7. Chapter 7
Mila
Sunday afternoon finds me clutching a container of turtle-shaped sugar cookies that I stayed up until midnight decorating because apparently, I have a strong desire to be liked by the kids in the Tuck family.
I glance at my phone to doublecheck the address before walking up a driveway to a weathered beach house with driftwood wind chimes and a wraparound porch that looks like it was designed for lazy summer evenings.
Jared’s waiting for me on the porch swing. When he spots me, his face lights up and a wide grin stretches across his face.
“You came!” he says, popping up from the swing and bounding down the porch steps to meet me.
He’s obviously glad to see me and excited I’m here, but I have no idea if that’s because he’s a nice, friendly guy, or if means something… more.
“Of course, I did.”
"You made cookies?" he asks, peering at the container.
I feel a blush creeping into my cheeks. "They’re just sugar cookies.”
He raises an eyebrow. “ Just sugar cookies? They’re shaped like sea turtles. You're going to be the hit of the party."
We walk toward the house together, and I can hear voices and laughter floating from the backyard. The screen door flies open before we reach the porch steps, and a small boy with sandy hair and enormous brown eyes barrels toward us like a tiny hurricane.
"Are you the turtle lady?" he asks breathlessly, skidding to a stop in front of me.
"York!" a voice calls from inside the house. "What did we say about using our manners?"
He takes a deep breath and tries again, bouncing slightly on his toes. "Are you the turtle lady, please ?"
I laugh, immediately charmed. "I am indeed a turtle lady. And you must be York."
His whole face lights up. "Jared says you're a sea turtle scientist who rides in kayaks and saves turtle eggs and knows how to find buried treasure!"
I glance at Jared, who shrugs innocently. "I may have embellished slightly."
"I don't know about treasure," I tell York, “But I do know quite a lot about sea turtles."
"That's even better than treasure," York declares with the absolute certainty that only six-year-olds possess. He points at the container of cookies. “What’s that?”
“I made sweet treats.” I kneel so he can see them.
“Whoa!” he exclaims, his eyes wide. “They look like turtles. Cool!”
My heart does a little flip-flop. I’ve clearly earned York’s seal of approval.
Inside the house, Hazel greets me with a warm hug that smells like sunscreen and vanilla extract.
She’s impeccably dressed in a gorgeously tailored jumpsuit.
Within five minutes, I feel like I've been adopted into the Tuck family. Bishop, Jared’s stepdad, is manning the grill in the backyard, wearing an apron that reads "Shell Yeah!
" in glittery letters while Victor, Jared’s biological dad, slaps slices of cheese onto the sizzling burgers.
In the kitchen, Margo, who I recognize as the owner of the Sticks and Stones Boutique, is trying to convince her husband, Tuck, not to add another scoop of sugar to the sweet tea.
Tuck shakes his head, a mixture of exasperation and adoration on his face. “You’ve lived in Georgia for years, Margo. It’s about time you learned how to make sweet tea.”
She rolls her eyes. “People may as well just eat cane sugar straight from the bowl the way you make it.”
"Jared," Hazel calls from the kitchen, "grab those extra chairs from the garage, will you? We're going to need more seating."
"I'll help," I offer automatically.
He nods toward the side of the house. "Come on, Turtle Lady.”
We walk to the garage together, our arms brushing occasionally in a way that sends little electric shocks up my spine.
"She's pulling out all the stops," Jared says, opening the garage door and revealing enough folding chairs to seat a small army. "I think Mom wants you to like us."
"I do," I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it.
He pauses in the act of reaching for a chair stack and looks at me. "You fit here, Mila. You really do."
The words hit me like a warm breeze, unexpected and perfect.
"I missed being in a small town," I admit before I can stop myself. "I forgot how good it feels to belong somewhere."
He hands me a folded chair, and our fingers brush in the exchange. I fight the urge to entwine my fingers in his.
"Maybe you should stay,” he says. “After your research project ends, I mean.”
My breath catches in my throat. There's something in his voice—hope, maybe, or an invitation—that makes my pulse skitter.
But before I can figure out how to respond, York's voice carries across the yard. “Where’s the turtle lady? She made cookies that look like turtles!”
The spell breaks, and we're back to being helpful family barbecue guests carrying folding chairs. But as we walk back toward the house, I can't shake the feeling that something just shifted between us.