Page 107 of Dream Chaser
I turn and walk away toward the far end of the terminal, where there’s less of a crowd and no one’s trying to get a photo of me buying trail mix.
My phone buzzes.
Notification from IG. No new message. Just … me checking. Again. Like Iz might suddenly decide to text me something sarcastic or worse … No. We left it good. Real fucking good, actually.
God, I miss her already.
I didn’t think I’d get this twisted this fast when I finally fell, but I guess that’s why I avoided it. Izzy Ross is not one you can actually figure out from a distance. One minute, she’s all fire and attitude, snapping at you in flannel and dirt-smudged boots, and the next … she’s curled up next to you, sleepy and bare, smelling like lavender and ink, and maybe—no, definitely, the best night of your life. Maybe God above made her that way, the way she’s almost unapproachable but still warm. He knew whoever could get through that, adore who she is, was her guy. Pretty damn sure that guy is me.
And I’m in a damn airport, feeling like I left something more than just New York behind.
I rub the back of my neck, thinking about the way she kissed me before I left. No drama. No tears. But it was there in her eyes, same as mine—that ache, low and quiet. That thing that whispers,This is more.
“Final boarding call for Flight 432 to Gulfport-Biloxi.”
Finally.
I grab my duffel and head to the gate, nodding to the ticket agent like I’m not still mentally replaying her biting my lip and telling me to drive safe before watching me leave.
Iz Ross isa dreamer, and a total dream.
By the time the car turns down the long dirt drive, the sun’s dipped low behind the trees, casting everything in that sleepy gold.
It’s humid. Not that sharp winter bite like in New York—this is soft air, thick with pine and memory. My shirt sticks to my back by the time I step out of the car and take a slow look around.
It’s dusk now—sky lit up in hazy shades of violet and ember, like it’s on fire and fading at the same time. The Gulf shimmers below, calm, wide, and open. For a moment, I just … breathe.
This is where I wanted them. Not that two-bedroom fixer with the sagging porch and the attic fan that never worked right. Here. The best view in Nettle Ridge. No stairs, walk-in everything, and light that pours in through floor-to-ceiling windows like it’s coming home, too.
The house sits wide across the top of the ridge, white with deep green shutters and a wraparound porch that faces the Gulf on one side and the pines on the other. There’s a porch swing I installed myself—badly—but she still said it’s perfect. It was … after I hired someone to fix my fuck-up. Planters brimming with bright red salvia and rosemary line the path to the front door.
When I climb out of the SUV and shut the door behind me, I feel my chest crack open a little. Not from exhaustion or jet lag. Just … arriving.
The door swings open before I can even knock. And there she is.
Grand, in her house shoes and a faded Ole Miss sweatshirt, gray curls pinned up in a loose bun, face still sun-kissed from her morning walk. She doesn’t run to me, doesn’t cry. She smiles like she knew I’d be here, eventually.
“Griffon Elijah Skinner,” she says, folding her arms and raising one brow. “You got tall.”
“You’re shrinking,” I say, voice cracking like a damn rookie.
She doesn’t comment, just pulls me in and wraps those little arms around my middle.
“I missed you,” I mutter, holding on tighter than I should.
“I know, baby,” she says, hand patting my back. “I missed you more.”
I don’t move. Not right away. Because I realize that somewhere between the merch closet, the Philly game, and Iz’s mouth on mine, I forgot how to breathe without feeling like I was burning at both ends.
She pulls back and cups my cheek. “You hungry?”
Always the question.
I shake my head. “I’m okay. Just wanted to see you.”
She nods like she understands way more than what I’m saying. Then her eyes narrow, sharp in that way that makes me feel twelve again and hiding scraped knees behind too-big jeans.
“Let’s get inside, fix you a plate.”
