Page 77 of Chasing Sunsets

I clear my throat, looking back at the house. “Guess I’ll have to get some furniture in first.”

She chuckles. “That would help.”

We stand there for a while, the quiet stretching between us. It should feel awkward. But it doesn’t.

And I realize that the thought of making this a home isn’t just about me.

That I want her in it.

Which has me reeling.

Before I met her, I never considered the idea of living with a woman. I was looking forward to having my own space, but now, I can see her cooking in the kitchen, enjoying a bubble bath after a long day spent harvesting the vegetables she planted, painting on the dock, sitting on the back porch with a glass of wine, or standing on a paddleboard in the water, chasing the sunset.

And I have no idea what the hell to do with that.

Tabby

The sun hangs low in the sky by the time Anson and I paddle back to the truck. My arms ache in the best way, my skin warm from the sun. It’s been a perfect day—one of those rare ones that you wish you could bottle up and keep forever.

I help him drag our boards onto the sand, and then we secure them in the bed of his truck. When I glance at him, he’s already looking at me, that quiet, unreadable expression on his face.

“What?” I ask, brushing damp strands of hair from my face.

His smirk is lazy, teasing. “Nothing.”

I roll my eyes but feel my lips twitching into a smile anyway. “Come on. Take me home, and you can help me pick some stuff from the garden for dinner.”

We drive back to the campground in silence. He’s been thoughtful since showing me his new house, acting distant. Or maybe he’s just nervous—I assume that buying your first home can be intimidating.

When we arrive, he unloads my board and leans it against my RV while I grab a couple of baskets and some gardening shears. Then, we walk together toward the raised beds beside mysetup. It’s funny how they started as a way to save money—fresh produce is expensive—but now, it’s something I love. Something that feels grounding.

Anson crouches beside me, watching as I run my hands over the leaves of my tomato plants. He reaches out, fingers brushing against a deep red tomato. “This one good?”

I nod. “Perfect.”

He plucks it and sets it in the basket beside him. I move down the row, gathering zucchini, peppers, and a handful of herbs. The scents of basil and rosemary fill the air as I brush my hands over them.

“What’s this?” he asks, pointing at a patch of wild greenery near the edge of the bed.

I grin. “Edible weeds.”

He lifts a brow. “That sounds … unappetizing.”

I pluck a sprig and hand it to him. “Try it.”

He eyes me suspiciously before biting off a piece. He chews, then makes a face. “Bitter.”

“Yep. That’s chickweed. It’s packed with vitamins. And this”—I pull a different leaf and hand it to him—“is purslane. Good for omega-3.”

He examines it before popping it into his mouth. His expression shifts, as if he’s considering the taste. “Not bad.”

“Told you. You add them to a salad, drizzle with olive oil and lemon juice, then top it with grated Parmesan cheese, salt, and pepper. Mmm. It’s delicious and nutritious.”

He watches me for a beat, then smirks. “You really are a little wild, aren’t you?”

I grin. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Not at all.” His chuckle is low, warm. “I’m a chili dog, French fry, and beer guy myself. But I guess I could stand to clean up my diet a bit.”

---