Page 42 of Curve Balls and Second Chances (Pickwick Pirate Queens #1)

R ose found Acen waiting on her porch with two sweating glasses of sweet tea.

The sight stopped her in her tracks.

He sat on the top step like he belonged there, elbows balanced on his knees, the glasses catching the last shimmers of sunlight. Condensation pooled in rings on the porch rail where the glasses sat.

“I figured after the week you’ve had you might want some quiet,” he said, offering her the glass.

She smiled, heart swelling at how well he knew her.

Not just the outer version of her, the woman who plastered on a brave face for the town, who kept her shop running and her chin high.

No , he knew the Rose who craved stillness after the storm, who found healing in silence and a glass of sweet tea on a porch swing.

“Quiet sounds about right,” she said softly.

He rose easily, handing her one of the glasses, and the cool condensation pressed against her palm as welcome as a blessing. They moved together toward the porch swing, falling into step like they’d been doing it for years.

The chains creaked as they settled onto the wooden slats, and the swing swayed gently beneath their weight.

The evening sky was painted lavender, streaks of rose and indigo stretching across the horizon.

Honeysuckle curled along the fence line, its sweetness drifting on the breeze.

The air held that soft heaviness particular to southern summers—the kind that wrapped around you like a quilt, both comfort and weight at once.

Rose took a sip of tea, the hint of lemon sharp and soothing all at once. She felt her heartbeat begin to slow, the day’s ache loosening in her chest.

“Declan and I talked,” she said, breaking the hush.

Acen didn’t flinch, didn’t bristle. He simply turned his head, one brow lifting slightly. “ I figured. Everything okay?”

“Better than okay.” She wrapped her fingers tight around the glass, condensation dripping onto her jeans. “ He’s a good man. Just not my man.”

The relief of saying it aloud surprised her. She hadn’t realized how much she’d carried until the words fell free.

Acen leaned back, his shoulder brushing hers as the swing rocked. He gazed at the tree branches, their leaves rustling in the evening breeze. His profile caught the fading light. Strong , steady, softened by something she couldn’t name.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said slowly. “ About staying.”

She turned to him, startled. The word staying rang in her chest like a church bell.

“You’d stay? Really stay?”

He set his glass down on the rail beside the swing and laced his fingers together, as if steadying himself for the truth. “ I got an offer to coach the high school’s boys’ baseball team. It’s not glamorous. But it’s steady. And it’d mean I’m not just… passing through again.”

Rose felt her throat tighten. She stared at him, her glass forgotten. Memories tumbled through her mind. The boy who left, the man who’d walked back into her life, the years she’d spent convincing herself she was fine without him.

And here he was, offering something she had secretly longed for but never dared hope.

He looked at her then, steady and sure, no trace of hesitation in his eyes. “ I’ve spent enough years running. If I’m going to plant roots again, I want to do it beside someone who makes me feel like home.”

Her breath hitched.

That word. Home .

It wasn’t about houses or towns. It was about belonging. About being seen and chosen, not in spite of scars but because of them.

A slow smile broke across her face before she even realized it, her chest filling with a warmth that felt like sunlight after a long winter.

And then, before she could say a word, he kissed her.

It wasn’t rushed or fiery. It was careful. Certain .

A kiss twenty years in the making, and worth every lost second.

Her heart galloped as his lips pressed against hers, gentle but unshakable, as if he were reminding her they had time now. The kind of time they once thought was stolen. The kind of time that made every scar, every mistake, every lonely night feel like it had been leading here.

When he pulled back, her cheeks were flushed, her pulse thrumming in her ears.

“I don’t need everything figured out,” he said, his voice low, roughened by honesty. “ But I want to build something real. With you. Day by day.”

His words lingered in the air, more powerful than any promise. He wasn’t offering perfection. He wasn’t offering fairy tales. He was offering the messy, daily work of showing up.

And that, more than anything, was what she wanted.

She leaned in, kissed him again, sweet and certain. This one wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t twenty years of waiting. It was now. Present . Chosen .

The porch swing creaked beneath them, steady as a heartbeat, and the night wrapped around them like a blessing. Somewhere in the distance, a whippoorwill called, its song weaving through the hum of cicadas.

Rose pulled back just enough to look at him, her smile trembling but fierce.

“Acen Wheeler ,” she said, her voice thick with everything she hadn’t dared to hope, “you’re about to make this porch swing the luckiest seat in Pickwick Bend .”

He laughed, soft and easy, the sound vibrating through her chest where they touched.

And somewhere between the creak of the porch swing and the call of the whippoorwill in the distance, Rose McAllister realized love wasn’t about reclaiming the past.

It was about choosing the future—boldly, and with both hands.

And when Acen’s hand closed over hers, strong and warm, she knew she wasn’t choosing alone.