Chapter 1 #2
“Harley Matthews. Professional document destroyer.”
His handshake was firm, his smile transforming his entire face. “What brings you out in this biblical deluge, Harley Matthews?”
“Studying. Social work certification exam tomorrow.” I gestured to my soaked backpack. “Though my notes might be swimming by now.”
“Social work?” Interest flickered in his eyes. “My mother always said I should have been a therapist instead of an architect. Apparently, I ask too many questions.”
“Architect? That explains the fancy drawings I just ruined.”
We talked for three hours. About his firm’s focus on sustainable urban housing. About my passion for helping foster kids navigate the system. About how we both preferred breakfast for dinner, and could quote entire episodes of The Office. The rain stopped, but neither of us noticed.
When we finally left, standing awkwardly outside the café, he asked for my number. I gave it, certain he was being polite. But then my phone chimed before I’d even reached the corner.
Dinner tonight? I know a place that serves excellent breakfast.
The memory dissolves as Skyler sets our plates on the kitchen table. I snap the lids onto our lunch containers and join him.
“What’s on your mind?” he asks, buttering his toast. “You had that look.”
“Just thinking about the day we met. The great coffee flood.”
He grins. “Best ruined presentation of my life.”
“Your client might disagree.”
“Worked out fine. They loved the revised design I stayed up all night creating.” He takes a bite of his eggs. “Though I did go through about twelve espressos to finish it.”
“My contribution to your architectural brilliance.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a moment, the rhythm of our forks against plates mixing with the rain outside.
“Henderson project’s going to be challenging,” Skyler says eventually. “Dad’s pushing for changes that will drive us over budget.”
I hear the tension in his voice. Robert Thompson isn’t just Skyler’s father; he’s also the primary investor in several of his architectural firm’s largest projects. A complicated dynamic that I’ve watched Skyler navigate with mixed success.
“What kind of changes?”
“Higher-end materials, more elaborate design elements.” He sighs. “Things the client hasn’t even asked for.”
“Because, heaven forbid, a Thompson project look merely excellent instead of extravagant.” The words slip out before I can catch them.
Skyler’s mouth tightens slightly. “He has his standards.”
“I know.” I reach for his hand. “But it’s your design. Your vision.”
“Collaborative vision,” he corrects gently. “That’s how firms work.”
“There’s collaborative, and there’s dictatorial. You should stand your ground if you believe in your design.”
He squeezes my fingers. “What about you? That custody case today?”
I let him change the subject, recognizing the delicate balance we maintain around discussions of his father. “Yeah. Mom’s been in recovery for eight months. Dad’s fighting it, but his new girlfriend has substance issues.”
“The system’s going to do what’s best for the kid, right?” Skyler’s faith in institutions is one of his most endearing and frustrating qualities.
I shake my head. “The system’s going to do whatever overworked case workers, underpaid judges, and overwhelmed foster families can manage. ‘Best’ rarely enters the equation.”
“You’re making it better, though.” His certainty warms me. “One case at a time.”
“I’m trying.” I push my eggs around my plate. “Sometimes it feels like bailing out the ocean with a teaspoon.”
“Teaspoons add up.” He reaches across the table to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my cheek. “You’re making a difference, Harl. Those kids are lucky to have you.”
This is what I love most about him: his ability to see hope where I see only challenges. To believe in both the system and in me, sometimes more than I believe in myself.
“Thanks.” I lean into his touch. “I needed that today.”
We finish breakfast, trading sections of the newspaper, commenting on headlines and reading funny bits aloud. Outside, the city wakes fully, traffic sounds increasing as morning commuters brave the rain.
Skyler stands, collecting our plates. “I should get dressed. Henderson meeting won’t wait.”
I rise as well, catching his wrist before he turns away. “Hey. You’re brilliant. Don’t let your dad make you doubt that.”
Gratitude mixed with resignation flickers across his face. I understand then that he’s already conceded whatever battle awaits him with his father—and that realization settles uncomfortably in my chest.
I straighten his collar, though he hasn’t dressed for work yet. A symbolic gesture of support. “Knock ‘em dead.”
