Move back, rent, and stash my money for another IVF cycle. In six to eight months, I should have enough to try again.
I tell myself it’s worth it as I head back down the hill by way of High School Drive, slowing to check out the school’s new digital sign before I steer back into the heart of the historic district.
Damn, the trees are big. So tall. I had forgotten. I had forgotten how ornate the old, iron-gated cemetery. How many gazebos are there downtown, bejeweling medians? I drive past the old train depot, down Stars Boulevard, under the swaying mossy oaks, and turn onto Stripes, a long, straight line of pristine homes, and see my destination towering amongst the oaks.
Fendall House—three stories of Italianate grandeur. The levels are square-ish, stacked like tiers of wedding cake: the bottom with a wide front porch and ornate columns, the middle with a balcony that hangs over the porch, and the top, a small, white square with delicate latticework, known to people who love old things as a widow’s walk.
The windows, fixtures, and hardwood are all original, circa 1860. The small, square windows around the mahogany double doors are made of unique red glass. Inside the mansion, high-ceilinged halls lead to richly appointed parlors and bedrooms dominated by to-die-for antiques. Even the ceiling fans on the front porch are beautiful and delicate. Ever since I was a little girl, this was my favorite of Fate’s hallmark homes.
When my Grandma Ellis mentioned that the owner, her friend Miss Shorter, was renting out a portion of the second floor to bring in extra income, I jumped at the chance to live here. Bonus points: my mom lives just a block and a half north.
I press the U-Haul’s brakes and take a long swig of my water as I peer up at my new home base. I remind myself I’m fortunate to live somewhere so beautiful, even if it’s only temporary. I think of all the fun nights Kat and I will have, and Lainey, my other hometown bestie, when she’s not with her husband.
I can knit in peace here, maybe even in the widow’s walk. I’ll stock the refrigerator with flavored water, my favorite yogurt, fruit and vegetables, and fresh-shot venison. I’ll carve a pumpkin here, and hang my white coat on the back of the creaky bedroom door. At night, after work, I’ll watch Game of Thrones, This is Us, HGTV.
It’ll be okay. I’ll be okay back here in Fate.
It’s weird, and yes, a little stifling, but I can do this. I can live a happy, small-town life. I’m thirty-two now. I can handle anything. If this last year has proven anything to me, it’s that.
Just have to wait a little longer for my happy ending…
I climb out of the truck and take my time pushing the U-Haul’s cargo door open, looking in at all my things, deciding what to unload first. This could take hours. Hopefully, it will. I need the workout—and the time to clear my head.
I climb inside the truck and grab two small things first: my favorite Elvis lamp and a box of yarn and clay, easy pickings for my first trip up the stairs to my rented digs. Then I grab my purse off the truck’s rear ledge, step down, and—
“Oofh!”
I blink at the wall I’ve just slammed into. At first, I think I’m seeing things. I blink a few times, fast, to try to magic him away. Hallucination. But…he’s not.
His curly hair is wild and dark, just like it always was. His blue-gray eyes—more blue, although he claims they’re gray—are just as sharp as I recall. His face is still so striking: dark brows over a stern, strong nose, and high cheekbones. My gaze skates over his rich mouth, and I realize I’d forgotten how beautiful he is.
Gabriel McKellan is famous at least in part because he looks like such a god. The familiarity of him hits me like a ball of ice right to the gut, but where he’s different makes me warm. That stubble-beard, the way his jaw is sharper, shoulders thicker. My gaze skates down his white t-shirt, pasted over rigid abs. I note his forearms—thicker, tanned—before appraising jeans-clad thighs.
One of them flexes.
Shit.
My errant gaze jerks back up, where I find his features twisted in a scowl.
“What are you doing?” he asks roughly.
“What?”
Gabe’s brows pinch together, and he glares behind me, at the truck. “What are you doing, Marley?”
I look around the quiet, leaf-strewn street, trying to figure out not what I’m doing, but why I’m seeing him here. Nothing looks amiss, though. Nothing to suggest I’ve had a mental break.
“I’m moving back to Fate. Today,” I add, my voice a shaky notch above its normal octave.
Shock cocoons me as I look up at his face: Gabe, whom I haven’t seen in twelve years. Gabe, whom I last saw through the crack of a door in an apartment in Las Vegas. His eye was swollen and his nose was bleeding. I remember thinking, He hates me.
He looks like he hates me now. I run my dumb gaze up and down him one more time, and notice his foot tapping the curb. Even barefoot on the sidewalk, he’s commanding. Domineering.
I inhale slowly, bringing my heart-rate down a notch, so my voice is steady when I ask, “Where are your shoes?”
“Why are you here in that truck?”
“Because I’m moving in?” It’s not a question, but it sounds like one. I bug my eyes out in response to his mean stare. “What are you doing here? Did your shoes go in the toilet with your mood?”
His glare deepens. “They’re inside.”
I blink at the porch behind him, where I notice a white dog sitting beside a rocking chair. “Inside where?” I ask.
“Inside the house.” Gabe shakes his head, his jaw locked like an angry sentry.
“What is going on?” My heart begins to pound again. “Are you my nightmare greeting party?”
“I’m your warning party.”
“Warning what?”
Gabe’s jaw ticks. “I live here.” His gaze flickers to my truck again. “That means you’re going to need to find yourself another place.”
Is he insane? My head spins. “You live in New York.”
For just an instant, I feel sure this is a joke: a TV joke.
“Is there a hidden camera?” I ask lamely.
“Of course not. And I’m serious. You can’t stay.”
“I’m on the top floor. I already rented it!”
“I’m sure there’s something else.”
“Are you kidding? I was told the top floor is its own unit. Are you on the bottom? Because you’ll just have to deal with me.”
“Will I?”
I can feel my neck flush at his tone. “Yes, you will. Put on some big boy pants. I hear you’re Mr. Famous now. Go buy a house if you can’t wipe that scowl off your face.”
“Fendall House is mine already. Miss Shorter has me fixing the place up.”
“Is this the Twilight Zone? Just go away, Gabe! No one needs you here!”
He steps down off the curb, so that he’s standing in the street beside me: tall and wide, his thick arms crossed as his eyes narrow. “You were never skilled at confrontation, were you, Marley? You won’t win this.”
“Win what? I don’t need permission!”
“Don’t you?”
I flinch, and my cheeks burn. “I can’t believe you’re being such an asshole.”
“I recall that being your opinion.”