Chapter 16

sixteen

WILL

"Batter up, Kernsy. You ready?"

Becca's already blissful smile widened further at Jordan's question. I'd noticed she loved it when he called her by her last name. Like a nickname was just as new and exciting as the rest of her Kirby Falls experiences.

"You betcha," she practically squealed as she made her way off the bench.

It was Thursday, the night of our adult rec softball league. I played on the Bar Hoppers' team, and we invited Becca out to join us. The Bar Hoppers consisted of players from Firefly Cider, Mattie B's, and Magnolia Bar—three of the more popular local hangouts and bars in town. But none of it was very official. We mostly just had fun.

Chloe was in the stands with the other girlfriends, wives, husbands, and family members, cheering on the team, and she whistled like a pro when she saw Becca coming up to bat next.

I stood just inside the dugout, watching the action in the third inning. We had Rhonda Coates on first after she had a solid hit that had sneaked past the Teachers' Lounge's shortstop out into left field. We were up against the school system's team, made up of elementary, middle, and high school teachers and coaches. I recognized Mason Gentry's dad playing second base .

"Hey," I said, drawing Becca's attention as she made to pass by me, headed for the on-deck circle.

She turned to me excitedly, her blue eyes as bright as a summer day. "Hey. I'm up. I hope I don't throw the bat. I've never played softball before."

I smiled, pretty much expecting that this was something new for her. "You'll be fine. Just keep your eye on the ball." Without making a big deal about it, I reached for the bill of my hat. It was one I kept in my truck and wore on occasion, the baby-blue color still bright and the white script lettering that said Grandpappy's still vivid. "You need a hat. Every ball player needs one."

After tightening the strap a little, I popped the hat onto her blond head. And I couldn't ignore the way it made me feel to see her smile up at me, so ridiculously happy over something so small. My chest felt warm at the sight of her. "There, now you're ready."

"Thanks, Will," she replied around her grin.

I thought how good she'd look in a real baseball jersey, maybe one with my name and number on the back. Then I shook my head and told myself to cut that shit out.

Jordan moved to stand beside me as Becca went up the steps and on to the field. I watched her take a few practice swings in the on-deck circle and fought my smile. She looked endearing out there—totally charming with zero athletic ability.

It would be fine. The teachers weren't a competitive bunch, and no one on the Bar Hoppers would make her feel bad her first time out. And if they did, I'd make them regret it.

"So, that's happening, then?" Jordan said quietly, nodding toward the blonde swinging her heart out. I could hear the smug smile in his voice.

"Yeah," I said, leaving it at that.

Our attention was drawn to the field at the crack of the bat, but Matilda Bartholomew's pop fly was caught neatly by my cousin Bonnie just behind third base. Rhonda drifted back to first to stay put on first. Bonnie had a good arm and played softball growing up .

And then Becca was grinning over her shoulder at me before she hurried up to the batter's box.

I could feel my smile lingering on my face as I watched her widen her stance and raise the bat. Her right elbow could be a little higher but she looked good out there in her jeans and her white rec league tee shirt. Jordan had surprised her with a Bar Hopper's uniform tee with her last name on the back. She'd clutched the shirt to her chest and given Jordan a huge hug, thanking him genuinely.

I tried not to focus on all the little things that made Becca so happy. If I thought about how much she'd missed out on and all the simple joys she'd never experienced as a child, I'd start grinding my teeth again.

"So you and Becca . . . " Jordan mused, fishing for information. "I'd have to check the date, but I think I owe Chloe twenty bucks."

I ignored my friend as the first ball came in low and outside. Becca didn't even flinch.

"Way to watch it," I called.

Becca grinned over at me again before spinning back, ready for the next pitch.

"You think it might be serious? I'm getting a vibe," Jordan said, his amusement plain.

I slid him a glance as Becca swung high for the first strike.

"I don't need your vibes, Jordan."

"No, you have plenty of your own. This is like watching the Grinch's heart grow three sizes."

I rolled my eyes, then returned my attention to my girl. She swung hard on the next pitch and connected. I watched the ball sail up and over the reach of Jim Gentry, and I knew the centerfielder was too far out. In my periphery, Rhonda was on her way to second, but Becca was stationary at home plate.

"Run to first, Becca!"

