She opened the basement door and headed up the steps to the main room. He followed.
Light bathed the room, casting over the flooring, the butcher block countertops, the hand-carved cabinets—he rememberedthe hours her dad spent in his workshop, working on those. Jericho had probably sanded at least half of them.
The overhead light gleamed off the groovy orange stove in the corner of the room. He’d have to start a fire, maybe.
If he was staying the night.
Oh, who was he kidding—of coursehe was staying.
The place smelled of cedar and lemon and maybe a hint of lavender, the fragrances familiar and simply hitting him, drawing him back in time.
He loved this house. And, of course, his gaze fell onto the deck, where he spent too many nights figuring out how he might hold her hand across the space between their Adirondack chairs, bundled in down sleeping bags.
Maybe it had been enough that their breaths had mingled in the darkness.
He set the bag on the counter. “I’ll make a fire.”
“I’ll make dinner.” She smiled at him. “I hope you like toasted cheezers and tomato soup.”
“Normal people call those grilled cheese sandwiches, but don’t go changin’ to try to please me.”
She came over to him, stepped in front of him, grabbed his lapels. “Never.”
He nearly leaned down to kiss her, but she pushed him away.
“Firewood is outside, by the door.” She wrinkled her nose at him, stepped away.
“There will be stargazing tonight, HT. Just so you know.”
“My dad will be looking down from heaven, reminding you to behave yourself.” She laughed. He smiled at her and yes, it felt like ... like maybe this was how it was supposed to be.
That thought clung to him as he stepped outside, loaded up his arms with firewood, and returned to the house. Then he built the fire, adding old magazine pages for kindling. Soon the flames bit into the wood.
She had spread out the bread on the butcher block, buttered it, the tomato soup smelling of garlic and basil.
His stomach roared as he headed outside again and loaded up a backup supply of firewood.
He couldn’t help standing for a moment and staring at his old house. The path between their houses seemed overgrown, but he knew it in his sleep. His dreams.
He could almost hear the laughter from the firepit down by the lake. And maybe his own whispers to Harley, so long ago.
She’d wanted him to make promises.
He’d wanted her to trust him. Wait for him to come home.
Wow, he’d been unfair. Maybe they both had.
He headed inside to the scent of grilling bread, savory gouda melting, and set the firewood beside the stove.
It all felt so ... domestic. And perfect. And the words just bubbled out of him. “I’m sorry.”
He wasn’t sure why that came out ... again. The first time, back in the cabin, he’d meant it as sort of a general“I’m sorry I didn’t come back foryou.”
Now, he turned to her. “I’m sorry, Harley.”
She’d turned to him, frowning. “For?”
“For not being the hero you hoped I was.”