Chapter 6

6

Chloe

The moment I stepped onto the back deck of Mason’s house, the scent hit me like a warm embrace—the kind that said ‘welcome home’ even though home was a concept I hadn’t truly felt in years. The house, large but still cozy and inviting with its porch lights casting a golden glow against the evening’s encroaching shadows, exuded a fragrance of butter and herbs. A casual comfort. My heart, however, thudded in trepidation.

“Okay. It’s just dinner.” My whisper vanished into the crisp air, as if the universe itself absorbed my anxiety. I approached the door, my hand trembling slightly as it hovered, ready to knock.

“Chloe! You made it!” Mason’s voice, rich with a hint of excitement, broke through the door before it swung open. There he stood, his 6’2” frame filling the doorway, dark hair tousled as if his fingers had run through it more than once. His gray eyes softened when they met mine.

“Hey, Mason,” I managed, offering a half-smile, the other half trapped behind the walls I’d built over the years. “Something smells amazing. ”

“Mom’s recipe,” he said, stepping aside to let me in. “Can’t take all the credit.”

As I crossed the threshold, the warmth of the house enveloped me, both physically and metaphorically. I didn’t miss the way Mason’s gaze lingered just a second too long, or how my skin seemed to tingle under his attention.

“Abby’s upstairs. She can’t wait to see you,” he continued, leading the way into the kitchen where the masterpiece was simmering on the stove.

“Great,” I replied, though ‘great’ was an understatement. Abby was a whirlwind of joy, and even my nerves couldn’t resist her charm.

I took one step, then two, into the heart of Mason’s home. Every corner held a memory he’d shared, and now I was a tiny part of this tapestry, woven into an evening that smelled like comfort and sounded like laughter waiting to bubble up from a little girl’s lips.

“Looks . . . I mean—smells delicious,” I corrected myself, cheeks warming. Clumsy words when what I wanted to say was, ‘thank you for making me feel like I belong somewhere.’

“Wait till you taste it,” he said, wearing confidence like his favorite shirt. Mason always did have a way of making the simple things seem extraordinary.

“Hope it lives up to the hype,” I teased, finding a smile that reached both sides of my face this time.

Mason chuckled, a sound that seemed to resonate through the room, easing the tightness in my chest. It was going to be a good night—I could feel it. And for the first time in a long while, I allowed myself the luxury of believing it.

A giggle, bright and infectious, drew my attention downward just as a pint-sized whirlwind barreled into me. Abby, her curly brown hair bouncing with each jump, planted herself in front of me, hands on her hips in what I assumed was her best imitation of her dad.

“Miss Chlo! You came!” she exclaimed, gray eyes sparkling like stars caught in a twilight sky. The resemblance to Mason—uncanny.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I replied, the words more truthful than I expected them to be.

“Come, come, come!” Abby tugged at my hand, insistent, pulling me further into the house. “I gotta show you everything!”

“Everything” turned out to be a curated tour through a child’s wonder-filled lens. Abby’s room was an explosion of color—a testament to her vibrant spirit. Stuffed animals held court on a small bed while drawings claimed dominion over the walls. Each piece had a story, and Abby recounted them with the seriousness of a historian chronicling epic tales.

“And this,” she said, pointing to a picture of a woman with hair like molten gold, “is my mom. Dad says I got her laugh. I don’t know her though. She left when I was a baby.”

Her earnestness pinched at something deep inside me, a tender spot I usually kept under lock and key. “She looks like she knows how to have fun,” I managed, unsure what else to say. Abby didn’t seem upset by the revelation, but my heart broke for her.

“Yup!” Abby agreed, before dragging me back to the present with a question about my favorite ice cream flavor.

“Chocolate chip cookie dough,” I answered. She nodded sagely, as if I’d passed some unspoken test.

“Good choice.” And just like that, I was accepted into Abby’s world—a place where sorrow seemed to have no foothold .

We made our way back to the kitchen, where Mason stood ladling out steaming chicken and dumplings into three bowls. He looked up, a smile warming his face. “Hope you’re hungry.”

“Starving,” I confessed. The truth was, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a home-cooked meal, and the smell alone was enough to make my stomach perform somersaults.

“Dig in,” he said, setting a bowl in front of me with a flourish that made me chuckle.

