Chapter 20
Baptiste
I’ve been praying for this day to end so I can finally see Harper again.
We haven’t met up since our trip to Golden Age a few days ago, and I can’t deny I miss her.
True to my promise to Glenda, I called Auntie Mumu, who was vacationing in the south of France, and I’m glad I did.
Hearing her voice, her laughter, grounded me more than I expected.
At five o’clock sharp, I finally head to Warlington Lane, a small pedestrian street in Brooklyn where Beth and Marissa run their café, Rise & Grind—right across from Hayley, Alice, and Emma’s bookstore, No Shelf Control.
The next door over is Deacon’s bar, owned by Alice’s husband and our unofficial headquarters.
We’re having drinks there with everyone before dinner.
I park at the end of the street and notice Harper strolling down the sidewalk in the distance. I wanted to pick her up, but she said she’d come straight from work.
“Hey, you.” I smile as she gets closer. “How’s it going?”
“Good.” She leans in and kisses me, quick and soft. “I’m excited to check out this bar—and this entire street, to be honest. I’ve heard so much about it.”
We start walking down Warlington Lane. The late afternoon light is golden, bouncing off the brick facades, and the air is blanketed with a pleasant warmth.
People are already gathering in front of the bar, drinks in hand as they laugh about something.
Classic rock music drifts through the open door, and someone’s dog is tied to a bike rack, tail wagging at anyone who passes.
I point things out as we wander down the street—small businesses, handwritten chalkboard menus, a florist with buckets of colorful flowers spilling onto the sidewalk—until we stop in front of No Shelf Control.
“Wow,” Harper says, slowing her steps. “This is so cute. I love the display window.”
A loud meow interrupts us, right on cue, and I chuckle.
“Oh, hey, Mr. Darcy.” I crouch to scoop up the tuxedo cat as he weaves around my legs. “He’s the real bookstore owner.”
She laughs. “Oh, I approve. Black cats have such a vibe.”
Mr. Darcy purrs like an engine, loud and demanding, as he presses his head into my chest like he owns me. Harper scratches under his chin, her smile soft in a way that does weird things to my heart.
The bookstore door opens, and Emma and Auston step out.
“Hey,” they both say.
“This one,” Emma adds, nodding toward Mr. Darcy, “is always trying to sneak in some cuddles.”
“Hey, I don’t mind,” I say with a grin, enjoying the soothing vibrations against my chest. “This is Harper—the girl I told you about. And Harper, this is Emma and Auston.”
Harper swallows hard, and I know it’s because of Auston’s celebrity status. But I told her a lot about him. Like the rest of my friends, he’s just a regular guy who doesn’t abuse his position for perks or special treatment.
Harper offers them a smile—albeit a little restrained. “Nice to meet you,” she says, shaking both their hands.
We chat for a few minutes before I finally set Mr. Darcy down, and we head into the bar.
Deacon gives us all a curt wave from behind the counter, and we make our way to the back room.
It’s cozy and familiar with its dim lights, the small jukebox humming in the corner, mismatched couches, and an air hockey table that has seen better days.
Everyone’s here tonight except for Wally and Grace—and Hawthorne and Aria, who are on vacation.
“Bonsoir!” Alice beams from the couch. “Alice Beaumont, one of the bookstore owners,” she announces, standing to hug Harper. “And Max’s sister. So glad to finally meet you. What a lovely couple!”
Alice, who’s married to Deacon, is a huge romance reader and an unapologetic fan of true love.
But as the words leave her mouth, heat prickles at the back of my neck. We haven’t exactly put a label on this yet.
“It’s—” I start, but I’m not quite sure what to say.
“We’re just hanging out,” Harper says instead, the words coming easy.
I nod, even though there’s a flicker of disappointment I don’t quite manage to hide. I know this is all still new, but something in my gut tells me what we have is more than that. At least for me.
Alice frowns, eyeing us suspiciously before slowly sitting back down next to her brother.
“Are you guys coming to dinner with us?” Beaumont asks. “We’re going to Cleo’s Kitchen.”
“Hard pass,” I say immediately. “Don’t you remember—”
“We do remember.” Adler rolls his eyes, perching on the edge of the air hockey table. “But that was months ago, and we told you they made some changes.”
“Yeah,” Marissa adds, sipping her drink. “It’s nice now.”
I shrug. “Still. That was a pretty awful experience—from the food to the service. With all the restaurants we have in a five-block radius, why would I risk it again? I almost died, you know. Those cooks don’t know how to respect allergy restrictions.”
