Up ahead, Chloe materializes around the bend, her pink hair catching the early afternoon light. Her arms overflow with a clipboard, phone, and a jangling set of keys that threaten to escape with each hurried step. Before I can raise a hand in greeting, she spots me.
“Grady! Thank goodness. I have sixteen things to move from storage before the pack gets back, and the delivery people called to say the barge will be at the dock at noon instead of three, which means we need to clear the front room for furniture and?—”
“Good morning to you, too,” I say, falling into step beside her and reaching for the clipboard before it tumbles from her grasp.
Chloe passes it over with a grateful exhale. “Sorry. Hi. Good morning.”
“I take it the Homestead passed inspection?”
“Not a single issue.” She straightens with pride, as if she had a hand in its reconstruction. “Dominic, Blake, and Nathaniel have been at the storage unit since seven o’clock, overseeing the movers, which is why they’re so ahead of schedule.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the motion revealing the shadows beneath her eyes. “Have you been up long?”
“Since five,” I admit, glad her short legs don’t tax my limping stride. The physical therapy exercises have improved my gait over the past months, but my body maintains its own stubborn timeline. “Tell me about the sixteen things.”
She launches into a detailed inventory of furniture, linens, and kitchen supplies still waiting in the resort’s storage facility. I filter the torrent of information, separating essential tasks from anxious speculation. The clipboard reveals a list in Chloe’s handwriting, each item accompanied by multiple checkboxes, asterisks, and too many underlines.
“So the table goes in the dining room, but only after the rug is down, which can’t happen until after the floors are polished, which—” Her breath catches, the sentence fracturing as she contemplates the interlocking dependencies.
“Let’s start with what happens first.” I tap the top item on her list. “Storage unit inventory. Everything else will follow from there.”
Chloe’s shoulders lower by inches, her breathing becoming more regular as we continue down the path. The morning sun filters through the pines, casting dappled patterns across her short frame.
“It’s going to be so strange sleeping in a real bedroom again. With actual walls and a door that closes,” she says after a moment of quiet. “What if I get lonely?”
After months in Cabin One with the entire Wright pack, returning to the renovated Homestead represents more than a physical move. “Nothing has to be perfect on day one, Chloe, and your Alphas will be right across the hall. If you don’t want to sleep alone, then don’t.”
She laughs. “I thought I’d be so excited for personal space again.”
“And now?”
“Now I miss them when they’re gone for a day.” Her smile softens. “It’s like my brain rewired itself to need the chaos.”
“Or the pregnancy is giving you nesting urges,” I point out.
“Shush!” She looks around to make sure we’re still alone. “I told you that was a secret.”
I tilt my head toward her belly. “You won’t be able to hide it forever.”
She gasps in affront. “Did you just call mefat?”
“No, I called you preg—Oomph.” I rub my chest where she smacks me with her clipboard. “Sure, abuse the guy with the cane.”
She sticks her button nose in the air. “Don’t think you can use your disability to get away with insulting me.”
“Come on, it has to be good for something.”
We round a bend in the path, revealing the stretch of trail that leads to Cabin One. The small structure nestles among the trees, with two chairs on the small porch and a small table begging to hold an afternoon coffee.
“Changing the subject…” Chloe nudges my shoulder with hers. “Have you decided what you’re doing when we move? Kyle said you’re welcome to stay, but wouldn’t you like a space to call your own again? You must be going crazy with the fishing talk and that satellite radio he blasts.”
The question strikes a nerve I’ve been avoiding. For months, I’ve existed in a comfortable holding pattern, doing minimal social work for Chloe and writing up some news articles that spark my interest while trying to figure out what I want to do next.
With the Homestead now finished, my temporary arrangement loses its convenient excuse.
“I’m exploring options,” I reply, the vagueness of my answer obvious even to my own ears.
“The condos in Pinecrest are nice,” Chloe offers with visible reluctance. “Or your old ground-floor room in the Homestead is yours for the asking.”