hall as she took a step onto the metal platform. A slow one this time. Cautious.
She took another.
Bent down.
A bouquet of flowers stood wedged into a fresh roll of duct tape and the slits of the platform. A simple, folded piece of notebook paper was taped to the bouquet’s plastic wrapper.
She opened it.
MEET ME HOME
Home.
Bree’s head snapped up. She looked around.
Pressed the bouquet to her chest with one hand and grabbed the rail with the other.
Quickly she descended the steps and moved to her car.
Home.
This time it wasn’t Chip but Bree who had the lead foot as her old Subaru sped across Plumb Alley, slammed to a stop at each sign and turn, and ascended the hill toward Stonewall Heights Drive. The bouquet of flowers shook on the passenger seat beside her; when she turned into Stonewall Heights they flew off the seat altogether.
She pressed her lips together and forced herself to ease up on the pedal as Mrs. Lewis yanked on her dog leash while she stood on the sidewalk, watching Bree’s car rumble by.
Bree caught Mrs. Lewis’s upturned lips, however, as she passed.
What was Chip up to?
Whatever it was, Mrs. Lewis knew.
And as her view rose above the parallel-parked vehicles and shrubbery, she knew too.
Bree pulled the car into the driveway and pushed the gearshift into park.
Russell, with his giant head resting on the porch steps, jerked up at the sight of Bree’s car. Bree yanked the glove compartment open, grabbed the Frisbee, and threw open her door.
Because there Chip stood, holding a shovel, no longer the sleek, gray-suited man of the morning but the rugged, holey T-shirt man she’d loved to hate so much and now, somehow, just loved.
Sweat dripped freely from his forehead, as though he’d been too focused on shoveling to stop and push it aside. Fresh dirt was smeared across one cheek.
And almost all the way across the driveway was a new stretch of uprooted dirt, just twelve inches away from the original. A new Invisible Fence line. A real one.
He saw her and frowned.
“Aw, Bree,” he said, straightening. “Evie told me she thought you’d be another couple of hours at least—”
But Chip never got to finish the rest of his sentence. Because Bree crossed the line, threw the Frisbee at the oncoming dog, and marched straight into him.
With one hand pressed to his dirt-streaked cheek, Bree caught his lips with hers.
She heard the shovel drop first.
A moment later his hands wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her in with the same power and determination she’d witnessed time and time again as he dug or drilled or hammered.
But his lips were gentle, disciplined. Slow, as if he’d wanted to do this for a long time. Methodical, as if he wanted to explore the lips, cheeks, temples he’d never been quite able to reach.
He wanted her too. Until that moment, until she felt every soft kiss delivered like a whispered affirmation, the grip of his calloused hands like a soft pledge, she hadn’t been certain.
Her breath grew shaky, unstable, just as the weight of Russell’s flank wedged between them.
Chip pulled back, and when he did, there was a timidity in his eyes as if to say, Well then, I suppose I’ve shown all my cards now.
She leaned over Russell and kissed Chip again once, hard, to show him she could show all her cards too.
Russell nudged her again, and just as her knees started to buckle she recovered. They both looked down to see him, panting through open jaws, trying to press the Frisbee into her hand.
She reached for it and the dog sat, panting, his brown eyes so doe-like, so eager, you’d think she had offered him a Slim Jim.
“Well, whaddya know, Chip? The Frisbee trick works.”
She threw the Frisbee, and the dog bounded after it.
When she returned her gaze, she realized Chip was still watching her. With his face inches from hers a smile crept up his lips. A private smile, a challenging smile. His eyes crinkled as he spoke. “Bree Leake. Would you ever doubt me?”
In all her life—with Nana’s home behind her, the maroon-and-yellow flags waving merrily at the Barter not so far away, the friends and the neighbors and this man looking at her as if with no intention of ever looking away, and yes, even the dog racing toward her across the yard, drool flying from his rippling jowls—she had never felt more content.
Epilogue
Two Years Later
The sun shone on the sun-kissed yard as Russell chased a chicken and Chip