Okay, maybe I wouldn’t have keeled over if I ate a shrimp, but I definitely would have ended up in the hospital.
“Anyway,” I add, glancing at Harper, “Harper and I have plans.” I wink at her.
She blinks in surprise, then smiles. “We do?”
“Unless you’d rather roll the dice and suffer through their sketchy restaurant choice,” I murmur.
She laughs. “Nope. ‘Plans’ sound good.”
“Traitor,” Beaumont belts out, clutching his chest.
Emma stands up, smoothing her black fringe back into place, and clears her throat. “Okay, listen up, guys. Auston and I have something to say.”
There’s a general “Ohhh” that echoes around the room.
Alice’s jaw almost hits the floor. “Are you—”
“I’m not pregnant.” Emma cuts her off, planting a hand on her hip. “Although we are expanding our foyer.”
Auston smiles, and they share a look. “We bought a summer house,” he finally says. “In the Hamptons.”
There are a few squeals, and someone claps his hands loudly.
“And you’re all welcome to come spend a weekend—or even longer,” he adds, draping an arm around his wife’s shoulders.
“We just wanted a place away from the city,” Emma chimes in. “It’s huge, there’s a swimming pool, and the beach is practically in the backyard.”
“That’s amazing,” Marissa chirps, clapping her hands together. “I can’t wait to see it.”
“Well,” Emma draws out the word, glancing around at the group, “it’ll be ready next week. And we were wondering if you’d all want to spend the weekend there with us.”
The answer is an overwhelming positive, with cheers and overlapping yeses filling the room.
“Oh no!” Hayley groans, dropping back against Maxime’s shoulder. “Max and I won’t be able to make it. We’re leaving for France on Friday, remember?”
Emma winces. “I know. Sorry about the timing. The paperwork took longer than expected.” Then, her face brightens. “We’ll throw a party when everyone’s back, though. We plan to spend a lot of time there this summer.”
I glance at Harper. “What do you think? It could be fun.”
She hesitates, lips pressing together, until she caves with a smile. “Sure. I’d love to.”
We grab some drinks from Deacon while chatting about the house, and after a while, Beth stands up.
“Anyone down for air hockey before we split?” She looks around expectantly.
Harper raises a hand. “I’m in!”
Beth nods. “Perfect. Let’s do this.”
“Oh, you’re going down,” Harper says, pointing at me as she steps toward the table.
My eyebrows shoot up. “Confident, are we?”
Her eyes glint with anticipation. “Extremely.”
“You do know I’m a hockey player, right?” I chuckle, grabbing a paddle and sliding it across the table.
She smirks, already taking her position. “You do know this isn’t hockey, right?”
Adler claps his hands to get our attention. “All right, teams. Harper and Beth versus Froggy and me.”
“Oh no,” Beth says, laughing as she joins Harper. “You just volunteered to lose.”
The others all gather around, quickly dividing themselves between our teams, and despite being actual hockey players, Adler and I have the fewest supporters.
Seconds later, we’re deep in the game, gripping our paddles with white knuckles.
The puck slams back and forth. Beaumont and Miles are shouting commentary while Alice and Marissa cheer dramatically every time the girls score—which is more often than I expected.
Auston, and Deacon when he comes around, are the only real encouragement we get.
We end up losing by one point. The girls squeal, raising their arms in victory as the small crowd applauds their performance.
“Beginner’s luck,” I mutter to Harper.
She grins at me, cheeks flushed. “Whatever helps you cope.”
Despite our embarrassing loss, I can’t stop smiling as I pull her into my side, my ribs aching from laughter. We grab one more drink and eventually call it a night.
“So,” I say as Harper and I are walking to my car. “I was thinking maybe I could cook for you tonight.”
“Oh, so that’s the plan?” Her eyes sparkle with that caramel warmth that melts me every time. “Well, lucky for you, I never say no to a home-cooked meal.”
Harper
Baptiste’s charming townhouse is exactly what I thought it would be—cozy, lived-in, and understated in a way that doesn’t feel staged.
Exposed brick makes up one wall, made more charming by framed photos and shelves packed with books.
The whole place smells faintly of pine, citrus, and something unmistakably him.
“What did you think of my other friends?” he asks, dropping his keys into a ceramic bowl by the door.
I smile and lean back against the counter. “They’re nice. I liked them.”
I’m not going to lie. When Auston and Emma mentioned the new house, my jaw ticked. Nothing screams I’m a celebrity more than a summer house in the Hamptons. But they sounded so excited for everyone to enjoy it, and they both seem very down to earth.
