Page 30 of Hometown Heart

"You know," Jack said quietly as I handed him his mug, "this isn't how I expected today to go."

"No?" I leaned against the counter beside him, our shoulders almost touching. "What did you expect?"

"Honestly? I thought you'd need more time. After this morning..." He paused, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. "This is new."

"Good new or bad new?"

"Good. Definitely good." He turned the mug in his hands. "Like a lot of things today."

Cody had moved on to sketching what looked like improvement plans for the display case, complete with helpful arrows and enthusiastic exclamation points.

"I did need time," I admitted. "Just not as much as I thought. Sometimes you have to drive to Camden to understand what's right in front of you."

Jack set his mug down and turned to face me fully. "And what did you figure out?"

I thought about the leather armchair I'd left behind in the antique shop, about all the possibilities it had represented. "That I'm tired of watching life happen from behind the counter. Maybe it's time to see what happens when I leave the shop."

"And would that involve someone specific?"

"Yeah." I smiled, feeling lighter than I had in weeks. "Someone specific and his hot chocolate-obsessed kid."

"Hey!" Cody protested without looking up from his drawings. "I'm diversifying into coffee soon. Sarah said so."

"Did she now?" I shot Jack an amused look. "We'll see about that."

Jack laughed, and the sound seeped into the walls. Outside, Whistleport was settling into its evening routine—lobster boats returning to the harbor while shop lights blinked on along Main Street. Soon, the first stars would appear over the water.

"So," Jack said softly, his hand finding mine again. "What happens now?"

I intertwined our fingers, no longer afraid of what that simple touch might mean. "Now? Now, we are restoring an antique display case. And maybe figure out what else we can build together."

"I like that plan," he said and squeezed my hand.

Across the café, Cody held up his sketch, beaming with pride. "Look! I added a special shelf for hockey stick marshmallows!"

And just like that, I knew—some things didn't need to be complicated. Sometimes, they only needed to be real.

Chapter ten

Jack

The house creaked and settled around me as I stirred ground beef in the skillet. Without Cody's running commentary about hockey stats or school drama, I noticed the small sounds I usually missed—the sizzle of cooking meat, the hum of the refrigerator, and the scrape of my wooden spoon against cast iron.

I'd gotten used to cooking while fielding questions about teammate lineups or the relative distance from Earth to Jupiter. Now, the kitchen felt amazingly large and empty. I caught myself turning to answer questions that hadn't been asked.

The beef started to brown, and I realized I was making enough for two. Force of habit. I reached for the taco seasoning—Cody's favorite—then stopped myself. I could make anything I wanted—something spicy, complex, and adult.

I opened the cabinet, and it paralyzed me because there were too many options.

My phone buzzed against the counter. It was a text message:

Silas:Got the first layer of varnish stripped. This old oak has stories to tell

Attached was a photo of the display case, its surface partially revealed beneath decades of dark stain. Silas had captured the way the grain swooped and curled like waves frozen in wood.

I touched the screen and zoomed in on a detail in the background—Silas's grandfather's tools laid out with careful precision. It hinted at a systematic approach that would be like what I'd do with a restoration project.

I thought about one of the stacks of moving boxes I still hadn't unpacked. I'd labeled them TOOLS. They contained a variety of implements needed for detail work—chisels, planes, fine-grit sandpaper.

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