She jolted into motion, sprinting up the first base line, carrying the bat with her. Everyone on the bench was up and cheering as were the folks in the stands. And my smile felt too big for my face—for the first time in a very long time .

Clapping, I jogged over to first base. When I got there, I eased the bat from her grip. "Nice job, City Girl."

She beamed. "Oh my gosh! I can't believe I forgot to run."

"You did great."

I gave her a few pointers about when to head for second as Jack—the bartender over at Magnolia—came up to bat.

Making my way back over to Jordan, I leaned against the chain-link fence separating the bench from the field. I could feel his attention on me.

"What?" I said without looking.

"You seem . . . "

I frowned at the way he trailed off. Finally turning, I was surprised to see Jordan looking faintly concerned, his dark brows pulled together over knowing brown eyes.

"I seem what?" I asked.

Jordan glanced toward the field before returning his attention to me. "Just be careful. I don't want you to get hurt."

"I thought this was what you wanted. Playing matchmaker. Trying to get me to date."

He shook his head a little. "The way you're looking at her . . . Just watch yourself."

I could have told him I would be fine. That whatever he was reading on my face was my own damn problem. I could have given him shit for trying to act like a mother hen. But part of me recognized that I was getting in deep with Becca already. I didn't know if keeping things casual was possible at this point, and I didn't want to think about what would happen if she changed her mind about staying. And Jordan was a good friend.

So I nodded. "I will."

Our attention snapped away when we heard Jack connect with the ball. The bartender had hammered it over the right field fence and three runs would score as a result. I watched Becca round the bases, a huge smile on her face. My cousin Bonnie even sneaked her a low five when she rounded third.

Our bench cleared to come out and celebrate because adult rec leagues were anarchy and there were no rules.

After Becca touched home plate, there was the instinct to march over and pick her up, maybe swing her around and plant a kiss on her lips. But she looked so happy high-fiving everyone on the team, accepting congratulations and back slaps, and getting positive attention for her accomplishments.

I'd done a pretty good job of sharing Becca since I'd woken up wrapped around her yesterday morning. I kept waiting for it to be weird that night at the tiny house, but between our conversation and sharing her bed, none of the strangeness ever seemed to kick in. Maybe because I'd spent so long trying not to kiss her or touch her, but instead of awkward newness, I just felt relief.

It had been natural to climb beneath the covers and pull her against me. Just as it had been easy to wake up spooned behind her with thirty pounds of dog passed out across our feet. She'd stretched and turned to face me, and it felt so damn easy to welcome her—like I'd been waiting my whole life for the shape of her in my arms. We had coffee together before I'd showered and headed off to work. And that had been effortless too.

"She's a good luck charm," Jordan murmured, drawing me out of my thoughts of yesterday.

Becca finally caught my eye and started making her way toward me on the periphery.

"Yeah. It sorta feels that way," I replied quietly.

Turned out I didn't have to deny myself the urge to pick her up after all. As soon as she got close, Becca put her arms around my neck. I straightened, lifting her feet off the ground.

"That was so fun," she whispered against the shell of my ear, like she had a secret, like she couldn't believe it.

"You did good, honey. "

Leaning back to face me, she said sweetly, "Thanks, Will."

"We still have a lot of game left. You ready?"

"I can't wait."

The Bar Hoppers eked out the win. Becca got on base once more in the sixth inning, and we had fun playing in the outfield together. She worked hard and tried her best at something totally new for her. And she was positive and upbeat, all the while cheering for her teammates and never once putting herself down. She was perfect.

For the first time in a long time, I didn't wish I was on a bigger field in a bigger stadium with a bigger crowd. I was happy playing left field in my hometown. I didn't feel so much like a washed-up wannabe when I had Becca grinning at me like she'd won the World Series.

After play finished up, both teams were in good spirits and decided to grab drinks together over at Mattie B's. It was the closest bar to the field, and the owner, Mattie Bartholomew—our star pitcher—invited everyone to come spend their money at her place.

I was up at the bar getting a cider for Becca and an IPA for myself when Jim Gentry—the high school principal and Mason's dad—sat beside me amid the chaos of both teams' arrival and attempt to order.

"Good game out there," Jim said after a handshake.

"Yeah. Nice job at second."

He laughed good-naturedly. "It's a good thing Mason inherited his athletic talent from my wife because I'm pretty hopeless."

I smiled. "I think the league is mostly for fun. And the beer afterward."

