My anger softens. He’s wiped. We both are.

“Sweetheart.” He glances at me. “I really am sorry. If there was any other way…you know I would’ve been there with you. Did y’all pick out some good stuff?”

I reach back for my seatbelt and look down to buckle it. “We did.”

“You all right?” he asks, putting a hand on my leg.

I look back up. “I understand you got stuck dealing with an emergency this morning. But I’m struggling with you, Grey. I feel like I’m doing the lion’s share of the work for this baby.”

“I’ve been doing work, too.” He takes my hand and runs his thumb across my knuckles. “Can I show you how?”

I give his hand a squeeze. “I’d like that.”

He tangles his fingers with mine as we make a right onto East Bay Street. We pass the famous Rainbow Row on the right, its colors vibrant against the grey February afternoon.

We continue on as East Bay Street turns into East Battery. Charleston Harbor stretches out to our left, the murky green water smooth as glass.

We don’t go far. Grey slows, pulling into a gravel driveway immediately off South Battery. There’s a For Sale sign on the wrought iron fence that encloses the property.

My heart begins to pound.

The drive winds under a canopy of palm trees. A gorgeous—and very large—house comes into view. It’s red brick with black shutters. Two stories, very classic Georgian design. It’s shiny and perfect. Too perfect. It’s brand new, as evidenced by the full dumpster by the garage and the barren landscaping. The yard is big but bare.

Grey puts the truck into park in front of the house. There’s a woman in a long skirt and sweater at the glossy front door. She smiles and waves.

I feel queasy all of a sudden.

“Grey,” I say, staring at the house. “What’s going on?”

He cuts the engine. Untangles our fingers and unbuckles his seat belt.

He’s grinning.

“You’ll see.”

I follow him to the door, where he introduces me to his real estate agent, Vanessa.

I swear my heart is going to beat its way through my chest.

A creeping realization comes over me.

Grey wants to buy this house. For us.

Our family.

I don’t say a word as Vanessa takes us on a tour of many thousands of square feet. The place smells new, like paint. More bedrooms and bathrooms than I can count, everything white and clean and trendy. The kitchen is enormous, with two islands and a scullery.

It’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong. But it has no character. No story to tell.

I love properties that are a little rough around the edges, like Luke’s barn. Properties that I’m able to transform with my own touch, my own style.

When I flip through a sales brochure I find on the kitchen counter and see the asking price, my eyes almost pop out of my head.

It hits me.