The Plan (Off-Limits Romance, #4)(2)

And how small, and how pathetic, that that’s where I am emotionally: the why-me phase. Why anyone? I’ve got it better than most people alive right now on planet earth, and still…

I swallow back another sob and draw my arms around myself.

There’ll be another time to try.

But not right now. I’m all out of savings. And here in bum fuck nowhere, I’m an hour or more from an in-vitro clinic—at least two from somewhere reputable. When I do save up enough to try again, I wonder what people will say about a single mom who chose to have a baby by herself?

I wrap an arm over my head and cry, because this shouldn’t even matter. When mom’s health took a turn and my brother, Zach, told me the doctor gave her just a year or two, I was already pregnant. At the time, I didn’t give a passing thought to moving back here, to the town I fled the day I graduated high school.

When I lost her, I felt frantic. Try again, just try again. No price was too high, no course of action too extreme. Of course, by then I’d burned through all my savings. I used the last of my retirement on another IVF cycle, and that one failed. Some flaw with the donor sperm. The clinic should have caught it. They offered me a discount on my next cycle, but then Mom fell. Zach was out of town, so she laid there without her oxygen until her physical therapist arrived five hours later.

When I heard about the opening at Fate Pediatrics, it seemed like destiny, or…yeah.

Move back, rent, and stash my money for another IVF cycle. In six to eight months, I should have enough to try again.

I tell myself it’s worth it as I head back down the hill by way of High School Drive, slowing to check out the school’s new digital sign before I steer back into the heart of the historic district.

Damn, the trees are big. So tall. I had forgotten. I had forgotten how ornate the old, iron-gated cemetery. How many gazebos are there downtown, bejeweling medians? I drive past the old train depot, down Stars Boulevard, under the swaying mossy oaks, and turn onto Stripes, a long, straight line of pristine homes, and see my destination towering amongst the oaks.

Fendall House—three stories of Italianate grandeur. The levels are square-ish, stacked like tiers of wedding cake: the bottom with a wide front porch and ornate columns, the middle with a balcony that hangs over the porch, and the top, a small, white square with delicate latticework, known to people who love old things as a widow’s walk.

The windows, fixtures, and hardwood are all original, circa 1860. The small, square windows around the mahogany double doors are made of unique red glass. Inside the mansion, high-ceilinged halls lead to richly appointed parlors and bedrooms dominated by to-die-for antiques. Even the ceiling fans on the front porch are beautiful and delicate. Ever since I was a little girl, this was my favorite of Fate’s hallmark homes.

When my Grandma Ellis mentioned that the owner, her friend Miss Shorter, was renting out a portion of the second floor to bring in extra income, I jumped at the chance to live here. Bonus points: my mom lives just a block and a half north.

I press the U-Haul’s brakes and take a long swig of my water as I peer up at my new home base. I remind myself I’m fortunate to live somewhere so beautiful, even if it’s only temporary. I think of all the fun nights Kat and I will have, and Lainey, my other hometown bestie, when she’s not with her husband.

I can knit in peace here, maybe even in the widow’s walk. I’ll stock the refrigerator with flavored water, my favorite yogurt, fruit and vegetables, and fresh-shot venison. I’ll carve a pumpkin here, and hang my white coat on the back of the creaky bedroom door. At night, after work, I’ll watch Game of Thrones, This is Us, HGTV.

It’ll be okay. I’ll be okay back here in Fate.

It’s weird, and yes, a little stifling, but I can do this. I can live a happy, small-town life. I’m thirty-two now. I can handle anything. If this last year has proven anything to me, it’s that.

Just have to wait a little longer for my happy ending…

I climb out of the truck and take my time pushing the U-Haul’s cargo door open, looking in at all my things, deciding what to unload first. This could take hours. Hopefully, it will. I need the workout—and the time to clear my head.

I climb inside the truck and grab two small things first: my favorite Elvis lamp and a box of yarn and clay, easy pickings for my first trip up the stairs to my rented digs. Then I grab my purse off the truck’s rear ledge, step down, and—

“Oofh!”

I blink at the wall I’ve just slammed into. At first, I think I’m seeing things. I blink a few times, fast, to try to magic him away. Hallucination. But…he’s not.

His curly hair is wild and dark, just like it always was. His blue-gray eyes—more blue, although he claims they’re gray—are just as sharp as I recall. His face is still so striking: dark brows over a stern, strong nose, and high cheekbones. My gaze skates over his rich mouth, and I realize I’d forgotten how beautiful he is.

Gabriel McKellan is famous at least in part because he looks like such a god. The familiarity of him hits me like a ball of ice right to the gut, but where he’s different makes me warm. That stubble-beard, the way his jaw is sharper, shoulders thicker. My gaze skates down his white t-shirt, pasted over rigid abs. I note his forearms—thicker, tanned—before appraising jeans-clad thighs.

One of them flexes.

Shit.

My errant gaze jerks back up, where I find his features twisted in a scowl.