“Good.” Baptiste smiles, relief softening his features. “I’m excited to check out that vacation house. And the beach.”
Dang. I don’t even remember the last time I felt sand under my feet. “Me too.”
Baptiste turns some music on, the lazy rhythm carrying over the speaker, and starts grabbing pans and ingredients from the cabinets like he’s on a mission.
“Anything I can do?” I ask, leaning my elbows on the bar that separates the kitchen from the living area.
“Nope. Get comfortable,” he says easily. “I’ll whip up something in no time.”
I tilt my head. “Full of surprises, huh? I would have never guessed you knew your way around a kitchen.”
He flips the wooden spoon in his hand, catching it with a grin. “Oh, you haven’t seen nothin’ yet.”
I laugh and wander into the living room, my eyes roving the space. The couch looks plush and inviting, a throw casually folded on one arm. A coffee mug rests on the low table beside a neatly stacked pile of books, and a small tray holds three remotes placed in a neat line.
A person’s interior design says a lot about them.
Like the absence of clutter, but not of comfort, which tells me he values order without being uptight about it.
And the fact that the framed photos are placed at eye level instead of tucked away, which hints that people matter to him.
“Is this your foster family?” I ask, peering at a picture of a young Baptiste celebrating his birthday between two adults with glowing smiles.
Baptiste glances over his shoulder from where he’s manning the stove. “Yeah. My seventh birthday. Oh, did I mention I called her, by the way?” he adds, grabbing something from a drawer. “It felt good to catch up after so long. Told them all about you too.”
I freeze, but the butterflies that just fluttered awake don’t seem bothered by the tightness of my chest. He told them about me? What does that even mean?
A flicker of gold catches the corner of my eye, stealing my attention.
It’s on the shelf beside the wall-mounted TV.
I shuffle over to get a closer look, every other thought fading from my mind.
It’s a medal—an old military award, I think.
The ribbon is faded with age, a small bronze arrowhead pinned neatly on it.
The words EUROPEAN–AFRICAN–MIDDLE EASTERN CAMPAIGN curve around the edge of the medal.
“What’s this?” I ask Baptiste.
“Oh.” He wipes his hands on a dish towel, his movements slowing, like he hasn’t thought about it in a while. “It’s a war medal. I’m pretty sure it belonged to my grandfather, but I can’t be certain. My foster mom said it was found in the blanket I was brought to the hospital in.”
I swallow hard, my eyes still fixated on the medal as Helen’s words echo in my mind. She said her dad had taken part in the D-Day landings. “Do you know why he got it? It doesn’t say much.”
“No clue.”
“Helen told me her dad was a soldier,” I blurt out, unable to keep the words from breaking loose. “Her story kind of checks out.”
A pan clatters against the counter. “Not again, Harper, please,” he says, turning to me with a tight jaw.
I wince. “I’m just saying. It’s weird, right?”
“There are a couple million soldiers in the American military. So no, it doesn’t mean anything.”
His voice is firm, final, and I don’t want to push the topic.
I glance around for a distraction. “And this trophy?” I ask.
He grins, his shoulders relaxing. “That one is all me. James Norris Trophy for the best defenseman.”
“Way to go.” I smile, folding my arms over my chest and ambling back toward the kitchen. The smell of food—garlic, olive oil, something warm and savory—sizzles through the space, and I’m suddenly starving.
“Ohh, I love this song,” he says. “Turn it up.”
He starts to dance, right there in the kitchen, loose and unashamed. His shoulders are rolling, hips moving to the beat, and I bark out a laugh. I turn the music up, and his moves get bigger, more dramatic, like he’s performing just for me.
He locks me in his mischievous gaze and shimmies toward me. “Come on, dance with me.”
I cross my arms. “You’re ridiculous.”
His grin widens. “And you love it.”
My heart does a somersault at the four-letter word, but I mask it with a scoff. “You wish.”
He laughs, holding out his hands, and I reluctantly take them. I let him pull me closer, my feet moving along to the rhythm, falling into sync with his.
His hands are warm and steady at my waist. My palms are resting against his chest, his heartbeat thudding under my fingertips.
With no warning, he tilts me dramatically toward the floor, and I burst out laughing, clutching his shoulders.
“Show off,” I accuse between giggles.
“That’s what years of balance training will earn you,” he says proudly, holding me there a second longer than necessary before hoisting me back up. “Get used to it. This is how I roll.”
I’m still giggling when he pulls me into his chest, my cheek pressed against his, both of us breathless and grinning like idiots.
Honestly? I wouldn’t mind getting used to this.