Page 26 of Forever To Me

“It’s been good. Really good, actually. Been working on new songs, enjoying the town,” I tell her, and that part is at least true.

“It’s such a neat town. Hey, your dad is calling me. I’m going to call you back tomorrow. Keep me updated on how you’re doing,” she says as she disconnects.

I’m relieved that I didn’t have to explain too much right now. I’m just not ready to get into it all yet.

My parents have a dairy farm in Indiana, and they’re both very busy, so it didn’t surprise me that she had to go so suddenly.

After I finish the final room, I return the cleaning and linen carts and restock them, switching over the laundry. The amount of laundry we do here is insane. I always try to stay on top of it for Maggie. I love helping her out.

I take a peek in the kitchen and see what she has that I can make for dinner and grab a few ingredients out of her pantry. Maggie’s out, and the office is quiet. She really needs help around here. A lot of things are broken and need to be updated and fixed.

I watch from the front window of the lobby of the motel as Walker’s truck pulls in and parks. He gets out and strolls up to the front door of the office, and he fixes some crumbling bricks out front before he comes in, holding the door gently behind him. He walks towards the desk and looks surprised when he sees it’s me instead of Maggie.

“Red,” he says with a smile.

“Walker.” I smile back and nervously tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. My stomach flips when he steps incloser. My chest feels warm, and I realize I’m happy to see him. He’s got such a pull on me.

“Just came over to help Maggie unclog one of her sinks,” he says as he sets down a battered tool bag.

Hot.

Instead of focusing on how hot he looks with his tool bag, I reach over and grab the keys to 102 and hand them to him. “Here you go. She didn’t mention you were coming, but I’m sure she’ll be happy to know you’re here fixing it.”

He snorts. “She’s at bingo. I passed her flying down the road on my way here. It’s her week to call the numbers. No way she’s missing that.”

He looks around. “Something smells good. Are you cooking?”

I nod. “I am. I have a cowboy casserole in the oven.”

He looks surprised. “I don’t think Maggie ever cooks in that kitchen.”

“She doesn’t. But I made plenty if you’d like to eat with me. Should be ready by the time you finish that drain, plumber boy,” I add with a grin, as I tilt my head.

He snorts at the plumber boy comment and turns to head out as he calls, “I might just take you up on that, Red.”

I hope he does.

He’s gone for a half an hour, and I take out the casserole and take down two plates just as the front door opens. He comes in and heads to the bathroom to wash his hands.He’s at ease here as if he’s been in here countless times before, like he’s comfortable in Maggie’s space. I’m glad that Maggie has him to help her out around here.

I plate up the food and set it on the small table in the kitchen that Maggie mostly uses to play cards. He walks in and stands still in the middle of the room until I motion for him to sit and hand him a napkin and fork.

“Thanks, I forgot to eat lunch, and it hit me suddenly; I’m starving,” he says as he slides in and grins at me.

The fork in my hand feels heavier than it should. I take a bite, chewing slowly, my eyes flicking up to him across the table. Walker. Sitting here. Eating the food I cooked. I don’t know why it feels like athing. But it does.

It’s just dinner. Just food. Just two people sitting at a table. Except… it isn’t.

Because the air is different. Thicker. The kind that settles in your chest and makes you hyperaware of every movement, every glance, every brush of a hand too close to the other.

I keep my head down and focus on my plate, but it doesn’t stop the heat curling low in my stomach. It doesn’t stop my mind from drifting into dangerous territory—wondering what this looks like from the outside.

Becausethis—this quiet, this shared meal, this small act ofcare—feels like something more than it should. It feelsdomestic.

Idefinitelycan’t let myself imagine what it would be like if this were somethingreal. But my traitorous brain? It’s already running ahead of me. Already painting the picture. Already whispering in my ear—what if?

What if this was a regular thing? What if I got used to this? To him sitting here, stealing bites off my plate like he has a right to them. To the sound of his deep, easy laughter rolling through my kitchen.

What if I got used tohim?

---