“Planning to.” He kisses my forehead. “Even the dragon.”
By dragon, we both know he means Robert Thompson. The name hangs between us, unspoken but present. Skyler disappears down the hallway to shower, and I’m left with dirty dishes and a nagging worry that some dragons can’t be slain, only appeased.
And appeasement always comes at a cost.
Warm soapy water fills the sink. The shower hisses to life, and I use the moment of privacy to call my dad.
His voice fills the kitchen after two rings, gruff and familiar as worn leather.
I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder, hands deep in dishwater, and feel myself smile despite the lingering unease from our breakfast conversation.
“There’s my girl,” Dad says. “Caught you before work?”
“Just cleaning up breakfast.” I scrub at egg residue on Skyler’s plate. “Court day, so I’m moving slow.”
“The Johnson case?” His memory for my work details always touches me. Former construction foreman, Jake Matthews, might look rough around the edges, but he listens better than most trained therapists.
“Yeah. Mom’s making progress, but these cases are never straightforward.”
“Like that Sullivan situation last year.” He chuckles. “You were ready to adopt those kids yourself.”
“Would have if their aunt hadn’t stepped up.” I rinse a mug, watching coffee grounds swirl down the drain. “How’s Maria?”
“Repainting the guest room. Again.” The affectionate exasperation in his voice makes me smile. My stepmom’s perpetual home improvement projects drive him crazy in ways he secretly loves. “Says the last color wasn’t ‘welcoming enough’ for when you visit this weekend.”
“We’re still coming,” I confirm. “Skyler requested Saturday off weeks ago.”
“Good, because Maria’s already planning the menu.” A pause, then his tone shifts to mock seriousness. “So, have you picked out the flowers yet, or are you still pretending you don’t care about that stuff?”
I laugh, the sound echoing in our empty kitchen. “Dad, the wedding’s still four months away.”
“Which, according to your sister, means you’re practically walking down the aisle naked with no plan.” He mimics Lily’s dramatic tone perfectly. “Apparently these things require CIA-level strategy.”
“Lily would know. She’s changed her hypothetical wedding plans six times since high school, and she’s not even dating anyone.”
“Your sister contains multitudes,” Dad says gravely. “Most of them loud.”
I set a clean plate in the drying rack. “We’ll figure out flowers this weekend if it’ll make you both happy.”
“And the menu? Maria’s got suggestions.”
“I’m sure she does.” I smile, picturing my stepmom with her ever-present notebook of ideas. “We’ll discuss everything when we’re there, I promise.”
“Good.” He clears his throat in that way that signals a subject change. “Your mom called yesterday. Wants to know if she can bring that guy she’s seeing to the wedding.”
I sigh. “Kevin? They’ve been together, like, what, three weeks?”
“Four, apparently. That’s practically common-law marriage in Carol-land.”
My mother’s revolving door of relationships has been a constant since she left when I was twelve. Dad never speaks ill of her, a kindness I’ve tried to emulate.
“Tell her it’s fine. At this rate, we’ll have more guests than venue capacity.”
“Speaking of guests,” Dad says casually. “Are Skyler’s parents joining any of these planning sessions? Maria mentioned inviting them for dinner sometime.”
My shoulders instantly tensed. The plate I’m rinsing slips from my fingers, clattering against the sink basin. A familiar knot forms in my stomach at the mere mention of Robert and Elaine Thompson.
“They’re busy.” The words taste false even as I say them. “Robert’s company is in the middle of some big project, and Elaine has her charity commitments.”
The truth is more complicated. The Thompsons have made their disapproval clear since Skyler brought me home.
I wasn’t Amanda—Skyler’s ex-fiancée, and their handpicked future daughter-in-law.
I didn’t attend the right schools, move in the right circles, or have the right family connections.
Every interaction since has been an exercise in polite disdain.
The proof of their influence was tucked in the back of a desk drawer.
I found an old Polaroid of Skyler and Amanda at a college dive bar.
She was wearing a worn-out burgundy leather jacket, her hair a messy tangle of blonde, laughing so hard the camera was a blur.
