Chapter 32
Greyson
I slip out of Clara’s room before Kelly and Evan wake up, easing the window down behind me like some kind of delinquent teenager instead of a grown man who just confessed his love.
The bag of breakfast burritos hangs from my fist.
Cold now.
Almost forgotten.
But totally worth it.
I circle around to the front door and knock like a normal person this time.
Clara answers.
Her hair is loose around her shoulders, lips slightly swollen, eyes bright in a way that has nothing to do with sleep.
She’s glowing.
And grinning.
Kelly stands behind her with one eyebrow arched so high it’s practically in her hairline.
“Well, good morning, Mountain Man,” Kelly drawls. “But really, you could’ve just stayed inside.”
Heat creeps up my neck.
I clear my throat.
“Mornin’.”
Clara leans in on her toes and presses a kiss to my mouth.
Soft.
Chaste.
Compared to what we just did, it’s almost innocent.
But I’ll take it.
Hell, I’ll take anything she gives me.
“Guess we didn’t fool anyone,” she whispers against my lips.
“Wasn’t exactly tryin’ to,” I murmur back.
Kelly snorts and heads toward the kitchen just as the phone rings.
She answers on the second ring and within seconds she’s arguing.
I don’t have to try hard to piece it together.
J.T. Lawrence Construction.
Leonard J.T. Lawrence himself, judging by the volume and the sheer audacity of the call.
He’s been the McCrae mill’s biggest client for years.
Kept them afloat when they were expanding.
Throws his weight around like he owns the damn mountain.
He’s not a bad guy.
But calling Kelly at home?
That’s crossing a line.
But it’s not my fight.
Clara moves around the kitchen like she’s been here her whole life, unbothered by the noise behind her.
She unwraps the burritos, reheats them in a pan, slices the muffins and toasts them in butter like she’s running a five-star breakfast service.
“I thought you couldn’t cook.”
“I can’t,” she corrects me. “This is reheating. I can reheat like a motherfucking champ.”
“Damn straight you can, Trouble,” I reply and kiss her quick.
Then, I turn on the electric kettle and dig through the cabinet for a tea bag that isn’t fruit flavored.
“This is cozy,” she says softly.
I look at her across the small kitchen—sunlight hitting her hair, sleeves pushed up, humming under her breath.
It is.
Cozy.
My grin spreads without permission.
Then a small human hurricane barrels in.
“Hi, Greyson! Morning, Clara! Can I have some orange juice?”
Evan’s hair is sticking up on one side, pajamas mismatched, eyes still heavy with sleep.
“Sure can, bud,” I tell him, grabbing a glass.
Clara hands him a dish with half a muffin on it like she’s done it a thousand times.
Like she might do someday for our kids.
My heart squeezes tight inside my chest.
God, I want that. For the first time in my life, I want it all.
Kelly finally ends the call with a sharp, “No, Mr. Lawrence, you can’t bully me into breaking contract terms. Goodbye.”
She exhales and joins us.
The four of us crowd around the small table—burritos, buttered muffins, orange juice, tea.
It’s messy.
Unplanned.
Normal.
And something in my chest shifts.
I’ve eaten alone in my cabin for years.
This? It feels different.
Feels like something I didn’t know I wanted until it was in front of me.
“So,” I say casually, though I’m very aware of Clara beside me, “what are your plans for the day?”
She dabs her mouth with a napkin.
“I have a FaceTime call with my investment broker at noon, actually.”
There’s a flicker of self-consciousness in her expression.
Like she expects me to judge her for having that kind of life.
For being connected to money and markets and things that don’t involve sawdust.
“Sounds important,” I say simply.
Her shoulders ease a little.
“It’s just housekeeping stuff,” she adds.
I nod. “Alright. How about I come by and pick you up for dinner at six?”
I don’t phrase it like a question. Not exactly.
I’m not trying to be controlling.
Just certain.
Because she said she loves me. And I love her right back.
She studies me for half a second, like she’s measuring something.
Then she smiles.
“That would be perfect.”
Perfect.
The word lands heavy and warm in my chest.
I finish my tea and stand, leaning down to press a kiss to her temple this time.
Slower. Intentional.
“I’ll see you at six,” I tell her.
As I step out onto the porch, I realize something.
This doesn’t feel like a whirlwind.
It doesn’t feel reckless.
It feels steady.
Real.
And for the first time in a long damn time—I’m not afraid of tomorrow.