Chapter 15
Lily
We walked down the gravel drive together, the night air cooler now, carrying the smell of cut grass and charcoal. Ethan reached the truck first, pulling the passenger door open.
I cocked a brow, folding my arms. “You really don’t have to play chauffeur, Calloway.”
“Maybe not, but it’s how I was raised,” he said, shutting the door once I slid in.
Of course it was. Mister By-the-Book.
By the time he climbed in on his side and started the engine, the cab shrank around us—too small, too warm.
His shoulder brushed mine, and I caught the scent of soap and cedar and something I couldn’t name but wanted to bottle.
For a second, the air between us felt charged, crowded with words I didn’t dare say.
I almost started babbling, just to break the tension, just to stop myself from noticing how badly I wanted to close the space between us.
“So…” he said, eyes on the road. “You’ve been here, what, two days? What do you think of Willowbrook so far?”
“Honestly?” I stretched my legs out. “It’s adorable, like a real live Mayberry.
Everyone's so... invested. Which is charming, but also—whoa.
I can't get my coffee without Mrs. Denson asking about my 'big city plans' for her grandson's band.
In Chicago, I once spilled an entire latte on someone's shoes, and they just stepped around me without even glancing up.”
He huffed a laugh.
“And what was with the tractors at the high school on Friday? I thought I hallucinated a John Deere parade.”
“FFA week. ‘Drive Your Tractor to School Day.’ Totally normal.”
“Totally wild,” I said, delighted. “Do you also have ‘Bring Your Cow to Chemistry’?”
He smirked. “Not yet. Give Ben time to propose it.”
“Noted.” I tipped my head toward him, warmth blooming in my chest. For once, we weren’t arguing or circling each other.
Just talking—teasing, even. The simple, easy rhythm of it made me want to stay in the moment a little longer, to memorize the curve of his smile.
“For the record, I’m into it. People caring makes my job easier.
I really think this town is adorable. I love your friends.
I love Scoops… and I do like your bookstore. ”
He cut me a side look. “You’re lying.”
“I am not.” I held up a hand, mock solemn. “Cross my heart, hope to—okay, fine.” I softened. “It’s cozy. It feels safe. Like it knows everyone’s names.”
“But…” he prompted.
I winced, smiling. “But it’s… a little old-school.
Don’t throw me out of the truck. I mean it as data, not a diss.
In other cities, I’ve seen coffee nooks, listening stations, big chairs people can really sink in.
” I waggled my fingers. “Vibes. Yours has soul. It could use a tiny facelift. Fresh paint, a soft lamp here, a sign there. Not a demolition. An edit.”
The easy warmth of our conversation vanished, replaced by a thick, uneasy quiet. “I can’t change anything.”
“Why not? You’re the owner.”
“No,” he said, jaw set. “I just… can’t.”
I watched his profile for a beat, the streetlights sliding over his cheekbone.
For a moment, I let myself admire him—the strong line of his jaw, the way concentration softened his features.
I wondered what it would feel like to reach out, to let my fingers trace the light across his skin. “What’s ‘can’t’ code for?”
He let out a breath he’d been holding all night.
“My dad died eight months ago. It was his store, and it’s the last piece of him I’ve got.
He built those shelves. Stacked those books.
If I make it into something else, I don’t know if it’ll work.
I don’t know if I could afford it. And even if I could… I don’t know if he’d approve.”
For once, I didn’t reach for a joke. “I’m so sorry, Ethan. That’s… a lot.”
The quiet stretched between us, and something tugged at the back of my mind—his voice that day, sharp and defensive. My dad’s truck.
Oh.
Guilt settled in, heavier this time. “Ethan… about the other day—your truck—I didn’t realize. I’m really sorry.”
He shook his head like he didn’t want to stay there. “It’s fine.”
It didn’t feel fine, but I let it go.
I let the quiet sit a beat, gentle and unhurried. “I get why you’re holding on,” I said softly, like we were both balancing something fragile. “So, don’t change him. Add you. New lamp on his shelf. Your display in his window. Same story, bigger margin notes. That way he stays, and you show up.”
He glanced at me, just once, his gaze lingering a shade too long, full of something unspoken and electric, as if the space between us had suddenly narrowed to almost nothing.
We let Oasis’s “Wonderwall” do the talking for a while—tinny through the dash, perfect in the way only a song you’ve heard too many times can be. As we turned onto Mulberry Street, porch lights blinked like sleepy fireflies.
He pulled up and cut the engine. "Well," he said, pointing to my porch, "looks like you've got a visitor." A scrawny tabby kitten sat on my doorstep, its eyes catching the headlights like pennies at the bottom of a wishing well.
“Oh, hell no.” I groaned, already hearing my voice in my head: Animals are a responsibility, responsibility ties you down. “I don’t do cats.”
Ethan smirked. “Tell him that. Looks like he’s all ears.”
I opened the door, heels crunching on gravel, and the cat trotted straight to me, tail up like a question mark. It meowed, shameless. I stared at it; it stared back.
I turned back to the truck. “This is a loaner cat,” I informed Ethan. “Strictly short-term.”
And yet—because apparently I can't help myself—I ducked inside, grabbed a chipped saucer from the cupboard, and filled it with milk.
The cat wound around my ankles, purring so loudly I could feel it through my shoes.
I set the saucer down on the porch with a dramatic sigh, already regretting what I was getting myself into.
“Do not get attached,” I told him firmly.
When I looked up, Ethan was still in the truck, headlights painting the gravel, watching me like he wasn’t quite ready to let me go. I hesitated, then gave a little wave—smaller, softer than I meant. “Thanks for the ride, Calloway.”
His eyes met mine, warm and unreadable. “Anytime, Harper.”
Something in his voice made my heart stumble. I waited a second longer before slipping inside, suddenly wishing the night didn’t have to end just yet.
Inside, I flicked on the radio low—white noise to keep the silence from getting teeth—and leaned against the door as it shut. My chest ached in that restless way it always did when the laughter ended and the crowd disappeared.
The cat meowed from the porch, its purr rumbling like a tiny engine just on the other side of the wood. I hesitated, then opened the door a crack. “All right, come on,” I whispered, rolling my eyes at myself.
The tabby slipped in, tail high, and circled my ankles like he already belonged here. I watched it settle onto the rug, kneading once before curling up, purring louder now—a heartbeat I could borrow for the night.
I told myself again that it was temporary. I was temporary. And yet… with the warm weight of the cat at my feet, for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel quite so unbearable to have something, or someone, waiting for me on the inside.