"Yeah, luckily, no one takes it too seriously," Jim replied.

I nodded as the bartender got a little closer to us.

"It's none of my business," Jim began, his gaze suddenly more direct than it had been, "but I have a bad habit of recognizing talent and seeing where I could utilize it. You're so good with the kids at those conditioning practices. And you were great out there, encouraging your teammates and helping out the new girl. The boys' baseball team could use your guidance and experience. "

My finger traced the smooth woodgrain of the bar top while I tried to decide how to respond. I wanted to sigh and tell this guy to mind his own business. I liked his kid, but we didn't know each other. He had some nerve saying he wanted to "utilize" me.

But before I could formulate a response, Jim continued, "I know I'm out of line here, but I think you could do a lot of good. Inspire those kids."

I resisted the bitter laugh that threatened. I was a cautionary tale, not an inspiration.

Instead of arguing the point, I said simply, "You already have a coach."

The principal lowered his voice. "Between you and me, Whitaker hasn't been much of a coach or an educator since my arrival here three years ago. I've heard that's been the case for much longer. But he's retiring at the end of the school year. And North Carolina is one of the few states that doesn't require coaches to teach. It would just be a couple of certifications on coaching education—player health, first aid, concussion protocol. That sort of thing. Anyway, just something to think about, Mr. Clark. Have a good night," he finished quickly, dropping his bomb and then vacating the premises to avoid the resulting damage.

He was gone before I could remind him to call me Will. He hadn't even ordered his drink.

Before I could puzzle over his out-of-the-blue offer, Jordan slid into the seat the principal had vacated. "Saw you talking to Jim Gentry. He's a good one."

I cleared my throat. "Yeah, he introduced himself the other week after conditioning. Mason is his kid. The junior with the arm."

"Yeah. He comes into Firefly at least once a month with his family. They get dinner from the food trucks and listen to whatever band is performing. He's got a wife and two twin little girls too. Seems like a real nice guy."

I eyed Jordan for any ulterior motive, but he seemed more interested in the bartender who was getting blessedly closer.

"Becca's the belle of the ball," Jordan said with a grin and a tilt of his head.

I was further distracted from Principal Gentry's offer when I turned in my seat to see Becca crowded around a huge table, smiling and chatting with a mix of people from both rec teams .

"Yeah, I don't think she'd had much of that before coming to Kirby Falls," I replied quietly.

"Yeah," Jordan agreed.

The bartender approached and grabbed our orders, and we returned to the big table that butted up against where several of my teammates were playing pool. Jordan broke off to sit with Chloe, and Becca waved me over to an empty seat she appeared to be guarding.

I mostly listened and sipped my beer as the conversation continued in little groups among the softball players. Becca had plenty of people vying for her attention, but she pressed her thigh to mine while she chatted, and mouthed "you okay?" at least three times before I gave in and laced my fingers with hers beneath the table.

When her cider had nearly reached the bottom, I leaned in and whispered, "Do you want to come over? I can make you some dinner, show you the house?"

I wanted to spend time with her and let whatever was happening just . . . happen. I'd been foolish to think I could stop it. Maybe it wouldn't be forever, and maybe Becca's plans would change, but I wanted her here in my space—in my life, in my heart, in my bed.

So when she responded to my invitation with a wide grin and a quick nod, it felt right.

It wasn't until forty minutes later when I was letting Carl out into the yard and guiding Becca into the kitchen at the homestead that I felt sudden nerves. I wasn't uncomfortable to have her here. I just became suddenly aware of how my great-grandfather's home didn't feel much like mine.

Since I'd moved in six years ago, I'd mostly been handling the upkeep of the big house. Improvements and modernizing had taken a back seat to putting out fires. Things that needed doing like replacing the roof or updating the plumbing and furnace as well as the water heater.

Taking in my great-grandparents' photographs in gilt-edged frames and the faded wallpaper and the old furniture, I felt uncomfortable at the lack of progress I'd made on the place. I had ideas and plans, but I'd avoided making the house a home for myself in favor of keeping it a museum to Clark ancestry .

"It smells good in here," Becca said as she wandered over to the worn countertop.

