Page 199 of Money Reigns
The terminal feels too bright, too loud, too busy. I keep my head down, clutching my bag like it’s armor as I walk through the sliding glass doors.
And then I see them.
Logan, tall and gruff in his Baker’s Inn fleece-lined jacket, the logo stitched just above his heart, arms crossed like a sentinel against the cold. Chase, the only sandy blond in the family, bundled in a flannel and puff vest, jeans still dirt-stained, crooked smile already tugging at his mouth as he opens his arms wide. And Dean; messy brown hair peeking out beneath a knit beanie, the tallest of the three, barrels past them, the strongest as always.
“Baby sis!” Dean shouts, scooping me up before I can even breathe. My bags drop to the ground as he spins me, planting a noisy kiss against my cheek. I can’t help laughing through the sting in my eyes.
Chase is next, pulling me into his arms, squeezing tight. “Happy birthday, Livvy,” he murmurs against my hair.
Logan doesn’t say much. He just grabs my bags like it’s nothing and hauls them to the truck. When he comes back, he opens the back door for me. For a second, his gaze pins mine.
“You good?”
The shame crashes over me like a wave. They know. Of course they know. I’d called Dad in the rideshare on the way here, sobbing like a child. God, what a loser.
I climb in anyway, sliding onto the bench seat. Chase slips in beside me, wraps an arm around my shoulders, and tugs me against him until my head rests in his lap. His hand strokes slow and steady through my hair, the way he used to when I was little and scared of thunderstorms.
Dean climbs into the passenger seat, already fiddling with the radio. Logan takes the driver’s side, all silent focus as the engine rumbles to life. Music fills the cab, something upbeat, and we pull away from the curb.
The windows fog a little from our breath, the heat blasting, but I still can’t seem to get warm.
My chest aches and I wonder if I made the biggest mistake of my life.
Or maybe… maybe this is better.
Maybe I should just stay here.
I haven’t been home for two Christmases.
Two whole years of excuses. Work. Life.Warren.
Being back in Brokenwoods feels strange, like slipping into a sweater that used to fit but now hangs differently.
Dean’s the one who breaks the quiet. “We’re out of the city.”
I push up, straightening in the back seat, and press my hand to the window. The world outside changes, slower, softer, familiar.
Main Street rolls by, every shop stubbornly the same. The florist with the crooked sign. The bakery where I used to spend my last five bucks just to buy a single lemon square.
The restaurant where I had lunches with Ella every Saturday, where we thought coffee and fries were rebellion.
The truck slows, turning down our street, and my breath catches.
The park, dusted in snow. The swings still rusted. The bench where I had my first kiss at thirteen with a boy who smelled like bubblegum and too much body spray.
My chest twists.
Across the street from our house looms the Inn.
Baker’s Inn.
Our whole messy legacy.
It looks the same. Exactly the same. As if the years I spent away didn’t happen. My heart drops heavy in my chest.
“Mom’s watching the front desk for me,” Logan says gruffly as he kills the engine.
“And Pops is in the house,” Chase adds, turning with a crooked grin. “Waiting for you, Livvy.”
