Page 105 of One Touch

My heart thunked. “She was miserable?”

He shot me a blank stare. “You’re an idiot.”

I blew out a frustrated breath. “Yeah. I know.”

Duke sat straighter and took a pull of his beer bottle. “But for some reason, you’reheridiot.” He shook his head. “Gotta say ... didn’t really see that one coming.”

I let out a soft laugh. “You and me both. But she’s stubborn, that one.”

He smiled. “Yeah.” Because she’s stubborn and strong and pulls everyone into her orbit with kindness and laughter.

She always had.

Awkward silence fell over us as we stared at each other across my living room. “Listen, I know I told you I wouldn’t hurt her. That I wouldn’t fuck it up. I really have no right to promise you that, but I want you to know that I’m working on it.”

Duke looked at me. Really looked. “You know the wildest part of all this? I decked you for flirting with my girlfriend, but now you’re tangled up with my little sister, and all I can think is how I didn’t see it sooner.”

“You can still punch me in the face if you want,” I teased, though really I wasn’t joking. If Duke wanted a free shot, he could take it.

“And unleash Katie on my ass? Fucking hard pass.” He looked me over and shook his head. “Besides, you’re good for her. You never tried to change her. Dim her light or whatever. You let herbe. I’m not sure she’s ever had that.”

I didn’t know what to say without flaying myself open, so I stayed quiet and looked at my feet. Duke drank another swallow of beer and unfolded himself from the couch with a groan. “Great. Now that I fulfilled my older-brother responsibilities...” He moved to the bag he had deposited on the floor and unzipped it. Inside he pulled out a small square box wrapped in Christmas paper. “Now I can be in best friend mode.” He flipped the box toward me. “Merry Christmas, asshole.”

I stared down at the small gift in my hands. I swallowed hard. I looked up at my best friend. The man who was the closest thing I had to a brother.

I took a deep breath and gathered my courage to speak. “I want you to know that I’m going to marry her, but I need to handle my shit.”

He settled back down on the couch and smiled at me. “Good. Just don’t make her wait too long.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

KATE

I lined up the shot,crouching low to frame Bartleby Beakface perfectly with the sunny, yellow chicken coop behind him. His bright iridescent feathers stood out against the harsh white snow, and the expression on his face was defiant, as if the mere act of weather pissed him off.

Somewhere along the way, the followers ofHome Againhad become invested in the battle of Bartleby and the Brutish Builder. Even the hashtag #TeamBeakface was trending.

In truth, the rooster was a little depressed now that he was no longer receiving daily treats and attention from Beckett.

Dude, same.

Even without a new renovation project, followers continued to roll in. People seemed to love giving their input on home decor, and I had found that styling the interior of the farmhouse was nearly as much fun as renovating it in the first place.

After speaking with an accountant, and scouring the internet for tips, I forged ahead on my own with the idea to turnHome Againinto a business. I had even made an appointment at the bank to discuss securing a loan for the next project I was going to undertake.

All that was left to do was find the perfect property.

I felt accomplished. I was proud of myself. I was not only doing something to help revitalize my community, but I had found something that I loved.

Something for me.

Trouble was, I didn’t actually have a clue what I was doing ... but I was doing the damn thing, and that felt pretty fantastic.

I had the added bonus of burying myself in direct messages, sponsorship requests, and administrative tasks for getting the business off the ground, which meant I reserved very little time to think about Beckett and how much I missed him.

Word had gotten out around town that I was looking for a new renovation project, and there were a few properties I was set to look at. While it seemed like one was more dilapidated than the next, the more I dug into the histories of each property at the library, the more excited I got about the potential of each of the homes.

In a photo editing app, I finalized the picture of Bartleby and typed out a caption:

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