Page 81 of Better than Yesterday
“I know.” The certainty in his voice made my chest tighten in the best possible way.
Gravel crunched under the tires as we turned into his driveway. His porch lights were on, warm amber glowing against the soft gray of the cottage walls. The dark blue door looked almost black in the night.
He killed the engine and came around to open my door, pulling me into a kiss that was unhurried and deep. When he finally let me go, I could hardly breathe.
“Come on,” he murmured against my hair. “Let me show you home.”
The moment I stepped through that front door, everything shifted. I’d been in Braden’s neat, orderly space with its polished hardwood floors, comfortable sofa, and functional kitchen. I’d noted how controlled and clean it was, how much it said about his need for order and stability. But I’d never reallyseenit.
Not as a place that could be mine.
The contrast with my rental townhouse hit me. That place was boring and temporary—ugly walls and generic furniture that belonged to no one. It had never felt like home because it wasn’t supposed to. It was a placeholder, a waystation.
Braden’s home was different. This cottage was lived-in. The framed nautical chart on the wall wasn’t decoration—it was a map of waters he knew intimately. The family photos on the mantle showed a loving family I’d been folded into without even realizing it. And standing in the middle of that living room, I understood something that had eluded me for months.
Staying meant choosing.
It meant looking at everything Braden had built—not just the cottage, but the brewpub, his place in this community, his deep roots in Dove Key—and recognizing that it was worth more than any career trajectory or prestigious institution could ever offer me. The restless energy that haddefined me for years—the constant searching, the fear of missing out, the need to prove myself through achievement and accolades—finally stilled. I felt it like a physical sensation, a loosening in my chest and grounding throughout my body.
I was home.
The realization brought tears to my eyes, but they weren’t from doubt or fear. They were from relief so profound it felt like seeing light after being in the dark for an eternity.
“Tessa.” Braden’s voice was soft, concerned. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I crossed the space between us and took his face in my hands. “I’m so much more than okay.”
He reached for me, and I let him pull me close. His arms around me felt like an answer to every question I’d ever asked.
“Do you want a beer?” he asked after a long moment. “Wine?”
I pulled back just enough to look at him. “I only want you.”
A slow smile spread across his face. “Okay, then.”
The kiss we shared was slow and certain. No urgency, no desperation—just two people finally on the same page, finally moving forward together instead of dancing around each other.
When he finally pulled away, he took my hand. “Come with me.”
He led me not toward the bedroom, but through the kitchen and toward the back door. He paused only to grab a thick, folded blanket from an outdoor storage bench before leading me down the short steps and onto the grass of his backyard. The air was warm and thick. He walked us to the center of the lawn, far from the ambient light ofthe porch, and with a flick of his wrists sent the blanket unfurling over the grass.
He turned to me, his face illuminated by the vast, star-dusted sky. “Here. I want you out here. Under all this.”
We moved slowly, deliberately. His hands moved to the zipper of my skirt, sliding it down with exquisite slowness. The fabric whispered as it fell, and a soft breeze ghosted over my newly exposed skin. He caught the fabric before it could pool at my feet and set it carefully on the edge of the blanket like it was precious. Like I was precious.
“God, Tessa.” His voice was rough, reverent. “I want to take my time with you.”
“Then take it,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He kissed me as he shed his clothes, and by the time we were both naked on the blanket, there was nothing between us but the warm night air and the kind of vulnerability that only comes when you’ve finally stopped protecting yourself.
He moved slowly, deliberately, exploring me like a man who needed to relearn every inch of my body. His mouth found my breasts, and I gasped at the sensation of his warmth against the cool night air. His callused hands—weathered from brewery work, from the water—felt electric against my soft skin. He worshipped my breasts with his mouth and hands, drawing out each sensation until I was breathless beneath him.
My hands found the planes of his shoulders, his back, the solid muscle of him. He was real. He was here. After everything—after twelve years and fear and heartbreak and nearly losing each other completely—he was here.
“I love you,” I whispered to the star-dusted sky.
His mouth traced a path along my collarbone. “I love you too. God, I love you.”
