“You’d do it for me,” is all I say, because anything more would sound too much like a confession.
Her lips curve, teasing as always, though her eyes soften. “Somehow I doubt you’d need a wing woman, Jaxon.” She winks, playfully. “Not with being so hot.”
“Oh, handsome and now hot,” I tease back, but there’s a warmth in my chest I can’t laugh off.
She laughs, and even in the dim glow of the dashboard, I swear I catch the faintest pink in her cheeks. “I meant handsome.”
“Right. It’s coffee shop guy who’s hot.”
“Take another left,” she says quickly, pointing toward a tall, narrow home tucked behind an overgrown hedge. “I’m right there.”
I slow the car and take in the place as we pull into her driveway. “Nice place.”
“It’s older, but it’s mine.” She hugs her purse to her chest like it’s proof of all her hard work. Quiet pride shines in her voice.
Something in me stirs. I know what it’s like to work for something no one thought you’d get, to build a life with your own two hands. Seeing that same pride on her face—yeah, it does things to me I don’t want to name.
“Want to come in? See the place?”
“Sure,” I say after a beat, not even pretending to resist. “If you’re not too tired.”
“Not too tired for the guy who’s going to help me.” She tilts her chin, half-smile tugging at her lips. “Also, I want to cook you dinner sometime. As a thank you.”
“I’m not going to say no to that.”
She smirks knowingly. “Because you’re a bachelor who lives off frozen and boxed food.”
If she only knew the truth. “Something like that,” I mutter.
She slips from the car with the kind of energy that makes me forget that it’s been a long-ass day. I follow her up the walkway, the night air cool, the quiet of the neighborhood wrapping around us. She fishes in her purse for her keys, the porch light casting a warm glow over her.
“Have you lived here long?” I ask, trying to fill the silence, but also because I want to know more about her life in the city.
“Just a couple of years. I was in an apartment for a while. I got a great promotion at work, and it allowed me to move out of the downtown core and into my own place.”
There’s that pride again, threaded with independence. And as she pushes the key into the lock, I realize something dangerous. I like this side of her—this softer, unguarded version that doesn’t show itself to just anyone.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s why I’m not quite ready to go another year before we see each other again.
She struggles with her door for a minute. I’m about to ask if I can help when it finally swings open and she steps inside, the faintest draft curling past me before the warmth of her place greets me. I follow, and right away I catch the scent of vanilla—soft, sweet, the kind of smell that makes a space feel lived in.
“It’s small,” she says, as she sets her keys on the little table by the door. “It still needs a ton of work.” She laughs and points to the windows. “The main level windows have been painted shut over the years, but I don’t mind. It makes me feel safer living alone.”
I let my gaze travel as we move through the main level. Small, yes, and while I expected it to be overstuffed with her things, it’s rather…empty. Her living room is lined with tall bookshelves that look well-worn and loved, spines of paperbacks and hardcovers tucked every which way. But there are no pictures of her childhood or family. Just a few landscapes, each one with its own mood, its own light.
I stop, drawn to them. “Did you take these?”
Her voice softens. “I enjoy photography. It’s a hobby.”
“These are really good,” I tell her honestly, leaning in to study one of a lake at sunset, water caught in that perfect shimmer of gold. “If you ever give up the journalist gig…” I trail off, teasing, but the smile on my face falters when I catch the flicker in hers.
It’s small, the kind of thing most people might miss—the tightening around her mouth, the way her eyes shift away too quickly. But I see it. I feel it.
She loves her job… right? I’ve always assumed she did. You can’t be that sharp, that relentless, that good at something unless you love it. I’m pretty sure of that. And yet, the shadow that passed over her just now makes me wonder if I’ve stepped too close to something she’s keeping tucked away.
“Thanks,” she says after a moment, her voice light but just a touch too careful, like she’s steering us back to safer ground.
I want to press, to ask what that look meant, but I hesitate. It’s not my business, but I can’t help but want to understand the parts of her she doesn’t show the world—the doubts, the cracks, the pieces hidden behind the confident headlines she writes.