Page 19 of The Billionaire I Left Behind

It’s been days since the clinic. He’s better now, strong, playful, completely oblivious to how close he came to real danger. I exhale, a familiar ache pressing at my chest. At least one of us gets to live without carrying the weight of the past.

I reach for another box, dragging it closer, but pause when my fingers brush against the cool metal of the attic door handle. It’s firm. Solid. Not loose anymore.

I frown, glancing down at the bucket of tools sitting beside the attic entrance. I hadn't touched them. But someone had.

I step back, my brow furrowing. The leaky faucet in the kitchen has also been fixed. The stubborn attic door handle tightened.

I don’t need to ask who did it. My grip tightens around the edge of the box as an image of Bryan flashes in my mind.

Him, standing at the sink, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in that serious way he always had when he was fixing something.

It’s ridiculous, how easily my pulse jumps at the thought, how my body remembers things my mind refuses to dwell on.

He didn’t have to fix anything. But he did. I inhale slowly, steadying myself, but my lips betray me, a small smile tugs at the corners.

Don’t overthink it, Emma.I shake off the feeling and focus on sorting through the box in front of me.

The old wooden box is tucked beneath a pile of blankets. The latch is rusted, but the lid lifts easily with a creak.

Inside, neatly stacked letters sit atop faded postcards and a cracked leather notebook. Grandma’s handwriting is instantly recognizable on some, the soft slant, the delicate curls at the edges.

I run my fingers lightly over the envelopes, my chest tightening. She must have kept these for years. Some are addressed to me, some to old friends, but one name stops me cold.

Bryan.

My breath catches. I hesitate, heart hammering, then gently lift the letter bearing his name. The paper is yellowed, slightly crinkled at the edges, but her script is as strong as ever.

“You’re family, son; always will be. Take care of her.” Grandma had written all those years ago.

My throat closes. The weight of guilt presses hard, a sharp, cutting thing. I glance at Buddy, who has curled up on an old blanket nearby, his eyes half-lidded in contentment.

I force myself to breathe, to push back the memories that claw at the edges of my mind. Bryan, sixteen, standing on the porch, arms full of wood planks, sweat on his brow, that cocky smirk on his lips.

“Teamwork, Em,” he’d said, nudging me with his elbow. I’d laughed, rolling my eyes, but my heart had been so full back then. The boy who made everything feel safe, steady.

I squeeze my eyes shut. The attic feels too small. Too full of ghosts. I swallow hard and glance toward the door, toward the fixes Bryan made, the quiet ways he still takes care of things, even when he doesn’t have to.

Does he still feel it? That urge to protect, to fix, to be the one who makes things right? Or is this just habit, something he does without thinking, without meaning?

I shake my head, pushing the thought away. It doesn’t matter.

***

The familiar chime of the coffee shop door rings as I step inside, the rich scent of espresso and warm cinnamon wrapping around me. It’s busier than I expected for a late afternoon, but The Brew Barn has always been a town staple the kind of place where people linger over coffee, swapping stories and gossip that spreads faster than the ocean wind.

Stella’s already waiting at our usual corner booth, waving excitedly. I haven’t even sat down yet before she blurts, “Okay, I need every single detail.”

I snort, shaking my head as I slide into the seat across from her. “Good to see you too.”

She grins, pushing a steaming latte across the table toward me. “I already ordered for you. Your favorite chocolate, and I need answers.”

I take the cup, savoring the warmth in my hands. “Answers about what?”

She arches a brow. “Oh, don’t play dumb. Bryan. The house. You living with him. The town is buzzing, Em.”

I groan, dropping my forehead onto the table. “Please tell me there’s no betting pool.”

“Oh, there absolutely is.”

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