Page 144 of Book and Ladder
“And bought me a house?” I chuckle at the absurdity.
“I didn’t buy it. Not yet. The people of Waterford did this. They raised funds, wrote notes and letters expressing what Moss and Maple has meant to them over the years—what you mean to them. Some gave a token of appreciation, others were beyond generous. Waterford wants you to keep the doors of Moss and Maple open—only they’ll be different doors." He pauses and looks down at me. His eyes are glassy with emotion. “I hoped maybe we could have a fresh start?”
I get the feeling he’s talking about more than my bookshop now—more than this house.
Tears well in my eyes. Patrick turns to face me—still tentative, but no longer holding back. The memory of the last time he stood this close crashes over me. My fingers ache to reach for him. My heart thrums with longing. Whatever kept me from him has washed away in the river of his apology, the rain of his confession, and the mist of his kindness.
Instead of the kiss I half expect, he pulls a slightly bent stack of papers out of his back pocket—tied with a ribbon.
“Also, there’s this.” He smiles softly.
An envelope rests on top.
I read the scrawled writing on the front: To Daisy from both of us.
“Both of you?” My brows lift.
“Me—and the podcast host,” his quiet laugh warms me.
I can’t help smiling at him, a breath of laughter mingling with his.
Pulling the note out of the bundle, I thumb through the remaining brochures.
“Patrick?” My voice wobbles.
“Those are all MFA programs,” he says. “Ones you can complete online—with residency options.”
My breath hitches, a tear threatens to spill.
“I cost you your shot at Vanderbilt,” he says, his voice rough, a rasp that catches at the edges of his words. “It’s not too late. You always were a gifted writer. If you still want that dream, don’t let anything—or anyone—stop you.”
“You didn’t keep me from Vanderbilt. Your dad made you miss our presentation. When you didn’t show, I gave up. Maybe my opportunity was blown—but I never looked into any other options. I was too hurt, too disillusioned.” I need him to hear this. My eyes are wide and focused on his. “It wasn’t your fault, Patrick.”
Any residual anger, hostility or blame I’ve carried toward him lifts—floating away like morning fog. What’s left when I stare into his eyes is an all-consuming warmth. New. Unfamiliar. Somehow, home.
His expression softens. “You mean that?”
“I do. You let me down that day. But it was out of your control. What I did after? That’s on me.”
“Are we actually burying the hatchet?” he asks, a playful glint in his eye.
“I’ve wanted to bury the hatchet for a long time,” I say, lifting a brow and smiling at him.
Am I flirting? Most definitely.
“In my head,” he finishes for me.
“Or other body parts. I wasn’t going to be picky.”
He laughs, low and warm, and I feel the heat caress me from the inside out. His hand tugs gently at my back. Goosebumps travel up my arms.
His voice drops low. “We should’ve called a truce years ago. We wasted so much time.”
I can only hum in agreement. I’m dizzy from his nearness—his warmth, his touch, the faint scent of campfire and something undeniably him.
“I’m ready now, Daisy.” His words are a declaration.
“Ready for?” My voice quavers, telling him how ready I am. But I need to hear him say it.