A full kitchen remodel was on my to-do list. It had been for a while now. I'd replaced the appliances a couple of years ago as they'd all been old and well used. But I planned on painting the room a brighter color and updating the cabinets and counters, maybe adding a granite island with tall stools in the center of the space. The kitchen table in the breakfast nook was one that my grandpa William had made by hand. It was a testament to his woodworking talent, but it was scratched and scarred from decades of use. I wondered how it looked through Becca's eyes—if she only saw the age and the wear and not the love and years.

"What?" I finally replied. "You think Maggie Clark raised a son who can't cook for himself?"

Her blue eyes sparkled. "Oh, I'm sure she taught you a thing or two."

Becca went back to examining the bubbling crock pot filled with tender beef and onions, carrots, and potatoes in a savory sauce.

"I can meal prep with the best of them."

She laughed, and I was continually amazed that I could get that sort of happiness out of her. I was often too serious for my own good. Not soft enough for someone like Becca. But when she smiled like that, I thought I might just be soft enough.

"I'll pop the bread in to warm and then show you around."

"I can't wait."

Taking the French bread out of the bag from the bakery, I turned on the oven and put it inside. When I spun back to face Becca and get this tour started, I saw her fingers trailing over the oak surface of the kitchen table. She traced the woodgrain reverently, a small wondering smile on her face.

I swallowed against the sight of her in this space filled with so much Clark history, and thought, she might not mind the worn edges after all.

We worked our way through the main floor. Becca lingered over the piano in the formal living room and the pictures on the wall. I showed her the photograph of me and my cousins from the hiking trail I'd told her about. Her eyes happily scanned the image of my younger self and the brilliant path lined with red rhododendron blooms.

Becca exclaimed over the powder room beneath the stairs and the light fixtures in the hallway. Her hands traced over everything that caught her eye. She asked me all about the table in the dining room and what family dinners were like back when my grandpa William had lived here. Her gaze took in the room like she could envision the laughter and the conversation from four generations of Clarks, the hands held over prayers, the meals prepared in celebration. Becca smiled at me like she could see it all, and my heart ached knowing she'd asked because she'd never had that for herself.

It made me want to invite her to my parents' house for family dinner tomorrow. She deserved to experience the boisterousness and the familiarity of a family who meddled and overwhelmed but who loved fiercely. But before I could ask, Becca's voice drew my attention.

"Look at this!" she exclaimed when I tried to lead her up the staircase to the second floor. She was marveling over the doorframe and I realized what had caught her notice. There, carved into the dark wood, were lines marking the height of many a Clark descendant. I saw initials and scratches for myself and my cousins, Bonnie and Mac. But older lines captured the growth of my father and my uncles, Robert and James. And even more worn and dated were the markings for my grandfather William Jr., the only son of our shared namesake and the great-grandmother I'd never met.

Becca's touch smoothed gently over the history and progression of my lineage, something I'd long since ignored every time I came up and down the weathered staircase. "This is amazing! R.C. is Robert?"

"Yes. Bonnie and Mac's dad."

"And J.C.?"

"My uncle James," I explained. "You haven't met him yet." Her eyes met mine on the last word, but I didn't let myself regret the implication. "He doesn't involve himself with the farm. Works and lives in town."

"I see," she said, back to tracing the lines. "And Jr. is your grandfather who lives in Florida part of the year?"

"Yeah. They have the big house overlooking the pond. "

"Ah." She nodded. "How long have you lived here, Will?"

My hand tightened on the top of the newel post. "Six years. When my great-grandfather moved into Legacy Hills."

Becca nodded again as if she'd expected that.

I felt the need to explain myself. "I have plans to remodel and update the property. I've stripped some of the wallpaper here and there. One of the bathrooms on the second floor even had it on the ceiling. There's just a lot of little things?—"

"I think it's the most wonderful house I've ever seen," she interrupted. "Things like this"—she stroked the doorframe—"make it this living, breathing thing. There's so much of your family's history here. It's beautiful and well-loved. This place is lucky to have you looking after it."

Her praise heated my cheeks. I wanted to argue and say I didn't deserve the soft way she was looking at me. Sometimes I felt overwhelmed by the responsibility I'd been entrusted with. Even more times, I felt resentful and saddled with something I'd never asked for. Becca gave me too much credit, painting me with all these shades of unfair devotion.

But before I could correct her or alter the tenderness in her gaze with my blunt honesty, she took my hand and said gently, "It's full of possibility, and when you're ready, you'll make it into something for the next generation. Now, let's go rescue the bread from the oven and eat that pot roast. You can show me the upstairs later."

