Page 12 of Open Arms

“Well, we won’t keep you. Dinner’s at seven. And if you need anything else, just holler.”

“Thank you, Mason. I appreciate it.” She didn’t step any closer, nor did I expect her to. This apparent dance of ours had rules neither of us fully understood yet.

“Let’s go, Abby. Let Chloe get back to it.”

“Bye, Miss Chloe!” Abby waved enthusiastically.

“Bye, Miss Abigail.” Chloe’s wave was more reserved, but she looked less guarded. Almost content.

As we walked back to the main house, Abby chattering about horses and the dumplings for dinner, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Chloe Beecham was a puzzle. A puzzle whose edges I wasn’t sure I should be trying to fit together, not when Abby’s bright world was at stake. But damn if I wasn’t tempted to try.

6

Chloe

The momentI stepped onto the back deck of Mason’s house, the scent hit me like a warm embrace—the kind that said ‘welcome home’ even though home was a concept I hadn’t truly felt in years. The house, large but still cozy and inviting with its porch lights casting a golden glow against the evening’s encroaching shadows, exuded a fragrance of butter and herbs. A casual comfort. My heart, however, thudded in trepidation.

“Okay. It’s just dinner.” My whisper vanished into the crisp air, as if the universe itself absorbed my anxiety. I approached the door, my hand trembling slightly as it hovered, ready to knock.

“Chloe! You made it!” Mason’s voice, rich with a hint of excitement, broke through the door before it swung open. There he stood, his 6’2” frame filling the doorway, dark hair tousled as if his fingers had run through it more than once. His gray eyes softened when they met mine.

“Hey, Mason,” I managed, offering a half-smile, the other half trapped behind the walls I’d built over the years. “Something smells amazing.”

“Mom’s recipe,” he said, stepping aside to let me in. “Can’t take all the credit.”

As I crossed the threshold, the warmth of the house enveloped me, both physically and metaphorically. I didn’t miss the way Mason’s gaze lingered just a second too long, or how my skin seemed to tingle under his attention.

“Abby’s upstairs. She can’t wait to see you,” he continued, leading the way into the kitchen where the masterpiece was simmering on the stove.

“Great,” I replied, though ‘great’ was an understatement. Abby was a whirlwind of joy, and even my nerves couldn’t resist her charm.

I took one step, then two, into the heart of Mason’s home. Every corner held a memory he’d shared, and now I was a tiny part of this tapestry, woven into an evening that smelled like comfort and sounded like laughter waiting to bubble up from a little girl’s lips.

“Looks . . . I mean—smells delicious,” I corrected myself, cheeks warming. Clumsy words when what I wanted to say was, ‘thank you for making me feel like I belong somewhere.’

“Wait till you taste it,” he said, wearing confidence like his favorite shirt. Mason always did have a way of making the simple things seem extraordinary.

“Hope it lives up to the hype,” I teased, finding a smile that reached both sides of my face this time.

Mason chuckled, a sound that seemed to resonate through the room, easing the tightness in my chest. It was going to be a good night—I could feel it. And for the first time in a long while, I allowed myself the luxury of believing it.

A giggle, bright and infectious, drew my attention downward just as a pint-sized whirlwind barreled into me. Abby, her curlybrown hair bouncing with each jump, planted herself in front of me, hands on her hips in what I assumed was her best imitation of her dad.

“Miss Chlo! You came!” she exclaimed, gray eyes sparkling like stars caught in a twilight sky. The resemblance to Mason—uncanny.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I replied, the words more truthful than I expected them to be.

“Come, come, come!” Abby tugged at my hand, insistent, pulling me further into the house. “I gotta show you everything!”

“Everything” turned out to be a curated tour through a child’s wonder-filled lens. Abby’s room was an explosion of color—a testament to her vibrant spirit. Stuffed animals held court on a small bed while drawings claimed dominion over the walls. Each piece had a story, and Abby recounted them with the seriousness of a historian chronicling epic tales.

“And this,” she said, pointing to a picture of a woman with hair like molten gold, “is my mom. Dad says I got her laugh. I don’t know her though. She left when I was a baby.”

Her earnestness pinched at something deep inside me, a tender spot I usually kept under lock and key. “She looks like she knows how to have fun,” I managed, unsure what else to say. Abby didn’t seem upset by the revelation, but my heart broke for her.

“Yup!” Abby agreed, before dragging me back to the present with a question about my favorite ice cream flavor.

“Chocolate chip cookie dough,” I answered. She nodded sagely, as if I’d passed some unspoken test.

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