Page 22 of The Love Comeback
“You’re not asking,” he cuts in. “I’m offering. Big difference.”
I run a hand through my hair, torn between my stubborn independence and the reality that I couldreallyuse the help. “I don’t know…”
“Think about it,” Kade says, taking a step toward the front door. “No pressure. But the offer stands.”
I nod, following him to the door. “I will. And really, thank you for tonight. It meant a lot to Colton.”
“It meant a lot to me, too,” Kade says, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes my heart stutter. “I’m glad you guys could save me from a totally wasted night.”
I manage a small smile. “Well, your disaster date was our gain, I guess.”
He laughs, the sound dissolving some of the tension between us. “Definitely. Anyway, I should go. Let you get some rest.”
“Yeah,” I agree, even as something within me wants to ask him to stay, to help me unpack just one box, to sit with me on my couch and talk about nothing in particular. “Drive safe.”
“Always do,” he says with a grin that takes me straight back to high school, to stolen kisses in his truck and promises we were too young to keep.
I watch as he walks down my front path, the porch light casting long shadows behind him.
“Hey, Kade?” I call out as he’s about to climb into his truck.
“Yeah?” He turns around.
I bite my lip, suddenly feeling a rush of nerves. “Colton’s having a sleepover at Aaron’s Friday night. Would you … maybe want to come over and help me build my bookshelf? It’s from IKEA, and it’s got about a million screws…”
His eyes widen in surprise, but a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “I’d love to,” he says without missing a beat. “Just let me know what time works for you.”
“Great. I’ll text you Friday.”
“Sounds good.” He grins and hops into his truck, the engine rumbling to life in the quiet night. I stay in the doorway until his taillights disappear, trying to ignore the way my heart feels a little lighter than it did before.
It’s only when I close the door that I realize I’m smiling.
Chapter Nine
Kade
My grip tightens around the handle of my toolbox as I stand on Ella’s front porch, suddenly feeling like a teenager again.
It’s just a bookshelf.
I’ve faced down 100-mph slap shots with less anxiety than I’m feeling right now about helping my high school sweetheart put together some Swedish furniture. But there’s something about the way Ella looked at me when she asked for help—a mixture of reluctance and need—that has me determined to be useful to her, even if it’s just for one evening.
I knock twice, shifting my weight as I wait. The neighborhood is quiet, peaceful—exactly the kind of place where a kid could ride his bike safely or play street hockey with friends. It’s not flashy by any means, but I can see why Ella chose it for Colton.
The door swings open a momentlater, and there she is, wearing a faded university t-shirt and jeans with her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun. A few stray strands frame her face, and there’s a smudge of what looks to be dust on her cheek. Something inside me aches at the sight of her looking so much like the girl I used to know, yet undeniably changed by everything she’s been through.
“Hey,” she says, a small smile playing on her lips.
“I come bearing tools and moderate IKEA assembly skills.” I hold up my toolbox.
“Perfect.” She steps aside to let me in, closing the door behind me. “Sorry about the mess. I’ve been unpacking all day, and since we’re putting together the bookshelf, I went ahead and brought in my boxes of books from the garage…”
My eyes scan the space, noting the careful organization despite the chaos. There’s a method to the madness—boxes labeled by room, essentials already unpacked, a clear path through it all.
I set my toolbox down. “This is nothing to apologize for. Moving is a marathon, not a sprint.”
“Tell that to my back,” she jokes, reaching up to massage her shoulder. “I’ve discovered muscles I didn’t know existed.”
