Page 29 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

Laughing I palm her face and push her back. “Fine.” I sigh and pull out my phone, opening the Notes app. “Okay, hit me.”

She starts listing things like she’s manifesting a brunch board for the gods: bagels—specifically the fancy kind with everything seasoning that gets stuck in your teeth for hours—three types of cream cheese—one of which must be strawberry—and “real” coffee because, apparently, the dark roast I drink is dehydrated regret in a jar.

She wants orange juice with pulp because she enjoys “chewing her beverages like a psychopath,” and not one, but two boxes of cocoa cereal for dessert, not breakfast, obviously.

She goes on a frozen waffle tangent, insisting we need whipped cream “for the waffles … or emergencies,” and demands a crate of avocados “for the aesthetic.” The almond butter has to be the kind in the glass jar with the fancy paper label that peels off real pretty, and we have to get “a cheese board’s worth of cheese,” no less.

She adds grapes—red and green, because “variety, babe”—plus bacon, brown eggs—“they look rustic”—hash browns in both patty and shredded form because she refuses to choose, Honeycrisp apples, and a baguette, just in case someone paints us while we lounge.

“Oh, and canned cinnamon rolls,” she adds as she reaches into the fridge for a bottle of water, “because tradition. And emergency dark chocolate. Duh.”

“Of course,” I mutter, typing as fast as I can.

“Fancy sparkling water, too. The kind with the names no one can pronounce.”

I shoot her a look.

“Don’t judge me; it elevates the table.”

By six thirty, we’re standing in front of our masterpiece, hands on hips, covered in sawdust, fabric threads, and a kind of pride in our work.

The table looks like something straight out of a mood/vibe board, where every torn page is either impossibly aesthetic or wildly impractical. Somehow, we managed to land somewhere right in the middle: totally imperfect, totally ours.

We found the old table in the carriage house that serves as a storage barn behind the building, tucked against a stack of vintage shutters that I will totally repurpose as a mail sorter, coffee tabletop, or shelving.

We also found a filing cabinet that might be older than the town itself.

That will definitely be brought back to life.

The table legs were cracked and useless, but the slatted surface? Hand-planed. Solid wood. Worn in that beautiful way where you just know that Aunt Isobel and her friends chose to share meals and probably more gossip than they’d ever admit.

The second Mags spotted those two sawhorses behind a tower of Christmas decorations, and what we think might’ve been a poorly taxidermied raccoon—RIP—it was game on.

She stood there, grinning like a pirate discovering treasure. “Your aunt Isobel was low-key a badass.”

“High-key,” I corrected, hauling the table up by one edge and dragging it into the light. “She just hid it under cardigans, reading glasses, and words that held truth.”

I took the legs off myself, right there on the floor with my dad’s drill and the same quiet determination.

I’ve already got plans to refinish the wood, sand, and seal it so it glows with that lived-in warmth.

Maybe I’ll change it up and make it extendable one day, too, so it doesn’t always have to eat up the room when it’s just me, Mags, and Wile.

From the third-floor stash of Aunt Isobel’s household things, I found an entire set of mismatched, ridiculously charming dinner plates—each with tiny chips and faded designs—and enough silverware for a small army of dinner guests.

There was even a reel of fabric in a dusky, floral pattern that Mags and I cut into the world’s most lopsided tablecloth.

She tried to iron it. I told her not to get too attached.

“I swear,” I said, smoothing my hand over the tabletop, “once I bring this back to life, it won’t even need a cover.”

Mags didn’t argue. Just nodded like she could already see it.

But the real surprise? The rooftop access.

We found it behind a weird panel door at the top of the back stairwell.

It creaked open like a secret passage—this place is full of them—and stairs.

The door at the top wasn’t easy to open, which means it’s now impossible to fully close and will require Dad.

So worth it. Wind biting, stars winking above the outline of the trees, and the village stretched out below us like something from a Hallmark Christmas movie.

We can see it all, Main Street’s twinkling lights, the flicker of TVs through windows, the football and field hockey fields at the school just beyond, still lit from a late practice.

Mags leans over the railing, grinning. “You know what this place needs?”

“Lights,” I say immediately. “And long benches. And that fire pit we saved to my Amazon cart.”

“And that ridiculous neon sign you like that says, ‘ Get in loser, we’re making memories ?’”

I laugh. “Absolutely.”

My heart swells in a way I wasn’t expecting—big, and bold, and a little bit scared. Because this? This is more than a table, or a rooftop, or a fixer-upper.

This is generations of life. It holds old and a promise of new memories.

A home that feels like me—messy, hopeful, grounded.

And I can already see it. All of it. The meals we’ll share. The people who’ll sit around the table. The plans for projects. The stories we’ll tell up here on this roof under the stars. And yeah, it’s just the beginning, but damn, it feels good.

And there on the rooftop, I see Syd and Boone carrying a dish as they walk across the street.

“You think we can totally see their bed from here and that maybe they should buy some blinds?” Mags giggles.

I glance over. “Hadn’t noticed, but look at Syd’s rooftop. It has endless possibilities.”

“Ours is bigger,” she jokes.

I realize something. “Boone part of the surprise I’m not supposed to know about?” I cross the rooftop to watch them walk in, highly sus about who else will be here.

“It went from girls’ night to housewarming dinner party,” Mags calls to me, already halfway to the door. “Let’s go.”

For freaking real? I scream in my head when I see Skinner’s ride pull up behind Riley and Hudson, who are behind Lo and Kolby.

And then …

There he is, getting out like he’s stepping out of a damn GQ spread disguised as casually chill.

A black knit crewneck sweater that fits too well, hugging his broad chest and sculpted arms like it was made specifically to torment me.

The hem rides just enough above his belt to tease a glimpse of the muscle carved just above his jeans—dark denim, low-slung, hugging those thighs that should probably be illegal in three states.

But it’s the way he wears it. Effortless. Confident.

The sweater is pushed up to his elbows like he’s about to build a cabin or fight off a bear with his bare hands. There’s a leather watch on one wrist, that vein-porn thing happening on his forearms, and his hair …

Dammit, his hair.

Still damp, like he ran product through it fast, let it air dry, and somehow made “not trying” look like foreplay.

He moves like the whole world’s on mute except for whatever beat’s playing in his head. Relaxed shoulders. Easy stride. Total command of the space, and he hasn’t even stepped foot inside.

Mags glances at me then back at him. “That man walks like a sin.”

And I swear I’m never going to confess to anyone he’s committed against me.

The passenger door opens, and Oz Hunt slides out as Skinner pops the hatch and pulls out a giant box that says “ Blackstone ” on it. He brought a grill?

Oz opens the back passenger door and pulls out bags, handing them to the boys, and then goes to help Skinner carry the massive box.

“Where are we going with this?” he asks Lo.

“Up here!” Mags waves her hands. “We’re up here.”

“Mags, there’s nothing up here!”

“There’s about to be.” She laughs as she heads to the stairs and disappears.

Me? I stay right here and groan.