"Shit," I murmured, noticing the smell of bread just this side of burnt.

She grinned and tugged me in the direction of the kitchen. And I thought I might follow this woman damn near anywhere.

Becca

We ate at the nook in the kitchen. Will gave me an honest-to-goodness cloth napkin for my lap and served me a hearty portion of comfort food while Carl lay at our feet.

The pot roast was delicious and the bread crusty and warm. We'd caught it just in time. But I was happy for the distraction.

The deeper into the house we'd wandered, the more uncomfortable Will had become. Tension radiated from him—jaw clenched tight and shoulders stiff. I imagined I knew what had put him on edge, judging from the way he'd tried to hurriedly explain away the lack of renovation he'd done.

I'd wanted to put him at ease. I loved this house, but it was obviously an undertaking. Will had been entrusted with something massive, and once again, it was another Clark legacy that he hadn't asked for, but had inherited just the same. As he did with the farm and the business, Will was honoring and nurturing his family and his responsibilities. I ached for him in this life he hadn't really chosen for himself.

But the meal had seemed to put him at ease. We'd talked and teased, and I was happy to be back on surer footing.

After dinner, we'd washed the dishes together. Will had done his best to discourage me, but I'd had none of it. I was a guest, but I didn't feel like one. Not really. I felt like I belonged.

I wanted to be elbow deep in soapy water, right beside him. I loved the domesticity of it and how comfortable I felt in this house with this man. From the rich history to the easy conversation, contentment settled deep in my bones.

If you'd have told Becca from a month ago that she'd be sharing dinner alone with crush-worthy Will Clark, she probably would have hyperventilated at the prospect. But something had shifted, bringing everything into clearer focus. If I wanted a future with Will, I needed to be brave, and that was all there was to it.

This whole evening felt like a favorite book I'd picked up from the shelf, worn and beloved. The words came easy and made my heart feel full. Dazzling and familiar all at the same time.

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't come here tonight without expectations.

I wanted to stay. I wanted to be bold and fearless and offer Will my body and my heart. And I wanted Will's offering in return. It seemed like the next logical step, a progression toward the more we were trying to achieve. Staying in Kirby Falls was ultimately my goal. I'd tentatively begun the planning stages by looking into the real estate market around town. I still wasn't ready to consider selling Mrs. Walters's apartment, but a decision would need to be made sooner rather than later.

"You ready for the rest of the tour?" Will said, taking a kitchen towel and carefully drying my wet hands.

"Yes, I'd love that," I replied, unable to hide my smile.

Will grinned too. He leaned in close to hang the towel on the handle of the oven door behind me. As he did so, his nose nuzzled against mine before he pressed a quick kiss to my lips.

When he pulled back, he was still smiling. Then he held out a hand and led me back toward the staircase. The hardwood creaked as we ascended, Carl racing up ahead of us.

"You've seen everything down here except for the screened porch, but it's too dark to appreciate the view. But you can check it out in the morning."

Will didn't say it with a presumptuous leer or with any expectation whatsoever. It was just a statement of fact—something understood and defined. A truth that I belonged here tonight and tomorrow too.

"Sounds good," I replied, working to make my voice even.

Will was patient as I explored the second floor. There was the large study, and the three guest bedrooms. The wide landing adjacent to the top of the stairs would make a perfect reading nook. It had a tall window to let in plenty of light during the daytime and enough space for a wide, comfortable chair and built-in bookshelves.

More family photos were hung in the long hallway. These looked older and more fragile. I could understand Will's reluctance to change a home that didn't really feel like his. This house had lived a thousand lives, and change was difficult no matter how you sliced it.

Will's room was the largest bedroom at the end of the hallway. He'd made the space more comfortable with an updated bedroom suite. It was pretty minimalist, with a chest of drawers for clothing, two matching bedside tables, and a large mirrored wardrobe in the corner that looked like a holdover from Grandpa William. There was an adjoining bathroom and a walk-in closet. Carl had a dog bed in the corner that looked brand new and rarely used. And when I ventured closer, I noticed a book on the end table next to a phone charger and a bedside lamp. When I got a good look at the book cover, I quickly glanced away and moved to poke my head into the bathroom.

