Page 25 of Cherished Lands
"But I—" Emma's back was to me, so I couldn't see what was written on her face, but it was enough to have Jay nodding in my direction and rushing back downstairs.
Clearly, she wore the pants in their relationship.
She turned back toward me. "There's extra toothbrushes under the sink"—she pointed to an open door behind her—"in the bathroom. Help yourself to whatever you need, and I'll see you in the morning for breakfast."
"Thank you," I said, though the words felt woefully inadequate. Emma reached out a hand and squeezed my bicep.
"Get some rest, Tessa." She smiled kindly before turning down the hall and slipping through the double doors at the end that, I assumed, led to the master bedroom.
I took a deep, fortifying breath and re-entered Elliot's bedroom, shutting the door behind me. Being here without himknowing felt weird and intrusive. But it also sent a thrill straight through me. It was kind of like glimpsing him naked.
Put that thought back where it came from, or so help me...
It was like walking into a time capsule of his teenage years. The walls were painted a simple, faded blue, with a few telltale scuff marks—maybe a football thrown a little too hard, or a brotherly wrestling match that got out of hand. The twin-sized bed was neatly made, though the navy and gray plaid comforter had seen better days.
One wall was dominated by loaded shelves that sagged gently in the middle. My eyes roamed over trophies, faded ribbons and framed pictures. Football was a major theme—team photos, action shots, a younger Elliot in a helmet that looked slightly too big for his face. But there were other touches too, like a fishing trophy with his name etched on the base and a hand-painted clay apple, probably an elementary school art project.
The closet door had a few stickers slapped on it—an old Detroit Lions logo, a local apple festival decal, and something about "State Champs 2011."
Above the bed hung a poster of a Lions quarterback, slightly peeling at the corners. The nightstand held a lamp with a crooked shade and a stack of paperback thrillers, their spines cracked and pages yellowed. It wasn't fancy, but it was Elliot—practical, sturdy, and full of history.
What caught my eye most, though, was the cluttered, pin-stabbed corkboard on the opposite wall. It was a mix of Polaroids, ticket stubs, and scraps of paper with scribbled phone numbers and dates. One of the pictures showed him and Chase grinning like fools, arms slung around each other'sshoulders. Another had all four siblings crammed onto a couch, a younger Elliot barely suppressing a laugh while his sister tried to glare at the camera.
I ran my fingers over a dusty football on the shelf, and a strange, warm ache rose in my chest. This wasn't just a room, it was a glimpse of the boy who'd grown into the man. A man I suddenly realized I didn't hate. I'd never truly hated him. What I felt for Elliot Everton was... different. I didn't know what it was, and part of me didn't want to find out.
This is such a fucking terrible idea.
Chapter Nine
ELLIOT
Every Sunday morning,we gathered at the main house, and Mom cooked a big Sunday brunch. We weren't church-goers, but this was our version of worship.
I trudged through the foot of snow that had fallen on the orchard overnight, already fantasizing about hot, buttery pancakes. I could've driven, but I always walked to Sunday morning brunch—rain or shine... or snow. It was part of my routine. A tradition.
The fresh snow blanketed the orchard like a downy quilt. It muffled everything into a quiet that pressed against my ears. It was like the crunching of my boots was the only sound in the world. The trees stood like sentries, their gnarled branches heavy with snowfall. It was a humbling reminder of how much weight they'd carried over the years. The sharp, clean air bit at my nose. It carried a fragrance that smelled like peace—a mix of cold earth, bark, and the faintest trace of apples, lingering even now, months after the harvest.
These trees weren't just trees. They were part of me, part ofthe Everton name. My great-grandfather planted some of them, and his hands shaped this place the same way mine do now. I stopped by the oldest tree, the one we call Big Annie, and rested my gloved hand on her trunk. The bark was rough, the ridges filled with snow, like veins frozen in time. She'd seen more winters than I had, and somehow, she kept going.
In the stillness, I heard the soft creak of branches shifting under the weight of the snow, punctuated by the occasional plop as a chunk tumbled to the ground. A crow called in the distance, its sharp cry cutting through the silence. Even in this frozen world, life went on. Under the ice and snow, tangled in the earth, the roots were alive, holding out for spring.
For a while, it had looked like there might not be one. But the cidery was like a ray of hope on the horizon.
The thought sent my brain down another path. A path that led to blonde hair, long legs, and a razor-sharp tongue.
Don't start thinking about her tongue.
When I reached the house, I jogged up the steps of the back porch and let myself in.
There was a pair of girly black boots by the back door. Dry. Too fancy for Mom.Maybe Charlie came home?
"Hey, Mom!"
"In the kitchen!"
I rounded the corner and stopped dead in my tracks. There, standing at the stove cooking eggs, was Tessa.
"Hey, honey." Mom breezed out of the pantry. I leaned down so she could peck me on the cheek, but my gaze remained firmly on Tessa.
