Warmth spread through me.

“Oliver, that’s⁠—”

“Stupid, I know,” he joked, dropping his hand and running it along the back of his neck. “It’s nothing like the goals you probably had in mind, but I figured it’s a start.”

“It’s perfect,” I said, grabbing his hand back.

He smiled, looking down at our fingers. “You think?”

The way he sought my approval made me want to burst into tears. He cared what I thought. And even though a camper trailer wasn’t exactly a statement of stability, it showed that he wanted something consistent. Something that felt like home.

“I love the idea for you.” I stood on my tiptoes and he met me halfway, stealing a kiss. Marie’s was empty now, and we were only minutes away from closing the place down for the night.

“I wish I could see it,” I murmured without thinking.

For a second, something flashed in Oliver’s eyes. His neck tensed before he cleared his throat and went back to the bar. He pulled out another glass and resumed attempting to make a margarita. “Well, it’s probably for the best. It’ll be a small space. Barely room to cook dinner, let alone host a guest.”

His subtle pull-away stung a little, but I wasn’t surprised. We never talked about us. About the fact that there wouldn’t be an us for much longer.

“It’s not like you cook dinner now,” I teased, attempting to lighten the mood. “I’ve seen your bare cabinets firsthand.”

“Maybe that should be a goal of mine,” he said thoughtfully, adding triple sec into the glass in front of him before pulling out a long metal spoon and stirring.

“A goal. Perfect!” I exclaimed. “We can learn to cook together.”

“Sounds like fun.” He winked at me. “Fun and a goal? Talk about killing two birds with one stone. Here—” He held out the drink he’d been working on. “Try this.”

I swirled the ice in the glass before taking a tentative sip. My lips puckered immediately. “It’s perfect if you’re going for the record for the sourest margarita in history,” I said.

Oliver tossed his head back, laughing. “Such a hater.”

And just like that, everything was easy again.

TWENTY-ONE

Frankie

“No way!” My sides hurt from laughing as Oliver held up a neon-green and yellow tunic.

“I think it’s your color,” he insisted, holding it up to my small frame. It was about ten sizes too big.

“Put it back,” I demanded, pointing at the rack of eclectic thrifted pieces. It was Key Ridge’s first farmers market of the season. Main Street was closed down, and it was packed. Tents lined the streets selling fresh produce, homemade goods, and more. It was small-town charm at its best, and Oliver and I were having more than a little fun wandering into the tents.

“I think you’re making a mistake,” Oliver said, shaking the hanger. “Maximalism is in right now.”

“Are you a fashion expert now?”

“Please, Frankie. It wants to go with you. It might never find a home if you don’t take pity on it.”