He'd picked up one of the books I'd designed the cover for, and I thought my heart might explode. It was an indie romance title, so it wasn't like he grabbed it while browsing downtown at Paperback Writer. He'd purchased that romance novel online and had been reading it judging by the bookmark sticking out.

Will stayed near the bed while I fought to control my smile and my racing heart. When I returned from checking out the renovated en suite, I noticed that the book I'd spied was suddenly absent. I didn't want to tease him for something so adorable. I wanted to take the knowledge and hug it close before I rolled around in it.

Will was such a sweetheart. I couldn't handle it.

He was sitting at the foot of the bed, watching me.

"That's a good-looking tub," I complimented the restored white clawfoot bathtub that made me itch to pick up a loofah.

His smile was small and pleased. "Thank you. You can try it out if you want."

I came to stand in front of him and his hands immediately rested on my hips. With that big bed behind Will, this felt like a game of chicken, only I didn't think I'd mind being the loser.

"Maybe later," I said as I stepped closer and wound my arms around his neck.

Our lips met in the next instance, a mutual meeting of intent. My bottom lip slotted neatly between both of his, and he bit down gently before sucking it into his mouth.

My fingers drifted into his soft hair as his hands urged me between his spread thighs. When Will's arms closed around my waist, he tipped us back onto the bed, all my softness cradled by his firm chest and thighs. He didn't stop kissing me, just angled for a deeper taste .

I wanted this with him, and I luxuriated in sharing his space. Will was someone who valued his privacy and guarded himself. To be invited and welcomed into his orbit was another layer of acceptance I'd been missing in my life.

Strong, capable hands moved to cup my backside, and I felt the hardness of Will's erection growing between us.

I was eager for his skin and his warmth, but when my fingers closed around the hem of his tee shirt, a faint buzzing met my ears.

Lips locked, and we both paused as the vibration continued.

Finally, Will pulled back. "I think that's you." He removed my phone from my back pocket and held it up.

"Oh."

The screen faced me, and I blinked, surprised to see Laramie's name there. We'd texted plenty, but she'd never called me. I knew how opposed she was to talking on the phone.

Grabbing my cell from where Will had extended it, I wiggled myself back off the bed. I heard Will's tortured groan as I grazed his tented jeans, and I fought a smile, hitting the green button to accept the call.

"Hello," I said, watching Will cover his face with his arms.

My attention was drawn away from the bulge in his pants when I heard a quiet sniffle. "Becca."

Immediately, I became alert. "What's wrong?"

A hiccup and then a slurred, "Can you come get me?"

"Where are you?"

A muffled sob came through the line, and then what sounded like a door closing. Larry's voice echoed, "Magnolia."

Something was very wrong. I could not imagine Will's pixie-sized, butt-kicking, combat boot–wearing cousin crying somewhere in a bathroom. "What happened, babe?"

"I can't—I can't talk right now. I'm gonna be sick. Where are you? "

My eyes sought Will, who was sitting up now, watching me with concern. "I'm at Will's house."

"Oh God," she wailed, crying harder. "Please. Please don't tell him it's me. He already thinks I can't do anything right. I don't want him to know that I—that I—" Larry's words dissolved into hysterical cries.

I shot Will a tense smile. "Okay. It's okay. We'll talk. It'll be okay. Just hold tight for me."

"Thanks, Becca," she slurred, and I heard the phone plunk down on a hard surface.

Quickly straightening, I hung up and hurried over to Will, who was standing from the bed, worry and alarm clear on his features.

"I have to go. I'm so sorry."

"What's the matter? Is everything okay?"

I didn't know why Larry wanted me to keep her secret, but she was my friend, the first one I'd made in a very long time. She'd welcomed me into her life when I'd been an intrusive tourist, and we'd bonded. I cared about her, and if she needed me, I would be there for her.

I didn't want to lie to Will, but in my panic and haste to get to Laramie, I blurted out the only thing I could think of, "Everything will be okay. But I need to head back down the mountain and deal with it. Something important came up back home."

At my final word, the warmth leeched out of Will's gray eyes. His confusion set in the hard lines of his face, and I wanted to take back what I'd said about home.

Reaching out, I clasped his hand in mine. "I'll see you tomorrow at the farm. I promise. I just need to go right now. I'm sorry. Thank you for everything. This has been the best day."

Will nodded stiffly as his hand slid out of mine. "I hope everything is okay."

I forced a smile. "It will be."