Page 55 of DFF: Delicate Freakin’ Flower (Family Ties #5)

He was standing behind her now, and as she looked at me with all the seriousness of a school principal laying down the law, Ira caught my eye, shook his head dramatically, and mouthed, " Like hell!"

Then he stepped forward and sipped his beer with a completely straight face. “Yes, dear.”

I burst out laughing so hard I nearly dropped my cup.

Gladys just rolled her eyes and said to me, “Anyway, it’s so nice to have you back, sugar. We need to start doing lunch, going on shopping trips—you know, girl time. I don’t care what your schedule looks like, you’re mine now.”

Something in my chest ached—but it wasn’t pain, not really.

It was warmth. That woman had held me when I was falling apart, had fought for me when I couldn’t lift my own fists and had cared for me like I was her own.

And maybe that’s what I’d become—a daughter to a mother who’d lost hers.

There was no way I could ever say no to her.

“I’d love that,” I said, and I meant every word.

She kissed my cheek, gave me a squeeze, and then wandered off to yell at Ira for something he was doing with the grill.

I stood there for a moment, just breathing it in—the noise, the smells, the safety. I still hadn’t seen him, but for now, I let myself enjoy the moment.

I was home, and I was loved. And maybe I was ready for whatever came next.

It turns out I wasn’t ready for whatever came next. One minute, I was sipping sweet tea and catching my breath in Sasha’s backyard, and the next, someone had slipped a blindfold over my eyes.

“What the?—?”

“Sorry,” Elijah’s familiar voice mumbled close to my ear. “I wouldn’t have done it this way, but, uh…well, Webb was dropped on his head as a baby. Possibly more than once.”

“Elijah.”

“And he’s taken a few solid hits since then,” he added, gently taking my elbow. “So, you know, you’re in safe hands. Kinda.”

I could hear laughter behind me—Malcolm’s specifically.

“What about the cake?” I called out, only half joking.

“Here’s some cake for her.” I didn’t even have to see his face to know Malcolm was handing it over like it was a sacred offering.

A small plate was pressed into my palm as Elijah guided me out the front door, and I laughed despite myself. Only my cousin would know I wouldn’t tolerate being kidnapped—even gently—without cake.

I wasn’t scared. I trusted the Townsend-Rossis with my life, and they’d already more than proven I could.

Still, the curiosity buzzed in my chest like electricity.

“He” could only mean Webb. And if that was true—if they were taking me to him—then I was more than okay being blindfolded and chauffeured.

Elijah kept up the conversation in the car, launching into a story about how his youngest had decided he was a dog now and had taken to eating kibble out of their Great Dane’s bowl and barking at squirrels.

I chuckled and tried to respond like I wasn’t half-distracted, but mostly my thoughts were spiraling.

Where were we going? Was this his way of avoiding the awkward “hi, so we almost died and then didn’t speak for months” reunion? Or was this something more?

The twenty-minute drive passed in a haze, and the world outside was a blur until the car finally crunched to a stop on the gravel.

Before I could fully process it, the door swung open, my seatbelt clicked free, and I was being lifted out of the truck—into strong, familiar arms that had lived in my imagination every single night since I left.

I sank into his chest without a second thought, every part of me recognizing what I’d been missing.

Webb.

I would’ve said his name, but before I could even catch my breath, Elijah’s voice boomed behind us. “ Cake! ”

Something small and plastic was pressed into my hand again, and though I could barely manage a laugh around the flutter in my chest, it slipped out anyway.

The air was rich with the scent of cut grass and fresh flowers, and somewhere in the distance, dogs barked faintly.

A breeze brushed the back of my neck, cool against my skin, and I became aware of the gentle motion—Webb was carrying me, his steps slow and deliberate.

He lowered me onto what I assumed was solid flooring—no grass underfoot, no stone, just smooth hardwood. Then, fingers brushed against the knot at the back of my head, and the blindfold slipped free.

I blinked up at him, blinking past the haze of light and emotion, and before I could even stop myself, I reached up, tangled my fingers in his shirt, and kissed him hard.

Weeks of worry, months of longing, a thousand questions—all of it poured into that kiss. He tasted like relief and heat and something that felt dangerously like home.

When I finally pulled back, breathless and overwhelmed, I smacked his chest. “Why can’t you ever do anything normally?”

Webb grinned, brushing a hand over my hair like he couldn’t quite believe I was real. “Nothing about us has been normal so far, so why break the habit of a lifetime?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but then I caught it—the faint scent of fresh paint, sawdust, and something floral layered beneath it. I was about to ask where we were, but Webb was still staring down at me like I was the only thing that mattered.

“If we don’t move,” he murmured, eyes dropping to my lips, “I’m going to make love to you on top of that cake plate.”

My mouth twitched. Tempting. Very tempting. But…

“I really want the cake,” I admitted, genuinely torn.

He laughed, full and deep, and kissed the top of my head. “That’s my girl.”

