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I really do.

“I was thinking I’d take Faye and the kids to the greenhouse.” Holt toes an empty pot. “Get these filled.”

Mom claps. “I think that’s a brilliant idea.”

“Me too!” Mabel shouts.

Holt grins. “Why don’t you go get dressed, and we’ll hit the road?”

“Okay!”

She’s already racing for the door, Duke yapping hot on her tail when I yell, “And bring me a brush for your hair!” Mabel doesn’t answer. I huff, “She’s going to pretend she didn’t hear that.”

Mom laughs. “Without a doubt.”

Dad slaps a hand on his knee as he stands. “We should let ‘em get to it, Candy.”

“We should.” Mom stands.

Dad lifts his mug. “I’m taking this with me, kiddo.”

Mom agrees, “Me too.”

“Enjoy,” I call.

Mom blows me a kiss over her shoulder, and I think I hear Dad chuckle deep and low. They’ve watched me fall apart and rebuild myself over the last year. Now, they’re watching me sift through the mess of heartache for a pebble of happiness.

They think I’ve found it—in Holt.

“Thanks for the breakfast.” Owen starts for the door where Duke sits waiting. “I’ll go get dressed.”

“Make sure Mabel grabs a brush, will you?” I call after him.

“Sure, Mom.”

And then my son is gone, and I’m left alone with Holt.

My porch feels suddenly all too intimate. Too small.

When I breathe, I breathe in the scent of Holt. It reminds me that the pieces of my heart I thought I lost to him so long ago are still there inside me, buried deep. Because I feel them shift. I feel the tug toward him just as I felt it so many times before, when I was younger. When I was less able to guard my heart against his stealth attacks.

If I’m being honest, I’m not sure I’m any more equipped now to ward off those attacks.

Even more, I’m not sure I want to.

And I think that’s what scares me most. Because what would it say about me to have loved him and then Tate and then him again? What would people say? What would they whisper and snicker? Would it hurt my kids…?

Holt shifts against the banister. He brings his coffee to his lips, and I just know he doesn’t drink a latte like me. If I’ve come to know anything about the man since his return, it’s that he’s not a fan of sugared coffee.

“What do you order from Cherry’s?” I don’t know why I suddenly have to know, but I do. Maybe he likes espresso.

“Just coffee, Faye.”

“Plain?”

“Plain black coffee.” His lips twitch. “I like it simple.”

I blink back down to my cup, which is most definitely the opposite of simple. I frown.