Page 2 of When Love Comes Home

"I appreciate the offer, Daddy," I'd said firmly. "But I'm not moving back in with you and Mom. I want my own place."

"You don’t want to live with us again?" Dad had replied, his tone teasing. "It would be just like old times. I can even give you a curfew and everything."

"How about you help me find a rental?" I’d said. "At least until I sell my condo. Then I can start looking for a place to buy. I don’t want to juggle two mortgages."

"That’s my girl," he’d said, his voice filled with pride.

"I learned from the best, Daddy."

***

"Does it come fully furnished?" I asked as Dad and I stepped into the small bungalow before I signed the rental agreement.

"It does," he said.

It felt perfect. "And the lease is for a year?"

"It is."

I walked down the hall to the first bedroom. The space exuded quiet masculinity—comfortable, simple, and effortlessly refined. A dark wood bed frame anchored the room, dressed in crisp white linens and a charcoal-gray duvet that added a sleek, polished touch. A matching dresser and nightstand, free of clutter, hinted at quiet organization. The deep slate-blue walls, warm and sophisticated, complemented the rich hardwood floors.

A leather armchair sat by the window, inviting late-night reading or quiet contemplation. Soft light from an industrial-style lamp cast a golden glow. No excessive decorations, just clean lines and functional pieces—like the room belonged to a man who valued both style and substance.

The faint trace of a man’s cologne lingered in the air—rich and alluring. Whoever he was, his taste was impeccable—in furnishings and fragrance alike.

"Can I meet him?" I asked. Not sure why I wanted to.

"Meet the owner?" Dad sounded surprised. "He lives out of town."

"That's too bad," I murmured, glancing around the room again. Too bad indeed.

***

As I unpacked a box of cookbooks, I looked around, wondering who else had stood in this space before me. The name on the lease was just an LLC, but I couldn’t help but wonder if my landlord had ever lived in the house himself.

It’s not like I’ve seen a photo of him. I don’t even know what he looks like. But I’m curious in a way I can’t explain.

Maybe it’s the house itself—how it already feels like it knows me. How the worn floorboards creak in a way that feels... lived in, not broken. Like someone took care of it, not just structurally, but thoughtfully. There’s a warmth here I can’t quite shake, like part of him still lingers in the walls. And I want to know why.

It’s stupid. I know that. But I’m not usually this... intrigued.

***

The neighborhood is quiet and safe, and the screened-in porch has quickly become my favorite retreat—a peaceful sanctuary where I can unwind every night.

The extra bedroom is perfect as an office, but most of my work gets done on the porch swing, my legs curled up beneath me and a hot cup of coffee within reach.

Now, I lean against the granite countertop in the spacious kitchen, staring at the coffee pot, willing it to hurry up and finish brewing. Patience has never been my strong suit.

Two minutes later, I step out the back door, a hot cup of coffee in one hand, my book and laptop in the other. The porch swing greets me like a loyal, lifelong friend. I settle in, adjusting one of the throw pillows to fit snugly against the small of my back. A cool breeze brushes across my face as I place my coffee cup on the small end table beside me. Opening my laptop, I type in the password for my email account:IhateAdam4ever. A small chuckle escapes me.

My thoughts inevitably drift to Adam Morgan, the bane of my existence. What has he been up to all these years? Not that I care to know. They say there’s a fine line between love and hate, but when it comes to Adam and me, it’s not a line. It’s a deep, wide, inescapable chasm—dark, unbridgeable, and permanent.

The last time I saw him I gave him a piece of my mind—sharp and to the point. It must have done the trick because he’s kept his distance ever since. My parents and sisters still see him, but thankfully, he’s made it a point to stay out of my way and my life. I still have to endure Dad’s occasional Adam updates—usually accompanied by a look that tells me he’s hoping I’ve softened. I haven’t. At least I don’t have to see him. The fact that he's doing well gives me hope that he'll never have a reason to return to Cold Spring.

My phone rings, jolting me back to reality. A quick, unexpected rush of guilt sweeps through me—like a child caught red-handed. I glance at the screen, and there it is:DADflashing in bright, insistent letters, perfectly matching the shrill ringtone echoing through the quiet.

I answer the phone with a smile. "Hi, Daddy."

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