side, and I wrap my arm around her, marveling at how right this feels. It’s so easy to just exist together without drama or chaos or the constant undercurrent of worry that used to characterize our relationship.
“Gray?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.” Her words strike me like lightning, tearing through every defense I have.
For a moment, fear knots in my stomach. Will she really trust me this time? Doubt crackles between us, fragile and raw, but she loves me. Right now. Present tense. All my broken wholeness is fully seen.
“I love you too.” The words feel both monumental and as natural as breathing. “So much, Rhea. More than I knew how to before.”
She tilts her face up to mine, and when I kiss her this time, it's with the knowledge that we're not just remembering what we used to be. We're discovering what we can become.
When we finally part, she settles back against my chest with a contented sigh.
“Best Thanksgiving ever,” she murmurs.
“Best Thanksgiving ever,” I agree, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
Outside, the sun begins to set over the mountains, bathing them in hues of pink, purple, and orange. Inside Rhea's warm apartment, holding the woman I love while she dozes against my shoulder, I feel like the luckiest man alive.
Sobriety gave me my life back, but Rhea gave me a reason to live it. As the future unfolds—fragile and bright, I let myself hope for a lifetime of sunsets and laughter, every day earned, every joy sharper for the struggle behind it.
* * *
The pounding on my apartment door at four in the morning jolts me out of bed. I peek through the peephole, and four familiar faces grin back at me. Even though I'm annoyed, seeing my friends brings a rush of comfort.
“What fresh hell is this?” I mutter as I unlock the door, finding Case in Point, standing in my hallway, each looking smug, like the world's most attractive early morning intervention team.
“Black Friday! We're going shopping! Where’s Gray?” Parker announces with the enthusiasm of someone who's clearly been awake for hours.
“It's four in the morning,” I protest.
“Exactly!” Cody bounces on his toes. “We have to beat the crowds to the good stuff.”
I stare at them, trying to process this development through my sleep-addled brain. “You guys want to go Black Friday shopping? Since when do any of you shop for anything that isn't delivered directly to your door?”
“Since we realized we have no idea what to get anyone for Christmas, and you're the only person we know who actually enjoys shopping,” Andrew explains.
“Also, we figured dragging you out of bed at an ungodly hour was better than trying to navigate the retail wilderness alone.” Zep grins like a mischievous kid.
“Emma's in on this conspiracy?” My hands fly to my hips in mock frustration.
“Emma planned half of it. She made a list of stores along with their driving directions. Very thorough. Color-coded.” Parker sounds prouder than any man with a crush should.
I accept the thermos gratefully and take a long sip of perfectly prepared coffee. “How long do I have to get ready?”
“Fifteen minutes? We want to hit the first store when it opens at five.” Andrew cringes when he sees my eyes widen in surprise.
“Fifteen minutes? I need at least thirty to look human.” How the hell am I supposed to walk around with these gorgeous men when I’m freshly awake and only have fifteen minutes to prepare?
“You look beautiful,” Gray says softly, his sincerity cutting through my doubts and making my heart skip.
“Flatterer. Twenty minutes, and I'm bringing snacks because you'll all be cranky and impossible by noon if your blood sugar drops,” I negotiate.
Twenty-three minutes later, I squeeze into the middle seat of Andrew’s SUV, wedged between Gray and Zep.
Balancing my coffee in my lap, I fasten my seatbelt and glance around at everyone as Andrew starts the car.
I wonder how my Friday turned into a shopping trip with five guys who shop like sheltered twelve-year-olds.
“So, what's the plan?” I ask as we wind through the dark mountain roads toward the nearest actual shopping center.
“We hit the electronics store first,” Cody explains, consulting what appears to be a hand-drawn map. “Then the department store, then that outdoor gear place, then lunch, then we improvise.”
“What exactly are you looking for?”
“Christmas presents,” Wyatt says unhelpfully.