Page 146 of Your Place or Mine

Not while I was still breathing.

And if Trevor, or anyone else, thought they could roll in and shake her like she didn’t have roots now?

They were gonna have to get through me first.

By the time I climbed into my truck and shut the door, the tension in my shoulders had started to settle, but only a little.

My truck rumbled to life like it had something to say about my mood, and I let it grumble all the way up the winding road to the edge of town where my place sat tucked against the trees like it had grown right out of them.

I built this place with my own hands. Every beam. Every nail. I stained the logs myself, even though I hated that damn job. I wanted it to be permanent. Solid. A place where I could dig in my roots.

It had everything I thought I wanted at the time—seclusion, quiet, enough space for peace and tools and bourbon.

But lately?

It just felt empty.

The porch light kicked on as I pulled in, casting a warm glow over the split-rail fencing and the two wooden chairs out front that had more dust than stories. I killed the engine and sat there for a second, watching the breeze shift through the pine trees and brush past the house like it was asking me what the hell I was doing.

Good question.

I stepped inside, kicked off my boots, and dropped my keys in the dish near the door. The familiar creak of the floorboards greeted me, but the sound felt louder tonight. Too loud. Like the walls had been waiting for someone to come home and weren’t sure what to do now that it was just me again.

I walked through the open space and glanced at the kitchen to the left, living room ahead, dark beams overhead, and the stone fireplace. Everything was clean, kept up, and organized in the way that people without distractions tend to live.

I poured a couple fingers of bourbon and tossed some chicken on the stove with garlic and pepper, just enough to count as food but not enough to impress. I wasn’t cooking for anyone. No one to sit across the table. No one to argue about whether we were watching old Westerns or something with dragons and an obnoxious fanbase.

I took my plate to the couch and ate in front of the TV, flipping through channels until I landed on a documentary about weather patterns I wasn’t even listening to. My mind was elsewhere. Still stuck on the sidewalk. On the sound of Lydia’s voice when she told Trevor to leave. The fire in her eyes when she stood her ground.

The way she looked at me was like she wasn’t sure what to feel anymore.

And hell, neither was I.

I was mid-bite, lost in thought, when the doorbell rang.

I froze.

No one justshowed uphere.

I set the plate on the coffee table and crossed to the door, hand resting on the knob for a second longer than necessary.

Then I opened it.

And there she was.

Lydia stood on my porch, one hand curled around the strap of her bag, the other tucked into the sleeve of her cardigan. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, her eyes guarded but searching mine like she was trying to figure out if this was a good idea or a terrible one.

Behind her, Melanie’s little car was parked crooked in the gravel. Figures.

“Hey,” she said, voice soft but steady.

My throat tightened. “Hey.”

She looked past me for a second, taking in the dim light and the house behind me. “I hope it’s okay that I came by. I wouldn’t normally just show up, but—well, Melanie offered me her car, and I said no three times, and then she just handed me the keys, so…”

I didn’t say anything. Just opened the door a little wider.

She stepped inside like it was familiar. Like she belonged there. And damn it, part of me wanted to believe she did.

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