Page 81 of Wildflower and Whiskey
He handed Braden back, pressed a kiss to my hair as if it were the most natural thing in the world, then headed for the stairs. “I will watch the road while you walk the boxes over,” he said. “Text Becket when you leave. He will have eyes along the lane.”
The minute he was gone, Phoenix looked at me. “Ready?”
I glanced around the loft, at the futon we’d turned into a bed more nights than not, at the small table with the wildflowers Phoenix had insisted I deserved, at the crib space that would be empty for a few hours. My chest ached the way it did when you knew you were leaving something you’d built with your own hands, even if you were walking toward something better.
“Ready,” I said and meant it.
We did the move in loops. I was used to walking past Phoenix’s house daily so I’d taken in all its features. The tall maples in the front yard. The stone and wood and tall windows, but I’d never been inside before. This place didn’t exist when we were growing up. Phoenix had commissioned the build himself. We walked over side by side. Me pushing Braden in his stroller and Phoenix using a wheelbarrow to move the boxes over. The porch smelled like wet leaves and cut cedar. He shouldered the first box and led us in.
“Welcome home,” he said simply.
If he’d made a speech, I might have laughed or cried. But the two words, unadorned, were the exact size of what I could carry.
The house Phoenix built sat low against the horizon, an L-shaped sweep of dark cedar and glass that blended into the orchard behind it. It wasn’t fancy, nothing about Phoenix ever was, but it had purpose. The main stretch of the bungalow ran long and low, its roofline sharp and clean, while the shorter wingheld the garage with the loft above the place Braden and I had begun to call home.
Now, though, I was movingin. Not upstairs. Not just for convenience. Intohishouse. The inside was exactly what I’d imagined. Warm wood stretched across the floors, the grain rich and deep. The walls were a soft clay tone, rough in texture, like they’d been sanded but never polished. The air smelled like cedar, coffee, and faintly of the varnish he used on his brewery shelves.
The kitchen was wide open, anchored by a farmhouse table made from reclaimed maple, and a row of heavy beams that divided it from the living room. It wasn’t picture-perfect but this place waslived in. A set of mismatched mugs lined the counter; the same cast-iron pot Angela always teased him about sat on the stove. His cookbooks were stacked in one corner, their spines worn, standing guard beside a bowl that always caught his keys. A few of his tools hung neatly on a pegboard in the mudroom off to the right.
The whole house felt like him, steady, functional, but warm where it counted.
Phoenix set the first box on the table and turned toward me; his expression thoughtful. “So… I was thinking.”
I tilted my head. “Dangerous start.”
That earned a quiet laugh from him, low and warm. “I was going to put you in the east room. Gets the morning sun, it’s quieter than the loft and less drafty. But. . .” he hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck like he wasn’t sure he should say it. “That’s not really what I want to offer.”
My heart tripped. “Okay.”
He shook his head slowly. “Unless you’d rather have your own space, I’d rather have you inourroom. Mine’s right off the hall. Braden can take the one beside it.” His voice dropped lower, softer. “Feels right that way.”
The words hit somewhere deep.Our room.It wasn’t just an offer; it was a question wrapped in a promise.
“You’re sure?” I asked quietly.
He looked at me like he couldn’t imagine anything else. “Yeah. I built this place for someday. I just didn’t know someday would walk back into town with a baby and make me want to start now.”
I didn’t trust my voice, so I nodded and finally I got out a, “Yes, I want that too.”
Braden kicked in his stroller, letting out a delighted squeal that broke the spell. Phoenix grinned and bent to scoop him up, settling him on his hip with practiced ease. “All right, tour guide,” he said, his voice gentler now. “Let’s show your mom her new room.”
He led us down the hall. The door to his bedroom opened with a soft creak, revealing a space that was pure Phoenix: masculine, simple, but undeniably warm. The walls were a rich, matte gray, the bed was king-sized and the frame looked like reclaimed oak, which dominated the center of the room. Thick flannel sheets and a worn leather chair sat near the window overlooking the orchard. A bookshelf stood half full of tool manuals, brewery notebooks, and a few dog-eared novels that surprised me.
“This is you,” I said quietly.
“Guilty.” He smiled faintly. “The room next to this one. . .” He gestured to the adjoining door. “…was supposed to be a home office. I never used it. Thought we could turn it into Braden’s room.”
I stepped inside, feeling the warmth of him in the air, the faint scent of cedar and soap. “It’s perfect.”
Phoenix set Braden down on the bed, where he immediately started smacking the pillow and giggling. “You like it, little man?” Phoenix asked.
Braden squealed in approval, kicking.
The moment felt quiet and right. I turned to him. “I can’t believe you’re doing all this for us.”
He closed the distance between us, his gaze steady. “I feel like you’re doing this for me. When I think of my life before you and Braden came into it. . .I was all about work. I wasn’t living.”
Something in my chest melted.
