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“You don’t sound sorry. What are you doing lurking in the shadows like an axe murderer?”

He drops his chin, stare darkening as he smiles menacingly. “Waiting for a pretty thing like you.”

I swat at him when he darts toward me, curling his big body around mine, pressing me up against the counter. He looms over me. “Hello, wife.”

My lip quirks. “Hello, husband. What are you up to?”

“Nothing…” he drawls.

Looking bashful, he reveals the hand behind his back, flourishing a beautiful bouquet of pink tulips tied together with Margot’s signature twine and white-ribbon combo. “You’ve been hanging out at Morning Glory a lot this week.”

He shrugs. “I like to support local businesses.”

This is how he’s greeted me each evening, whether I’m returning from the store or simply leaving my study. He’s here waiting with a bunch of flowers. There are so many tulips in the house, I’ve run out of vases, and resorted to using pitchers and mason jars.

It pays as a reminder of how lonely I was while he was away. Yes, I had the girls and my colleagues, but not having my person waiting for me, to kiss me hello or goodnight, was a loneliness I’m afraid to experience again.

I shake away the grief. Tonight. We still had tonight together.

The fresh, sweet scent fills my lungs as I press the soft petals to my nose. “They’re even prettier than yesterday’s.”

Tate puffs out his chest, proud of himself. Then something catches my eye over his shoulder.

Twinkling lights sparkle through the floor-to-ceiling windows leading out into the yard. I peer closer and spot a small two-seater table, a candle flickering in the light breeze.

“What’s this?” I place the flowers on the side and step toward the setup.

The heat of his body doesn’t go far as he trails behind me until we’re standing out on the patio, the evening air balmy. He loops an arm around my middle, chin perched on my shoulder. “Happy ten-year wedding anniversary.”

“Oh, Tate.” I curl my fingers around his wrist, the cool glass and leather drawing my attention to his forearm. Three thirty-seven, August 23.

“We’re celebrating a little earlier this year,” he whispers.

We don’t acknowledge the why. A cloud of melancholy has loomed over us all week as his departure nears. Neither of us wants to ruin this moment.

He collects my hair over my shoulder and dots kisses along the length of my neck. I drop my head to the side, baring myself to his attention, shivering at the scrape of his stubble against my skin.

“Are you cooking?” There’s a covered pot on the table, and I sniff the air—garlic and tomato. A wave of nostalgia carries me back in time. “Is that…”

Tate releases me and whips off the lid, bowing as he reveals the steaming chili. “Momma’s recipe. She said it tastes just as good as the day you first tried it.”

I can taste it in my memories. But it isn’t just the rich, hearty meal. It’s the taste of a home that welcomed me with open arms. A woman who loved me unconditionally as if I were her own. And of an awkward boy, sitting across from me at the dining table, trying his hardest not to look at me.

All the ingredients that led me to the man standing in front of me.

“It’s perfect.” I run my finger over the linen tablecloth and neatly placed cutlery.

Tate’s chivalry doesn’t end there. He pulls out a chair for me and drapes a napkin over my lap, making me giggle. He runs inside to grab the sour cream, grated cheese, and tortilla chips, and then we eat.

We both moan at the first bite. Mine’s a tad over the top, causing Tate to grip the edge of the table.

“Cut that out.”

I do it again.

He growls.

I wish this never had to end.