Page 21 of When Love Comes Home

I’mstandinginfrontof the coffee pot, willing it to brew faster, when the doorbell rings. I walk over and open the door. Denial is futile—the man is beautiful. His hair is still damp from a shower, dark and wavy. He’s wearing a slate blue T-shirt and jeans, his frame tall and strong. But what strikes me most are his eyes—hazel and looking at me like no one ever has before.

"Good morning," I smile, trying to keep my composure. "I see you didn’t get lost along the way."

"Is that what you were hoping?" he teases. "That I’d get lost and never show up?"

"Then who would make me breakfast?" I joke, raising an eyebrow.

He steps inside, carrying two small suitcases.

"Is this all you have?" I ask, surprised by how little he’s brought.

"Yep, this is it. I’m renting my condo in Cortland to my foster brother, fully furnished."

"Renting out your condo there, renting out your house here," I say, glancing at him with a smirk. "I see a pattern here, Mr. Morgan."

"It's just how things worked out for me," he muses, a slight shrug in his shoulders. "Next thing I knew, I was homeless. Story of my life, really."

"Not anymore," I say, and just as the words leave my mouth, a scene flashes in my mind. It’s so vivid, it’s overwhelming—me, Adam, and four kids, two girls and two boys. I blink, quickly looking away, trying to shake the strange sensation. What was that?!

"Are you okay?" Adam asks, his hand gently brushing my elbow. "You went pale, like a ghost."

I force a smile, a rush of emotion threatening to spill out. "Yeah, I'm fine," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. But deep down, a jolt of certainty consumes me—that what I just saw in my mind's eye was a glimpse of our future. Adam and me. Together.

"Want some coffee?" I ask, hoping the question will ground me, hoping I’m just imagining things.

“Coffee sounds good,” he replies.

I pour two cups and hand him one. “Today, I’m teaching you how to make scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon.”

"Am I going to be your roommate or your cook?" he teases, a smile spreading across his handsome face.

"Both!" I laugh. "But by the time I'm done with you, you'll be more of an accomplished chef than a simple cook."

***

"I love the house," I say, gently swaying back and forth on the swing. "As soon as I walked in, I fell in love with it."

"Me too," he says. "The wrap-around porch is what sealed the deal for me."

"Was the swing already here?" I ask.

"No," he replies. "I built it."

"You built this?" I ask, completely shocked. "No way! I love this swing!" We talk about the many attributes this house has to offer: the expansive front lawn dotted with massive trees, the amazing backyard with plenty of shade, and the deck where family barbecues were probably a regular event for the previous owners.

When he talks about the things he loves, his eyes twinkle. I catch glimpses of gold and blue specks in them. When he speaks to me, he looks directly into my eyes, giving me his full attention, like he's memorizing every detail of my face. What he's doing doesn't bother me because I'm doing it too. The boy I remember has grown into a man with broad shoulders, strong arms, and big hands. I can smell his cologne. A scent that wraps around my senses, pulling me in like a bee to honey.

We talk about college life, roommates, friends, enemies. The kind of casual topics that come easily. Then, almost without realizing it, the conversation shifts, and the topic of past relationships naturally comes up.

“Nope,” I say, “I’ve never met Mr. Right. What about you?"

"I've been in three serious relationships," he begins, his voice reflective. "The longest one lasted two years. She kept dropping hints that she wanted to get married, and when I didn't propose, she broke up with me. She said she couldn't keep giving me everything—her time, her heart—knowing fully well mine was never really available. Oddly enough, I had heard that before, so after that, I decided to remain single."

"You didn’t love her?" I ask, leaning forward slightly, fully committed to learning everything there is to know about him.

He hesitates, looking off into the distance like it might hold the answer. "I loved her," he says finally. "But I wasn’tin lovewith her."

The distinction makes my heart ache a little. I hold his gaze. "You’ve never been in love?" I ask softly.

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