He turned me gently, one hand at my waist, and guided me forward. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

We walked slowly through the house, and I realized with every step that it had been completely redone.

The walls were painted a soft, calming shade of pale sage, and one hallway was lined with framed prints that looked like tattoo art—bold lines, intricate designs, roses, skulls, and mythic creatures brought to life in ink and color.

It was a perfect reflection of Webb himself—his skin, his history, everything that made him who he was.

Woven between the tattoo art and the darker, edgier pieces that clearly belonged to Webb were softer elements that caught me off guard—delicate light fixtures casting a warm, golden glow and billowy curtains that danced in the evening breeze through cracked windows.

A textured throw was draped over the back of a couch that looked like it'd been chosen for comfort, not just practicality.

Everywhere I looked, there were small, thoughtful details—softness and light, subtle color, and calm—that felt unmistakably like me.

As if someone had studied all the quiet corners of who I was and tucked them gently into this space, waiting for me to notice.

And it wasn’t just those details on their own. It was the way they sat side by side with the bold, inked art and the rougher textures that screamed him. None of it clashed. It didn’t feel like two worlds smashed together. It felt like harmony and balance. Like home.

Every corner I turned whispered us. Not the version of us shaped by survival and chaos and everything we’d been dragged through. But something more real.

I tried to speak, tried to put the weight of what I was feeling into words, but nothing came out. My throat was tight, my chest full, and all I could do was keep walking forward and drinking it all in with wide, overwhelmed eyes.

Webb didn’t say a word. He didn’t rush me or push for a reaction. He just stayed by my side, close enough that I could feel the heat of him next to me, steady and calm, letting me take it all in. Letting me feel it.

This wasn’t just a house. This was a beginning. A deliberate, thought-out beginning.

And somehow, after everything we’d endured, everything we’d fought through to get to this moment, it felt like exactly the right place to start.

We moved through the house slowly, like we were walking through the pages of a book someone had written just for us.

My fingertips skimmed along the edge of a hallway table, tracing the carved wood detail, then down over a framed photo of a pier at sunset.

The light here was warm and gentle as if everything had been softened with intention.

Webb hadn’t said much yet, but I could feel the tension rolling off him in subtle waves—his hand brushing mine just a little too carefully and the way he watched me from the corner of his eye when he thought I wasn’t looking.

Finally, when we reached the living room, he cleared his throat and shifted his weight like he was preparing for a fight or maybe a fall.

“This place…” he started, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. “It’s been mine for years. But until now, it’s just been a place to crash. Dump a bag, sleep a night or two, go back to whatever mess needed handling next.”

I turned toward him, my heart already thudding in anticipation of what he was trying to say.

“I wanted it to be more,” he went on. “Not just a house, but a home. For you. For me. For us. If—” He paused, his jaw working overtime. The fact his words were disjointed was cute as hell. “If you want that.”

The words settled over me like a slow, rising wave, seeping into my skin and curling down my spine.

I looked around again, this time with more intention, letting the space truly register.

The details I’d skimmed over before now seemed to glow with quiet significance—my old bookshelf tucked beside his, my favorite woven blanket folded neatly over the arm of the couch.

And there, on the far wall, hung one of my college paintings—the one I’d created in a storm of anger and bold, chaotic energy.

Somehow, against all odds, it belonged here. Just like I did.

“You brought my stuff here,” I pointed out softly, stepping toward the shelf and letting my hand brush over the spine of a worn paperback I hadn’t seen in months.

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Figured I’d do it now before you changed your mind and burned it all.”

I turned back to him, lips twitching, but I couldn’t let him off the hook just yet.

“And what if I don’t want to live with you?” I asked, tilting my head and watching him carefully.

His jaw twitched again, but he didn’t back down. “Then you can live here anyway while I work on changing your mind.”

My brows rose.

“Gabby, I know what we’ve been through. I know it was chaos and fire and not exactly a fairy tale, but if you don’t want to live with me yet, you can still have this house.

It’s safe, it’s yours. And I’ll do whatever it takes to show you we’re meant to be together, even if that means sleeping in the truck until you let me back in. ”

I laughed despite myself. “Oh, so you’re going to convince me?”

He stepped closer and brushed a piece of hair from my face. His voice was quiet but confident. “I hope I don’t have to. But if I do... I’ll walk through ice to make you see it.”

I smiled up at him teasingly. “Why not fire?”

He snorted, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Because fire would fuck up my beard. And any man with half a brain and a good beard knows you don’t mess with that.”

That pulled a genuine laugh from me, deep and warm. God, I’d missed this. Missed him .

“You’re ridiculous,” I snorted, wrapping my arms around his waist.

“Yeah,” he murmured, holding me close, “but I’m yours if you’ll have me.”

I didn’t say anything at first. I just rested my head against his chest, breathing in the scent of sawdust, fresh paint, and Webb. All around us was proof of what he’d created—not just the house, but the intention.

And I absolutely loved it.