Page 21 of Tempted By the Handsome Doctor

"I've noticed."

The drive is short, just ten minutes from the park to Willow Lane. As we turn onto her street, the setting sun bathes the row of modest homes in golden light. Mature trees line the sidewalks, their branches creating dappled shadows on the pavement.

"That's it," Maya points to the last house on the right—a small blue cottage with white trim and a wide front porch. A massive oak tree dominates the front yard, its lower branches perfect for climbing. The kind of tree kids dream about.

Our kid might climb that tree someday.

The thought hits me. This isn't just Maya's house; it's potentially my child's first home. Where they'll take their first steps, say their first words, build their earliest memories.

I put the car in park and turn off the engine, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of it all.

"You okay?" Maya asks, noticing my expression.

"Yeah," I manage. "Just... thinking."

"It's a lot, isn't it? When it becomes real."

"Yeah." I run a hand through my hair. "Sorry, I don't mean to be weird about it."

"You're not being weird. I had the same moment this morning when I couldn't button my favorite jeans." She offers a rueful smile. "Reality checks come in all forms."

I laugh, grateful for her honesty, for the way she can defuse tension with a simple truth. "I guess they do."

We sit in silence for a few minutes, the car cooling around us. Through the windshield, I can see flowering bushes flanking her porch steps and a ceramic pot of chrysanthemums by the front door. It's a home, lived-in and loved, not just a house.

"Would you like to come in?" Maya asks suddenly. "For coffee—or tea, since it's late? I could show you around. Since this is probably where..." She hesitates. "Where the baby will grow up."

My pulse quickens at the invitation, at what it represents—trust, openness, a step forward. "I'd like that."

We get out of the car and walk up the stone path to her front porch. The steps creak slightly underfoot, and I notice a few places where the paint is peeling. Maya catches me looking.

"It needs work," she admits, digging through her purse for keys. "Dad was going to repaint, but he never got to it, and I just haven't had the time or energy."

"I could help," I offer, then worry it sounds presumptuous. "I mean, if you want. I'm pretty handy with a paintbrush."

She looks up from her key ring, surprise flitting across her features. "You don't have to do that."

"I know. But I'd like to." I shrug, trying for casual. "Grandpa Lou taught all his boys basic home maintenance. Said no Morrison should ever have to pay someone to do what they could learn to do themselves."

A small smile curves her lips. "I'll keep that in mind."

She unlocks the door and steps inside, flipping on a light switch. I follow, immediately hugged by the essence of Maya—old books and cinnamon.

"Welcome to my house," she says, a hint of self-consciousness in her voice. "It's not much, but it's home."

It's charming is what it is. The front door opens directly into a cozy living room with hardwood floors and a brick fireplace. Bookshelves line every available wall, stuffed to capacity and then some, with stacks of overflow piled neatly beside armchairs and on the coffee table. A faded but comfortable-looking sofa faces the fireplace, draped with a colorful knit throw.

"I love it," I say honestly.

Maya raises an eyebrow. "You don't have to be polite. I know it's small."

"I'm not being polite. It feels like a home." I move toward one of the bookshelves, scanning titles. "These organized by the Dewey Decimal System, Librarian Sullivan?"

She laughs. "God, no. That would be taking work home. They're loosely grouped by genre, then alphabetical by author. Except that shelf—" she points to one near the window "—which is just favorites, in no particular order."

I examine the favorites shelf, curious what it might reveal about her. Classic literature mingles with fantasy novels, poetry collections, and dog-eared paperback mysteries. I spot a well-worn copy of "The Night Circus" next to Octavia Butler's "Kindred" and a collection of Mary Oliver poems.

"Good taste," I comment.

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