Chapter 30 Jesse
CHAPTER THIRTY
Jesse
Tuesday
There are certain things you learn as a single dad.
How silence is never peaceful—it’s suspicious. And how if you hear the words “Daddy, watch this,” you should immediately locate an ice pack.
I’ve also learned that Wyatt Tucker walking into my kitchen without making eye contact is basically a five-alarm fire.
Because Wyatt is not a man who does “casual entrance.”
Wyatt is a man who does polite head nods. Soft “mornings.” A quiet little smile that says, “I noticed your kids have turned the couch cushions into a bear den, and I’m choosing not to judge you for it.”
So when he comes in and doesn’t even say hello to Eliza and Caleb, who are currently on the living room floor conducting a very serious amphibian conference about whether frogs can get trauma from storms… I know.
Something’s wrong.
Caleb has built a “frog hospital” out of coasters. Eliza has appointed herself the frog therapist. Their stuffed animal frog is in a blanket burrito, apparently “processing his feelings.”
Wyatt walks right past it.
No comment.
No “how’s the patient?”
No gentle chuckle.
Just boots on wood, keys tossed too hard on the counter, shoulders stiff, carrying a heavy and sharp weight, and refusing to drop it.
I’m by the sink, rinsing out a mug that has been used for exactly one sip of cocoa and then abandoned. I lean back against the counter and watch Wyatt pace as he tries to wear a groove into the floor.
“Hey,” I say carefully, using the same tone I use on skittish horses and my kids when they’re holding scissors. “You good?”
Wyatt stops.
Looks at the kettle.
Looks at the cabinet.
Looks at the wall for an answer.
“Mm,” he says.
That is not a “good.”
“That sounded like a noise someone makes right before they admit they’ve joined a cult,” I tell him. “Wanna try again?”
He exhales through his nose. Long. Controlled. The kind of breath you take when you’re trying not to say something that’s already standing at the edge of your tongue.
“I’m fine,” he says.
I lift my brows. “You’re doing great at lying today.”
His jaw tightens. He turns the faucet on, wets his hands, and then washes them as if guilt is contagious and the CDC is watching.
Meanwhile, my children have noticed the vibe shift.
Eliza sits up and stares at Wyatt curiously.
Caleb follows her gaze, dramatic as ever, and whispers, “He’s haunted.”
Wyatt flinches, which means he probably heard him, because Wyatt hears everything. He finally glances toward them.
“Oh, hey,” he says, softer. “Sorry.”
Eliza tilts her head. “Are you sad?”
Wyatt blinks. “I… don’t think so.”
She nods, serious as a judge. “Okay. But you look like Daddy when the smoke alarm beeped, and he couldn’t find the ladder.”
That hits me in the ego a little, but she’s not wrong.
Wyatt clears his throat. “I’m just tired, sweetheart.”
Caleb, who has never met a moment he couldn’t make more intense, whispers, “Tired is when your soul needs a nap.”
Wyatt’s mouth twitches, not sure whether to laugh or cry.
He turns back to the sink, dries his hands, and, this is how I know the universe has jokes, his eyes land on the counter behind me.
On the candle.
Abilene’s candle.
Hearthlight.
Sweet Haven Honey Co., labeled in that neat, careful handwriting that someone took their time over, because they actually care about the details.
Wyatt goes still.
A man who has just been shot with a memory.
“That’s hers,” he says.
I glance back at it, then at him. “Yeah.”
His shoulders lift and drop in a sharp breath. “When did you get that?”
“I didn’t get it. It was just here earlier.”
Wyatt lets out this short, humorless laugh, which makes my stomach do a weird little flip.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Talk to me.”
Wyatt starts pacing again, hands flexing at his sides, trying not to punch the air. He stops near the table and stares at the candle in horror.
“You should’ve told me,” he says.
I blink. “Told you what?”
His head snaps toward me, eyes sharp behind his glasses. “That something was going on between you and Abilene.”
The words hit me fast as a bucket of cold water.
“What?” I bark out a laugh, because if I don’t laugh, I might panic. “Hold on. What are you talking about?”
Wyatt looks at me as if I’m the one being ridiculous. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” I ask, still stuck on the fact that Wyatt, Wyatt Tucker, who treats horses for a living and keeps his feelings folded up in a carefully labeled file, just accused me of withholding information as if I’m running some secret romance scheme.
“Pretend,” he says tightly. “Pretend like you don’t know.”
My chest tightens. “Wyatt, I… care about her. We’ve been… close.”
Wyatt’s gaze flicks to the living room, where the twins are now whisper arguing about whether haunted people can still eat spaghetti.
He lowers his voice. “I went to her house today.”
My pulse stutters. “You… what?”
“I asked her out,” he says.
The room tilts.
Not because I’m mad. Because I suddenly understand why he’s walking around my kitchen like a bomb with legs.
“You asked her out,” I repeat dumbly.
Wyatt nods once.
“And…?” I swallow, throat tight. “What did she say?”
He huffs out another laugh, but this one has pain in it. “She said no.”
My heart drops into my gut.
“She said no because she’s kinda dating you.”
I go completely still.
I hate that my first instinct is this warm flare of feeling in my chest. Hope? Pride? Possessive joy?
My second instinct is guilt for having that feeling when Wyatt is standing there looking wrecked.
“She said that?”
“Yes.” Wyatt’s eyes flick to mine. “And I’m not mad at her.”
He pauses.
“I’m mad at you.”
That’s the moment it turns from “oh no” to “oh shit.”
