Page 65 of Suddenly Yours

I caught him anyway, swiping the roller across his chest. He groaned dramatically.

“This shirt was almost clean.”

I laughed because it was basically a rag covered in dried paint, oil, and what appeared to be burger grease.

“You started it,” I said, grinning.

He grabbed my waist, pulling me close, the paint forgotten completely. “It was worth it.” He kissed me.

For a moment, we just stood there, paint-splattered and breathless, the room smelling of fresh paint.

“I like this,” I admitted quietly. “Working like this. Making something together.”

His thumb brushed my cheek, careful not to smudge more paint. “Me too.”

And that scared me a little. Because it felt right. Too right.

We spent the rest of the day moving from room to room. He played some music softly from his phone, music we both enjoyed.

He showed me how to paint along the edges of the windows and corners, how to tape off doorframes, and how to clean brushes properly between colors so they’d last.

“This is the first time I’ve ever done something like this,” I said as we washed our hands at the sink.

“Painted?” he asked.

“No.” I shrugged. “Lived with someone.”

He met my eyes in the mirror, and something passed between us.

“I’ve never lived with anyone either. But it seems right. Right?”

“For now,” I said. “Until you grow tired of me.”

Cade smiled. “Almost twenty-four years so far, and I’m not tired of you yet. Are you tired of me?”

I shook my head. “Not at all.”

“Good.” He kissed me again. “Then let’s finish this up.” He motioned toward the wall. “Then we can order delivery for dinner.”

After showering off all the paint splatters, we finally collapsed onto the couch, exhausted. When the food was delivered, we switched on a game on the television and stuffed ourselves. I felt oddly satisfied. Not just because of the food or the hot sex we’d had in the shower, but because I could now look around the house and see that I’d made a mark here. I had made this place feel more… like home. Our home.

A few days later, when I was elbow-deep in dough, Brit popped her head into the kitchen and said, “Uh… Missy? There’s a very elegant woman out front asking for you.”

I knew instantly who it was and held in a groan.

Elegant was one way to put it.

My mother sat at one of the tables out front by the window, her posture perfect, her tailored cream jacket draped over the chair beside her like she’d stepped out of a magazine instead of into a small-town bakery.

Elizabeth Sharpe, Liza as she wanted to be called now, looked exactly the same and entirely different all at once.

It was funny, my entire life I’d wanted to go by Missy, but neither of my parents would use the nickname. Now my mother was choosing to do the same as I had, and she demanded the respect she never gave me.

“Mother,” I said, wiping my hands on my apron as I came through the back door and around to her table.

She smiled, softer than I remembered. “Hi, sweetheart.”

That alone told me this wasn’t going to be a drive-by visit full of criticism and disappointed sighs.