“Looks amazing,” I complimented, already spooning a generous helping into my mouth. The flavors danced across my tongue, rich and comforting.

“I make this at least once a month,” he shared, pride lacing his words. “Abby here is my official taste tester.”

“Best job ever,” Abby declared, attacking her own bowl with gusto that only a six-year-old could muster.

“Seconded,” I murmured, savoring another bite.

The conversation flowed as easily as the chicken and dumplings disappeared from our plates. We talked about mundane things—the weather, the quirks of living in a small town, and Abby’s latest escapade involving a frog and her teacher’s desk. Laughter came easily, and I found myself relaxing into the rhythm of their family life.

“Chloe, did you know Daddy can sing?” Abby piped up between giggles, eyes alight with mischief.

“Abby,” Mason warned playfully, but the twinkle in his eye betrayed him.

“Really? What do you sing?” I asked, intrigued despite myself.

“Only the classics,” he joked, but there was a hint of a dare in his voice. “And only when someone else joins me.”

“Maybe after dessert,” I teased back, feeling bold in the warmth of their company .

“Deal,” he agreed, and we shook on it, sealing my fate.

Abby clapped, delighted by our exchange. “This is the best dinner ever.”

As laughter once again filled the room, I realized that, for the first time in a long while, I felt a sense of belonging. It was nice. Natural.

The clink of silverware on ceramic was the only sound for a moment, a brief interlude in the night’s easy chatter. I glanced up from my nearly empty plate, catching Mason’s eye. He’d been quiet, watching Abby animatedly explain her last riding lesson with an attentiveness that made my chest tighten.

“Your turn,” he said suddenly, nodding at me. “Must be stories you’ve got hidden up your sleeve, Chlo.”

“Stories?” I echoed, stalling as I fiddled with my napkin. “Well, I’m not sure they’re as entertaining as Abby’s.”

“Try me,” Mason challenged, a playful glint in his gray eyes softening the dare.

I took a steadying breath and started with the easy bits—the childhood memories of lemonade stands and hide-and-seek games that felt safe enough. But as Mason listened, his gaze steady and encouraging, the words began to flow more freely.

“Once . . . once I built this ridiculous fort out of cardboard boxes.” A chuckle escaped me. “It took over the entire living room. My mom—she didn’t even get mad. She crawled in and we had a picnic right there amid all the chaos.”

“Sounds like a good mom,” Mason murmured, and there it was—that tug at my heartstrings, the understanding of love lost.

“Yeah, she was.” The admission hung between us, heavy yet somehow freeing.

“Abby here wants to build a treehouse this summer. Don’t you, jellybean? ”

“Uh-huh!” Abby nodded vigorously. “And you can help us, Chloe! You must be super good at building forts!”

“Treehouses are a bit more complicated than cardboard forts,” I laughed, feeling lighter than I had in years.

“Nothing we can’t handle,” Mason said with a confidence that was infectious.

“Right,” I agreed, surprising myself with the ease of it. It felt natural, this back-and-forth, like breathing or the steady rhythm of a horse’s gait.

“Tell me about your mom’s chicken and dumplings,” I found myself asking. “She taught you to make them?”

“Yep, every Sunday afternoon, like clockwork.” His voice softened, tinged with nostalgia. “She said the secret’s in the simmer. Let the flavors tell their story, she’d say.”

“Flavors telling their story . . .” I repeated, smiling at the thought. “I like that.”

“Me too.” For a moment, our gazes locked, and it felt way too nice. I forced myself to pull back, and it appeared, so did Mason.

“Abby, time for bed soon,” Mason said after a pause, turning to his daughter with a tender smile.

“Can Chloe tuck me in?” Abby’s hopeful eyes swung to mine, and I felt my defenses crumble.

“Sure, if that’s okay with your dad.”

“Of course it is.” Mason’s approval was warm, wrapping around me like a comforting embrace. He had a way of making you feel welcome, but the underlying attraction I felt was setting off alarm bells in my head and heart.

Danger. Stay back.

As Abby scurried ahead, I lingered, turning to Mason. “Thanks for tonight—for sharing with me.”

“Anytime, Chlo.” His hand brushed against mine briefly, a touch as light as a feather yet laden with meaning. “You’re always welcome here.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, my heart thudding with newfound hope. And as I followed Abby’s laughter up the stairs, I realized that for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t just surviving—I was beginning to live.