Chapter 8
Christina
The last few stepsto Phil’s cottage feel longer than they should.
Not physically. Emotionally.
Each footstep brings with it a new wave of nervous energy that settles somewhere between my ribs and my stomach, fluttering and restless and impossible to ignore. I tell myself it’s about the audition. About the fact that I haven’t sung properly in front of anyone in years. That the Crazy Dogs, despite their deeply questionable name and modest ambitions, still represent something terrifying.
Exposure.
Vulnerability.
The possibility of failing at something that used to be effortless.
But that’s not the whole truth.
Phil is.
Phil, who held my hand this morning with newfound confidence.
Phil, who looked at me across a café table like he was seeing me properly for the first time.
Phil, who had been an absolute disaster the night before and still managed to make me feel like none of it had erased whatever had begun between us.
My stomach flips again.
I tell myself it’s about the singing.
I step through the small wooden gate and onto the narrow stone path that leads to his front door. The garden greets me first, a deliberate chaos of colour and texture. Lavender spills into wild grasses. Foxgloves rise confidently between softer blossoms. Bees drift lazily through the warm afternoon air, entirely unbothered by my presence.
At first glance, it looks accidental. Untamed.
But I know better.
Gardens like this don’t happen by accident. They happen because someone cared enough to shape them gently, patiently, over time.
It suits him.
From the outside, Phil looks like someone life happens to.
In truth, he builds it quietly, piece by piece.
I reach the blue front door and pause just long enough to take a steadying breath before lifting the bronze knocker. The sound echoes softly inside.
My pulse answers immediately.
It only takes a second before the door opens.
Phil stands there, framed by warm light and familiar space, and for a moment I forget why I’m here.
He’s wearing a white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, exposing skin tanned by mountain air and long days outside. The fabric stretches slightly across his chest when he moves. His dark jeans sit low on his hips in a way that is frankly unfair to my concentration.
He looks… good.
Not dressed up exactly.
Just intentional.