Page 130 of Nice Guys Don't Kiss Like That At Christmas
“Which timeline?”
Eve’s elbow finds my ribs.“You’re hilarious, Harrison.”
“First up,” Sally announces after Wes’s toast, “the official adoption papers for LoverBoy!”
LoverBoy prances toward us with an envelope attached to his collar.
“We were going to wait,” Eve says quietly, “but it felt right to make it official before we leave.He’s officially part of our family now.”
“Our family,” I repeat, the words settling in my chest.
“And,” she continues nervously, “I’ve been thinking about something else too.”
Inside Noelle’s folder is a photo of Mama Bear, her black coat gleaming, green eyes staring with that mixture of wariness and hard-won trust.
“All her kittens have been adopted,” Eve explains.“But no one wants to take on an older cat with trust issues who needs time to let everyone see the real them.Sound like anyone we know?”
“You want to adopt her?”My voice comes out rough.
“If you’re okay with it, of course.But I noticed the way you were talking about it.And we can discuss it if you want.I thought maybe she could use a family who understands that trust takes time.That sometimes the most defensive ones are just protecting themselves because they’ve been hurt before.”
“That’s...perfect,” I manage.
“And finally,” my father says, “something Eve and I have been discussing.”
“It’s preliminary,” Eve says quickly, “but we’ve been talking about integrated care facilities.I could continue brainstorming since the school nurse job is 65%.”
“Starting with pet daycare facilities adjacent to medical centers in Sandwich Bay,” my father adds.
“And emergency pet care for patients requiring extended hospital stays,” Eve adds, the words tumbling out like she can’t contain them.“We’ve started drafting an initial proposal for funding.Just the bones, really.There’s still a long way to go, but—”
“But it’s a start,” my father finishes, his eyes crinkling at the corners.“And a damn good one.”
I look at Eve standing there with our dogs, planning our future, combining our professional dreams into something bigger than either of us imagined.Something that would help people and animals alike.Something that might have helped her years ago, when she was fighting.
“So,” she says, those whiskey eyes watching me carefully, “what do you think?”
I answer her the only way I can: I kiss her, right there in front of everyone, not giving a single damn who sees.Because some things matter more than being proper or maintaining distance or worrying what others might think.
When we break apart, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright.
“I think,” I say, voice rough with emotion I don’t try to hide, “that Sandwich Bay doesn’t know what’s about to hit it.”
The room erupts in cheers and whistles, and for once, I don’t mind the noise, the attention, the eyes on me.Because they’re on us. Together.
Mike raises his glass, his quiet voice somehow cutting through the chaos.“To Adam and Eve,” he says simply.“May your second chances be better than your first.”
“To second chances,” the room echoes.
And as Eve leans against me, our dogs at our feet and our friends surrounding us, I understand something I’ve spent years trying to figure out:
Sometimes the most healing thing you can do isn’t fixing others.
Sometimes it’s letting others see that you need fixing too.
Sometimes it’s standing in a room full of people who love you, holding the hand of the woman who knows every broken piece of you and loves you anyway, and simply accepting that you are exactly where you’re meant to be.
Not alone.Not the reliable one everyone depends on.
