“Did I hear something about a room?” Nessa came down the hall wearing jeans and his shirt, which hung to her thighs. “How bad is it really over at our place? Are y’all keeping something from me?”

“No, but . . . ,” Flynn started.

“The quilting shed is practically gone,” April spit out.

Nessa stopped in her tracks. “Nanny Lucy’s frame. Is it still there?”

“It’s gone,” April answered. “The file cabinets are still standing, but we didn’t check to see about water damage to the stuff inside them. I’m so sorry, Nessa.”

“But I’ve already told you that you can have a room here,” Jackson assured her. “Two rooms, if you want to live with me and let April have her own room instead of sleeping on the sofa. One for the quilting business, one for you to sleep in. Tex and I wouldn’t mind the company.”

“Are you asking Nessa to move in with you?” April asked.

“I’ll take you up on that quilting room, and maybe later, when April is ready to reclaim her trundle bed, we’ll talk about the other room,” Nessa said before Jackson could answer.

“Yes,” Jackson said as he locked eyes with Nessa. “I’m asking Nessa to move in with me.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Six

Nessa woke up at five o’clock, eased out of bed, got dressed, and walked home before the sun was even a tiny orange thread on the eastern horizon. This had been her regular routine for the past several weeks—ever since the night of the tornado. She was surprised to see the yellow glow of light flowing through the living room window and even more shocked to smell coffee brewing when she opened the door. But neither of those shocks compared to the adrenaline rush she got when she saw Flynn and April sitting at the table having pancakes and bacon. Bad news was the only thing that would make them get up that early and cook. Was it about one of her parents?

“Good mornin’.” April smiled.

How could she be happy when something was so terribly wrong? Nessa glanced around the room to see four boxes sitting in the middle of the floor. The sofa had been put to rights, but the coat-closet door was open, and there was nothing in it.

“What’s going on?” Nessa whispered.

Flynn motioned to the chair where she always sat. “This is an intervention. Come on in here, sit down, and have some breakfast.”

“I’m not addicted to anything.” She walked around the boxes and eased down into her chair.

“We beg to differ,” Flynn chuckled. “You are addicted to Jackson.”