Page 36 of A Baby For Her Billionaire BFF

As he clears the plates, I let my mind wander to the upcoming trip. I have no illusions about the challenge ahead; going home is never simple, and for Oliver, it’s a dive into deep waters. I catch myself worrying if I’ll be enough — if my presence can offer any real solace against the history and hurt that awaits him.

But then I look at him, see the determination set in his jaw, the way he seems to stand taller now that he’s not facing this alone, and something inside me settles. I don’t have all the answers, and maybe I won’t always say the right thing or make the perfect choices. But none of that matters. What matters is that I’m committed to trying and to being the support he needs in whatever form that takes.

“Hey.” His voice snaps me out of my thoughts. “Thank you for saying yes.”

“I want to go,” I reply because that’s the truth of it.

No matter how hard this trip might be for him — or for us — I’d rather weather any storm by his side than take shelter on my own.

CHAPTER 19

OLIVER

The hum of the rental car is a soothing backdrop to my racing thoughts. I grip the steering wheel tighter as we pass the faded sign welcoming us to my hometown — a small blip on the map of Pennsylvania that seems forgotten by time and prosperity. Nora sits beside me, her gaze taking in the scenery with an insatiable curiosity that warms me.

“Wow, it’s like time stood still here,” she says, her breath fogging up the window as she leans closer to get a better look at the sleepy storefronts we pass.

“Yep, hasn’t changed much since I was a kid,” I respond, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.

But how could it change? This town is a snapshot from a past life — my past life — one I left behind almost a decade ago when ambitions for something greater led me away.

I steal a glance at Nora, expecting — what, exactly? Pity? Discomfort? But she’s just watching, her eyes reflecting a kind of tender understanding that makes me feel exposed but not judged. It’s a gift she has — to see things and somehow make them feel less daunting. And right now, I’m grateful for it because this place, these memories, they’re heavy.

“Here we are,” I announce as we turn onto a gravel driveway that leads to a cabin that appears so run-down it looks like it might crumble if the wind blows too hard.

My childhood home.

Nora’s hand finds mine, a silent show of solidarity that gives me the strength to put the car in park and face what comes next. We step out into the crisp air, and I’m hit with the smell of wet earth and woodsmoke — a scent that feels like another lifetime.

“It definitely has… character.” She turns to survey the house. Her voice is gentle, without even a hint of the judgment I had braced myself for.

“Character, huh?” I chuckle despite the tightness in my chest. “Yeah, I guess you could call it that.”

She steps closer, tilting her head as she examines the peeling paint and the shutters hanging askew. “It tells a story. It’s part of who you are.” Her words aren’t just empty platitudes; they’re genuine, and they reach something deep inside me.

“Thanks.” I don’t know what else to say, how to convey the storm of emotions swirling inside me — the fear, the relief, the nostalgia.

We walk up the steps together, the wooden planks creaking under our feet. I pause with my hand in a fist, drawing in a deep breath as I prepare to step back into a world I left behind. A world that shaped me, for better or worse.

“Ready?” she asks, her eyes meeting mine.

“Ready,” I affirm, though it feels like a lie. But with Nora here, standing firm by my side, maybe I can believe it’s close enough to the truth.

And then I knock.

“Come in,” my mother’s voice — one I haven’t heard in person in years — says from inside.

The hinges groan a protest as the door swings open, and there she is — my mom, framed in the hallway doorway like a relic from another life. It’s not just the years that have carved deeper lines into her face; it’s from living in this town, a place where dreams are as thin as the mountain air.

“Oliver,” she breathes out my name, and it sounds like a prayer of thanks or maybe surprise.

Her eyes flick to Nora beside me, and her smile broadens, crinkling the corners of those weary eyes. “And you must be Nora.”

“Mrs. Wolfe, it’s so lovely to meet you,” Nora says, with that grace she carries like an aura.

My mom beams, and for a moment, I see a flicker of the woman who used to spin stories of the stars above our heads to put me to sleep.

“Call me Abigail, dear. Please, come in. Don’t mind the mess.” She steps aside to let us pass.

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