Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
TYLER
Tyler was just finishing up cleaning the kitchen after dinner, wiping down the counters while the last of the steam from the oven faded into the air.
He’d made Emma’s favorite: chicken pot pie with a flaky crust, carrots, and potatoes, and that creamy gravy that made the whole house feel warmer.
It was the same recipe his mother had made when he was a kid, minus the deli rotisserie chicken he’d shredded to save time, because his life now involved fewer leisurely afternoons and more “how fast can I get dinner on the table because homework took too long?”
The thought of his mom nudged something in him, and he paused with the dish towel in his hands.
He needed to check in with his parents and see if they’d found a realtor yet.
He still couldn’t quite believe they were actually planning on moving to Maple Falls within the next six months.
Most New Englanders headed south when they retired—away from blustery winters and black ice and cold that made your bones protest just a bit every morning—but not his parents.
With his dad retiring from the post office and his mom from the elementary school, they wanted to spend more time with Emma.
Tyler was grateful. The more people in Emma’s life, the better. He’d taken a chance moving here with her, but he’d been right, Maple Falls was the place for them.
“Whoa now, careful,” Tyler said as Emma balanced her plate on top of her glass like she was stacking fine china for a circus act.
“It’s okay, I’ve got it,” Emma declared, walking a bit too fast toward the sink.
She definitely did not have it. She had all the grace of a baby giraffe on roller skates, and the glass was already tilting at an angle that promised disaster. Tyler lunged in before anything could break.
“You absolutely do not got this,” he said, taking the plate out of her hands. “How about you get the silverware instead?”
Emma rolled her eyes with deep, long-suffering patience, as if Tyler were the child in this scenario, and she was the weary parent. “Fine,” she said. “But then can I be excused? My class group is doing a video call in five minutes.”
Tyler snorted, rinsing the plate under warm water. “When I was eight, meeting my friends meant riding my bike to the end of the street and yelling until someone’s mom told us to stop.”
“I’m so glad I wasn’t born before the internet,” Emma declared, dropping the silverware into the sink with a clatter. Then she skipped down the hallway toward her room, already calling out a cheerful, “Thanks for dinner!” before he heard the familiar chime of her school app logging on.
Tyler finished loading the dishwasher, wiped down the counter, and then let himself sit for a moment in the quiet kitchen, listening to the muffled sound of Emma’s voice drifting down the hall.
It was full of giggles and dramatic storytelling as she and her friends recounted the last five hours since they’d seen each other at school, as if an entire lifetime had passed in the span of one afternoon.
Tyler loved this part of his life—the simplicity of Emma’s homework spread out on the table, the calm satisfaction of a clean kitchen after a good meal.
He loved that, for all the chaos single-dad life could bring, there was also a kind of predictability to it, a steadying rhythm.
The biggest crisis most nights was whether Emma remembered to brush her teeth or take out her lunch box for tomorrow.
He spent the next part of his evening wrapped up in domestic chores, laundry, straightening the living room, packing Emma’s lunch, getting her ready for bed, and getting everything ready to do it all over again tomorrow.
When he was finished, he checked in on work. His boss had emailed earlier with a “quick question” that, in publishing language, usually meant an entire new list of demands. He had a manuscript to review, deadlines to hit, and more work than time.
Two hours later, he took a break, even though he had more work to tackle.
But instead of getting back to it, after checking on Emma—blanket tucked under her chin, llama pajamas peeking out, her hair fanned across the pillow—Tyler retreated back to his office and sat down at his desk like a responsible adult.
He reopened the laptop. And then, like muscle memory, his fingers betrayed him.
Two clicks and the indie fiction site loaded. AfterHoursAuthor’s page. A new update posted minutes ago.
Tyler stared at the title, a small, helpless laugh catching in his throat. Of course. Of course it would appear now, when the house was quiet and his brain was exhausted enough to want something easy and comforting and indulgent.
He told himself he’d just skim.
But the chapter was… a lot. Explicit in that way that made his body go hot before his mind could catch up, like his skin had read it faster than his eyes. He got three paragraphs in and already his pulse had kicked up, heat pooling low and sharp. He hadn’t reacted this way in a long time.
It would have been easier before to let the fantasy stay safely on the screen. To let anonymous words scratch a private itch without consequence.
But tonight, his mind didn’t stay on the page. It went to Robyn.
Robyn in the bookstore aisle, lips warm and sure against his, hands clutching his shirt like she needed him to be real. Robyn’s quick, startled laugh. Robyn’s eyes when she got anxious and tried to pretend she wasn’t.
Jesus.
Tyler closed the tab, feeling very unsure of what to do with himself. His body burned for Robyn, for release. He took a steadying breath and picked up his phone, trying to clear his head, when he remembered the text from Robyn two hours ago.
He opened the photo once again.
It was Elsie’s shot. Tyler and Robyn were outside the inn, the sun caught in her hair, his hand at her back—without him even remembering doing it—both of them turned toward the metal canister like they were sharing a secret.
The photo shouldn’t have looked charged. It was wholesome, technically. Historical-town-mystery wholesome.
Except Tyler could feel the moment in it—the way he’d stepped closer, the way Robyn had looked up at him with that quick, bright vulnerability, the way his body had already started to treat her like his without permission. And now it was on her Instagram. For anyone to see.
He sat with that for a moment, waiting for the panic to arrive. The instinct to protect Emma and to keep whatever was growing between him and Robyn safe, secret.
Slow, he reminded himself, even as desire burned low and relentless through him.
But God help him, slow was getting harder by the day. Soon, wanting her was going to outrun whatever control he had left.