“Hold up,” I say, hands up. “You cannot be mad at me for something I didn’t know.”
Wyatt’s jaw tightens. “You knew something was happening.”
“Yes,” I admit. “Between me and her.”
“Exactly.”
“But I didn’t know you liked her,” I shoot back. “You never said anything.”
Wyatt’s expression flickers. Annoyed. Hurt. Frustrated.
“I didn’t realize I needed to announce it,” he says. “I didn’t think we were… competing.”
“We’re not,” I snap, then immediately soften because my kids are right there and also because I don’t actually want to fight with Wyatt. “We shouldn’t be.”
Wyatt drags a hand down his face. “I wouldn’t have asked her if I’d known.”
“And I wouldn’t have let things get… as tangled,” I say quietly, “if I’d known you were…”
Wyatt looks away first.
And that twists my chest in an ugly way. Because I can joke my way through a lot, but I can’t joke my way through hurting someone I care about.
In the living room, Eliza stands up again, ready to mediate.
“Are you fighting?” she asks.
“No,” I say immediately.
Wyatt sighs. “We’re not fighting. We’re… having a disagreement.”
She narrows her eyes. “Like when you and Uncle Marshall disagree about hammers?”
“Yeah,” I admit.
Caleb nods solemnly. “You can disagree as long as you still love each other.”
My throat tightens.
Wyatt’s face softens. He gives Caleb a small nod. “That’s true.”
Eliza points her unicorn wand or sword at us. “No yelling. Yelling makes Caleb cry.”
I nod, the dad moment fading, the tension rushing back into the room the second I’m facing Wyatt again.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and it comes out rougher than I mean it to. “Wyatt, I didn’t hide anything. I swear.”
He studies my face for a long second, reading vitals.
Finally, he nods. “I believe you.”
Relief loosens the stress in me.
“But it doesn’t make it easier,” he adds.
“No,” I whisper. “It really doesn’t.”
And because the universe is apparently committed to timing that makes everything worse…
The front door opens.
Boots.
A low voice.
“You two arguing? Should I take cover?”
Marshall steps into the kitchen, rain jacket half unzipped, hair still damp, with the look of a man who wrestled the weather and won.
He takes one look at Wyatt’s face, one look at mine, one look at the candle. His brows knit.
“What’d I miss?”
Wyatt’s gaze snaps to him. “You bought that candle?”
Marshall freezes. If he were a horse, his ears would be pinned right now.
“Yes,” he says cautiously.
Wyatt laughs, sharp. “Of course you did.”
Marshall’s jaw tightens. “Okay. I’m sensing I walked into the middle of a thing.”
“You did,” Wyatt says.
Marshall’s gaze flicks to the twins.
Caleb waves his frog at him. “We’re learning about family fights.”
Marshall blinks once, then looks back at us. “Great. Love that for us.”
Wyatt points at the candle as if it’s evidence in a trial. “Why are you buying Abilene Kentwood candles all of a sudden?”
Marshall’s throat works. He looks annoyed at himself.
The kind of annoyed that usually means the truth is about to come out.
He exhales once. “Because I like her.”
The words land hard as a dropped tool. Heavy, loud, impossible to ignore.
I thought he’d say something along the lines of her being our neighbor, our friend, and supporting her.
Not this.
My head snaps toward him. “You what?”
Wyatt goes still again. His brain is recalculating the whole world.
Marshall stands there, shoulders squared, eyes hard, but there’s a rawness under it. Emotion he’s not used to letting show.
“I like her,” he repeats, more firmly now. “I didn’t plan on saying it like that, but there it is.”
The room is silent except for the faint hum of the fridge and the soft, whispery frog therapy happening in the background.
Wyatt is quiet. “How long?”
Marshall’s jaw flexes. “Long enough.”
I stare at them.
At Wyatt. Whose shock is evident.
At Marshall, who is choosing honesty even though it tastes of blood.
At the candle, sitting there all innocent and honey-warm while it detonates the entire emotional structure of my life.
“This is…” I begin, then stop because words are failing me.
Wyatt supplies one, flat. “A problem. If we all like her.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s the word.”
Marshall looks between us, the tension in his shoulders shifting. “Nobody’s trying to hurt anyone.”
Wyatt’s laugh is bitter this time. “Doesn’t mean it’s not happening.”
My chest tightens. Because he’s right.
Because Abilene didn’t ask for any of this.
Because she’s already dealing with wildfire damage and family secrets. And we’re in my kitchen acting like three idiots who just discovered the concept of yearning.
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to find the joke that will make this easier.
There isn’t one.
So I go honest. “What are we doing?”
Wyatt looks at the candle, then at me. “I don’t know.”
Marshall’s gaze is fixed somewhere past us, staring down a fence line, deciding where the weak point is.
“We figure it out,” he says finally.
“That’s not an answer,” I mutter.
“It’s the only one I’ve got,” Marshall replies.
Wyatt exhales slowly. “We can’t… gang up on her.”
My stomach twists. “No.”
“And we can’t pretend this isn’t happening,” Marshall says.
Wyatt nods once, reluctant. “No.”
I glance toward the living room.
Eliza is now gently patting Caleb’s frog and whispering, “It’s okay. Don’t worry.”
Caleb nods understandingly.
My throat tightens again.
Because my kids adore Abilene. Because I adore Abilene.
Because wanting something doesn’t mean you get to take it.
And because if we do this wrong, we won’t just hurt ourselves.
We’ll hurt her.
And that is the one thing I can’t joke my way out of.