Page 7 of When Love Comes Home

“Can I come in?” he asks, his voice low. Has his voice always been this deep?

Then he smiles again. That damn smile will be the end of me.

"Yes, come in," I say, stepping aside as I open the door wider. He walks past me, and that’s when I catch it—the faint, familiar trace of cologne that lingered in my bedroom for days.

The scent that wrapped around me at night, until I finally fell asleep… and the one that made me smile each morning without quite knowing why.

Suddenly, my senses are on high alert.

I shut the door and turn—and he’s standing closer than I expected. Close enough to steal my breath.

Has he always been this tall?

“These are for you,” he says, handing me a bouquet of white and yellow roses I hadn’t noticed until now.

“Thank you,” I reply, taking the flowers from him.

“I just realized something,” he adds. I glance at him, questioning, and he continues, “You didn’t correct me when I called you Katie.”

“What you call me is the least of my problems,” I snap, my voice sharp. “What are you doing here?”

I’m fully aware that my words are more for show, a way to cover up the panic creeping in. Because in that moment, when he whispered my name, I forgot who I was and where I was. All I knew was that Adam was standing in front of me, and it took every ounce of willpower not to step forward and hug him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Katie, we need to talk.”

I motion to the couch, but he takes the armchair instead, keeping some distance.

“I know my being here, in your space, isn’t ideal,” he begins.

“You think?” I respond, my sarcasm sharp.

“Your dad was just trying to help,” he says, as though that’s supposed to make everything okay. “He probably feels a little responsible, after accepting my offer to have you stay here.”

“So, this was your idea?” I ask, gesturing around the room.

“I didn’t know I’d be moving back this soon,” he says, his tone defensive. “It just so happens that I tied up some loose ends faster than expected. So here I am.”

“Yeah, here you are,” I retort, crossing my arms and rolling my eyes before I can stop myself.

And in that moment, I catch a fleeting glimpse in his eyes—a flash of recognition. The Katherine he knows far too well. The girl who hates him.

“Okay, your moving in was Dad’s idea,” I continue. “He forgets that I’m an adult who wants to live her own life without any family interference.”

He doesn’t respond, but his eyes plead with me, silently asking for understanding. I take a deep breath.

“Would you like something to drink?” I ask—more to avoid his gaze than out of politeness. Have his eyes always been this... ugh!

“I have coffee, tea, diet soda, and ginger ale. I don’t drink, so I don’t have anything stronger.”

“Coffee would be great,” he responds. “Thanks.”

I walk across the room to the kitchen, the open concept allowing me to continue our conversation as I pour out the cold coffee and start a new pot. My cup of coffee, sitting outside, is cold and forgotten.

"So, where have you been for the last fourteen years?" I ask.

"After I graduated from NYU, I got a job in architectural marketing in Cortland," he says, glancing over at me. "I was there for six years. I moonlighted as a handyman most evenings and weekends. Everything your father taught me, I put to work—and it paid off. Four years ago, I started my own real estate business."

"Right. And here you are," I say, the words clipped, sharper than I intended. But I don’t bother softening them.

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