Page 32 of The Contractor's Rose
I laughed, padding across the room and wrapping my arms around his waist. I tucked myself against him, breathing him in. He kissed the top of my head like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Let’s go eat, sweet girl,” he said quietly.
And this time, when he led me back down the hallway, I wasn’t thinking about the mess or the risk or what came next.I was only thinking about how good it felt to belong somewhere.
Even if that somewhere was just the warmth of his shirt.
EIGHTEEN
GAVIN
She lookedridiculous in my shirt. Ridiculously perfect.
We’d just finished dinner—a stir fry of chicken and vegetables, nothing fancy. The sight of Rose sitting at my kitchen table in a black cotton shirt stamped with my company’s logo, sleeves rolled up over her delicate wrists, her hair a little less-than-perfect from the countertop events earlier, made my chest tighten in the way it always did when something felttoo good. Her legs were crossed beneath her, bare except for the oversized boxers that she’d cinched tight at the waist with a few rolls. I hadn’t even realized how much I’d missed this until now.
A woman. At my table.
Sharing a meal with someone else.
It felt … normal. But not in anaveragenormal way. In the kind of way that gut punches you with how much you'd needed and missed something so simple without realizing it.
I couldn’t stop stealing glances at her. I loved watching her tuck loose strands of hair behind her ear. The way she’d smiled when she took the first bite and still seemed shocked Icould cook something edible … besides a cup of hot chocolate and a grilled cheese. The way her index finger on her free hand kept tapping the edge of her plate like all of her energy was directed to that one movement.
Christ, I was a goner.
Dinner conversation had been light. She asked about my crew and teased me about my wardrobe choices always lacking color. We argued playfully about whether pineapple belonged on pizza. She agreed to disagree on that one—however, I planned to work on that because it certainly does.
But now the house was quiet again.
This, the quietness of two people sitting at this table, is what I’d gotten used to over the last decade. That is, on the very rare occasions—mainly only holidays—when Teagan joined me.
After we lost Vanessa, meals were … silent. Tense. We either avoided each other altogether or sat across the table from one another like strangers. She didn’t want to talk, and I didn’t know how to push her without breaking her more than she had already been broken.
Eventually, I stopped trying. Not because I wanted to but because she was seventeen, almost eighteen, when we lost her mother. I had tried everything to get her back—to get back even just a sliver of the wild, energetic, kind-of-reckless, but caring daughter we’d raised. Nothing worked. Shortly after the house was finished, she chose to move into the guest house out back. While I hated the fact that it shut me out more, I was at least happy to know she was safe.
I got used to eating alone. On the couch with whatever was on the TV, or out on the deck, staring out at the trees behind the house with a beer in my hand and the weight of my own failures dragging down my shoulders. I didn’t hatethe silence—it was easier than watching someone you love look through you like you weren’t there. Or worse, like you’d caused all the pain they ever felt.
“Thank you for dinner,” Rose said softly.
I blinked, pulled back to the present, and noticed a smile on those perfect lips.
“You’re welcome,” I muttered.
She looked around, eyes sweeping over the open floorplan. The kitchen spilled into the living room, and just beyond that, dark-paned double doors led out to the deck. Her brow furrowed gently and then she hummed to herself. Not judging. Just thinking.
“What’s on your mind, sweetheart?”
She looked back at me, her voice slow and thoughtful. “It’s just … this place doesn’t really feel like you.”
That surprised me.
I followed her gaze out into the space. Clean lines. Neutral colors. Everything coordinated. Comfortable, sure, but notlived in.
I exhaled through my nose. “That’s because it’s not.”
She looked at me curiously.
I pushed my plate away and rested my forearms on the table. “A home’s not the wood or walls. It’s who’s inside it. And for the last nine years … it’s felt pretty damn empty here.”
