Page 84 of Lovewell Lane

“Before five,” I said. “Tessa’s still asleep. You’ve got time.”

“What do you think the odds are that my mom left town overnight?”

I laughed and pulled the blankets over her head. “Keep dreaming, baby. Maybe you can escape her there.

She peeled the blanket back with a sigh and sat up. “I have to go deal with her.”

“Now?”

“She’s probably sold all of my belongings and bought us two plane tickets by now.”

I pushed out of bed and watched her lazily walk into the bathroom. She sleepily brushed her teeth and got ready for the day.

“You want breakfast?” I asked from my place, leaning on the door frame.

“I don’t have time.”

I pushed off of the door to stand up straight. “You’re not facing your mother on an empty stomach. I’ll make eggs and toast.”

She huffed but didn’t protest any further.

We ate quietly at the counter, her bare knee bumping mine. She didn’t pull away.

When she kissed me goodbye, it was casual, and something that had quickly become familiar. It had only been three days since we decided to take things slow, and she’d already dug her claws into my heart that would be painful to rip out.

The day didn’t slow down after our quiet morning together.

By noon, I was in the barn, coffee in one hand with the other on my hip while I went over final prep with each of the department leads for the Honey Festival.

“So far we’re on track,” Bailey said, ticking off items on her clipboard. “It would be helpful to know a better estimate for how much we need to have prepped day-of. Otherwise, we’ll be wasting product.”

“The mayor isn’t giving out any numbers. Our best bet is to prepare for anything,” I said.

She grimaced. “That’s the plan.”

We finished the walkthrough, reviewed logistics, and triple-checked the quality of all processed goods. This was the kind of environment I thrived in. It was structured and left no room for error.

But my head wasn’t in it. Not really.

Every time I had a second to breathe, I kept thinking about her. How tired she looked walking out this morning. How comfortable she looked sitting at my table eating breakfast with me. How stressed about her mother she was, even when she was half asleep in my bed.

At one point during a lull, I pulled out my phone, unable to not talk to her for a second longer.

If I was with you right now I’d be finding excuses to drag you into your office and put my mouth on that spot behind your ear that makes your brain stop working.

She didn’t reply right away. But three minutes later, I watched those three dots appear on the screen.

Are you sexting me, Derek? I guess old dogs can learn new tricks.

And at work? I’ll bring my apron home tonight and you can see what it looks like without anything underneath it.

I bit my fist and screwed my eyes shut for a quick second before composing myself. Tucking the phone away, I took a long breath. She knew what that apron did to me. Something about seeing her in it made me picture her baking in my kitchen after sunset just for me. In that daydream, she has a ring on her finger.

That night, I swung the front door for Margo open just after sunset. She was later than usual. I turned to give her a hug when I discovered… that it wasn’t Margo. It was her mother.

“Oh, hello,” she purred.

“Ms. Sinclair,” I greeted.

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