Page 68 of Nineteen Letters
“Yes, this is Bella-Rose.” He runs his hand affectionately over her fur. “I’d originally planned to get a puppy, but when I saw her, I knew she’d be coming home with me.”
“Love at first sight, hey?”
He smiles before answering. “Not exactly.”
He tells me how he felt when he learned that Bella-Rose’s owner had died; he couldn’tnottake her home. I reach out to scratch the dog under the chin. “Poor girl.” I move my gaze back to Braxton. “You’re a good guy, Braxton Spencer.”
“I have my faults,” he admits, with a shrug.
“Well, I’m yet to see any of them.”
This brings a smile to his face. “I was just about to grab a coffee. Would you like to join me?”
“I should get going. I left Christine a note to say I’d be home in time for breakfast, and my bus will probably be here shortly.”
“Just a quick one, then I’ll drop you home on my way to see my dad.”
“Okay.” The truth is, I’ve missed him.
He turns and gestures for me to follow, but to my surprise, he doesn’t head in the direction I expected. He walks straight towards my favourite house.
“Where are you going?”
“To the house. This is where I live … whereyouused to live.”
I release a small gasp. “This is our house? I lived here?”
“Yep. I built it for you.”
“You built this house?” I stop walking and stare at him in wonderment.
“Well, not technically, I designed it. It was your dream house when you were a kid.”
“Wow,” I whisper as my gaze moves down to the sand around my feet. No wonder I felt so drawn to this place.
We climb the steps that lead to the back deck, and suddenly I’m feeling anxious about being here.It’s too soon.I’m not ready. I pause when he wipes his bare feet on the mat by the large glass sliding doors.
“Are you coming in?”
I shake my head. His shoulders slump slightly, but he tries to cover it up with a smile. “Well … umm … make yourself comfortable out here, I’ll just go grab the coffee.” He gestures towards the outdoor setting, before disappearing inside.
There’s a part of me that wants to go in and look around, but I’m scared to do that. I feel weird about all these things that should be familiar to me but aren’t.
I walk across the deck, towards the long white wooden bench seat. It holds a mixture of cushions: some are blue-and-white striped, the blue is the same shade as the window trim, and some are plain blue with white piping around the edges. I like them. It helps tie this space in with the rest of the house. Taking in my surroundings has me pondering my old career. It makes me wonder if that passion I once held for design will ever return.
The bench seat has been placed close to the house, under the only covered part of the deck. It makes sense, I suppose, because it’s sheltered from the weather there. Off to the left is a large white six-seater wooden table; in the centre are three white box lanterns, each containing a half-burned candle. My eyes are then drawn to the string of fairy lights that span the perimeter of the deck. I wish it was dark so I could see what they looked like when turned on, imagining how lovely it would be to dine out here by candlelight.
On the far right-hand side of the deck sits a barbecue, complete with a small outdoor kitchen, bordered on either side by palms in tall sky-blue pots. I see a large decorative anchor mounted on the wall.
As I sit, I take in the small white coffee table in front of me. There’s a rectangular wicker basket as a centrepiece, and within it sits a blue candle surrounded by shells and an ornamental blue starfish. I love the attention to detail everywhere I look; it’s all very simple, yet effective. Did I decorate it? The thought has my stomach flipping. I wish I could remember.
I settle back in the chair and try not to over-analyse everything. I still can’t believe this is my home … or ratherwasmy home. The fact that I was drawn to it from the moment I first saw it gives me hope. I pray that one day it will all come back. I’m not sure how I’ll cope if it doesn’t. Apart from Braxton’s letters, there’s a huge chunk of my life missing.
“Here you go,” Braxton says, breaking my train of thought. He places a tray down on the coffee table, and my gaze gravitates towards his hands. He has beautiful hands, so strong and masculine. I find myself wondering what they would feel like against my body, and that thought shocks me.
My eyes quickly dart up to his face, and I find him grinning. I love it when he smiles like that because it shows off his cute dimple. His blue eyes sparkle in the morning sunlight as he passes me my coffee.
“I made it just the way you like it.”