It was a jarring contrast to the woman I see on social media now.
The Amanda Leigh Davis of today only wears muted tones and luxury silk, her natural vibrancy sanded down to a finish that matches the Thompson family silver.
Skyler once told me she ‘grew up,’ but looking at that photo, it felt more like she mirrored what was expected of her.
And look how that turned out for her.
“Right.” Dad’s tone tells me he hears what I’m not saying. “Well, the invitation stands. Might be good to break bread together before the wedding.”
The thought of my down-to-earth father and label-conscious Elaine Thompson discussing centerpieces makes me wince. “I’ll mention it to Skyler.”
Another lie, but some battles aren’t worth fighting at seven-thirty in the morning.
“You okay, Harley?” Dad’s voice softens. “You know you can talk to me about anything.”
For a moment, I consider telling him everything—how Elaine suggested a different engagement ring when she saw mine, how Robert calls Skyler daily with “career advice” that sounds suspiciously like control, how family dinners leave me feeling two inches tall through no words are said directly to me.
Instead, I say, “Just nervous about court. The Johnson case is complicated.”
“You’ll handle it,” he says with complete confidence. “Those kids are lucky to have you fighting for them.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Call me after court? Let me know how it goes?”
“Will do.” The shower shuts off down the hall. “I should finish up here. Skyler’s almost ready to leave.”
“Give him my best. See you Saturday.”
“Love you,” I say.
“Love you more, kiddo.”
I end the call just as Skyler emerges from the bedroom, hair damp and perfectly styled, wearing the charcoal suit that makes him look like he stepped off a magazine cover. The transformation from sleepy, bedheaded man to polished professional still fascinates me after three years.
“Was that your dad?” he asks, adjusting his blue tie—the one I gave him last Christmas.
“Yeah. Confirming this weekend.” I dry my hands on a dish towel. “Maria’s repainting the guest room again.”
“Seafoam green lasted longer than I expected.” Skyler grins, checking his watch—a graduation gift from his father.
“Apparently it wasn’t ‘welcoming’ enough.” I make air quotes. “Also, Lily’s having a meltdown about our lack of flower arrangements.”
“Your sister does love a good wedding panic.” He gathers his portfolio and keys. “We should probably start making some decisions, though.”
“This weekend,” I promise. “We’ll make lists and everything.”
He glances at his watch again. “I should head out. Traffic’s going to be brutal with this rain.”
“The Henderson dragon awaits.”
A shadow crosses his face. “Along with the bigger dragon breathing down his neck.”
Robert. Always Robert.
I step closer, straightening his already-perfect tie. “You’ll be brilliant.”
“From your lips to my father’s ears.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
I rise on tiptoes to kiss him, lingering a moment longer than our usual morning goodbye. His arms encircle my waist, drawing me against him like he’s memorizing the feeling.
“I’ll pick up dinner on my way home,” he murmurs against my lips. “That Thai place you like?”
“Perfect.”
He kisses me once more, then reluctantly releases me. “Good luck in court. Text me when you’re done?”
“Always do.” I follow him to the door, leaning against the frame as he steps into the hallway.
Skyler turns back, his expression softening. “I love you, Harley Matthews. Even with questionable hair.”
I touch my still-unruly waves and laugh. “And I love you, Skyler Thompson. Even with your dragon problems.”
His smile is genuine as he walks backward a few steps, maintaining eye contact until he has to turn toward the elevator.
I watch him go, warmth spreading through my chest despite the morning’s undercurrents of tension.
In moments like this—simple goodbyes laden with inside jokes and casual affection—that I remember why I said yes when he proposed.
Why I’m willing to navigate the complicated landscape of his family’s disapproval.
Because some things are worth fighting dragons for.
I close the door softly, leaning my forehead against the cool wood. Four months until I officially become a Thompson. The thought brings both joy and a flicker of apprehension. I push away from the door and head to the bedroom to finish getting ready, leaving the dishes half-done in the sink.
Dragons can wait. Today, I have children to fight for.