Page 63 of A Prescription to My Heart

The room is spinning with noise again, but I can’t hear any of it. I’m still staring at Soren, trying to understand what just happened—what we just did. And the worst part?

I think I liked it.

Chapter 14

Soren

Themorninglightcreepsthrough the blinds like it has no business being this gentle. My head isn’t pounding—I didn’t drink enough for that—but there’s a strange weight in my chest. Something heavy and unfamiliar.

I’m haunted.

Haunted by the memory of her mouth on mine. Of how I pulled her in without thinking. Of how she didn’t pull away.

Talia.

I scrub a hand over my face, sitting up in bed. The sheets are warm, tangled, and it’s quiet enough to hear my own breath. The clock reads 7:14 a.m., and for once, Marigold isn’t jumping on my chest demanding pancakes.

I get up slowly, bones still stiff from the pretenses of the night before. My tux jacket is flung over the back of a chair. Talia’s dress—oh my, that dress—is gone from the back of the bedroom door. She slept in Marigold’s room last night, giving me a break from feigning night shifts and having to sleep in the on-call room—or the couch here—to avoid my in-laws’ questions.

I don’t remember hearing her wind down for the night. We said goodnight like we were coworkers. Like I hadn’t kissed her in front of a hundred people with something feral in my chest.

I walk out into the hallway, and the smell of cinnamon hits me. She’s here. Of course Talia’s still here.

The in-laws didn’t leave last night. Not yet, anyway.

I pad down the stairs barefoot. Talia’s in the kitchen with her back to me, hair twisted up, robe cinched tight at the waist. She’s flipping something on the stove, probably French toast. Marigold sits at the kitchen island, humming and swinging her legs. Emma’s mom must have dropped her off early.

“Talia,” I say, voice rough.

She turns slightly. “Morning.” Her voice is light. Too light. Like nothing happened.

“Morning, Dad!” Marigold sings.

“Morning,” I say to them both, moving past Talia to grab a mug.

I pour myself a coffee, black and strong. Anything to clear the fog.

Marigold looks up at me, grinning. “Guess what?”

“What?” I ask with a smile, brush my hand over her still-messy sleepover bedhead.

“Nana and Grandpa said they’re leaving this afternoon. But not until after lunch.” She says it like a warning and a celebration rolled into one.

Well, that’s a mild relief. Although last night, they didn’t feel like enemies. After Talia spoke up, after… the kiss. They looked at me differently. Like maybe they believed us.

I sit beside Marigold, sipping my coffee. “You sleep okay?”

She nods. “Emma’s house was fun. But she snores.”

“So do you,” I say with a smirk.

She gasps in mock horror and swats my arm.

Talia chuckles softly, plating the toast. She sets a dish in front of Marigold, then one in front of me. “Eat.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I mutter, and she shoots me a look I can’t read.

The silence stretches, until footsteps creak overhead. Moments later, Patrick walks in, smelling like aftershave and old leather. Camille follows, perfectly pressed in her beige cardigan and pearl earrings.

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