Page 94 of Dream Chaser
The table legs were cracked and useless, but the slatted surface? Hand-planed. Solid wood. Worn in that beautiful way where you just know that Aunt Isobel and her friends chose to share meals and probably more gossip than they’d ever admit.
The second Mags spotted those two sawhorses behind a tower of Christmas decorations, and what we think might’ve been a poorly taxidermied raccoon—RIP—it was game on.
She stood there, grinning like a pirate discovering treasure. “Your aunt Isobel was low-key a badass.”
“High-key,” I corrected, hauling the table up by one edge and dragging it into the light. “She just hid it under cardigans, reading glasses, and words that held truth.”
I took the legs off myself, right there on the floor with my dad’s drill and the same quiet determination. I’ve already got plans to refinish the wood, sand, and seal it so it glows with that lived-in warmth. Maybe I’ll change it up and make it extendable one day, too, so it doesn’t always have to eat up the room when it’s just me, Mags, and Wile.
From the third-floor stash of Aunt Isobel’s household things, I found an entire set of mismatched, ridiculously charming dinner plates—each with tiny chips and faded designs—and enough silverware for a small army of dinner guests. There was even a reel of fabric in a dusky, floral pattern that Mags and I cut into the world’s most lopsided tablecloth. She tried to iron it. I told her not to get too attached.
“I swear,” I said, smoothing my hand over the tabletop, “once I bring this back to life, it won’t even need a cover.”
Mags didn’t argue. Just nodded like she could already see it.
But the real surprise? The rooftop access.
We found it behind a weird panel door at the top of the back stairwell. It creaked open like a secret passage—this place is full of them—and stairs. The door at the top wasn’t easy to open, which means it’s now impossible to fully close and will require Dad. So worth it. Wind biting, stars winking above the outline of the trees, and the village stretched out below us like something from a Hallmark Christmas movie.
We can see it all, Main Street’s twinkling lights, the flicker of TVs through windows, the football and field hockey fields at the school just beyond, still lit from a late practice.
Mags leans over the railing, grinning. “You know what this place needs?”
“Lights,” I say immediately. “And long benches. And that fire pit we saved to my Amazon cart.”
“And that ridiculous neon sign you like that says, ‘Get in loser, we’re making memories?’”
I laugh. “Absolutely.”
My heart swells in a way I wasn’t expecting—big, and bold, and a little bit scared. Because this? This is more than a table, or a rooftop, or a fixer-upper.
This is generations of life. It holds old and a promise of new memories.
A home that feels like me—messy, hopeful, grounded.
And I can already see it. All of it. The meals we’ll share. The people who’ll sit around the table. The plans for projects. The stories we’ll tell up here on this roof under the stars. And yeah, it’s just the beginning, but damn, it feels good.
And there on the rooftop, I see Syd and Boone carrying a dish as they walk across the street.
“You think we can totally see their bed from here and that maybe they should buy some blinds?” Mags giggles.
I glance over. “Hadn’t noticed, but look at Syd’s rooftop. It has endless possibilities.”
“Ours is bigger,” she jokes.
I realize something. “Boone part of the surprise I’m not supposed to know about?” I cross the rooftop to watch them walk in, highly sus about who else will be here.
“It went from girls’ night to housewarming dinner party,” Mags calls to me, already halfway to the door. “Let’s go.”
For freaking real?I scream in my head when I see Skinner’s ride pull up behind Riley and Hudson, who are behind Lo and Kolby.
And then …
There he is, getting out like he’s stepping out of a damn GQ spread disguised as casually chill. A black knit crewneck sweater that fits too well, hugging his broad chest and sculpted arms like it was made specifically to torment me. The hem rides just enough above his belt to tease a glimpse of the muscle carved just above his jeans—dark denim, low-slung, hugging those thighs that should probably be illegal in three states. But it’s the way he wears it. Effortless. Confident.
The sweater is pushed up to his elbows like he’s about to build a cabin or fight off a bear with his bare hands. There’s a leather watch on one wrist, that vein-porn thing happening on his forearms, and his hair …
Dammit,his hair.
