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“You’re Naomi. The same brilliant, stubborn woman you’ve always been.”
“That doesn’t change—Anne knew and still…” I can’t finish the thought.
“She made her choice,” Brandon says. “Just like you did when you were eight.”
“But I?—”
“You were a child.” His voice is firm. “A child who loved her mother. Who was scared.”
“I don’t deserve any of this. Not Anne’s forgiveness. Not your?—”
Brandon’s lips find mine, silencing the self-condemnation before it can fully form. The kiss is different from our usual heated exchange. It’s gentle, almost reverent, and my body melts into it, seeking the comfort of his warmth.
The taste of bourbon lingers on his tongue, mixing with the salt of tears I didn’t realize I was shedding. His other hand moves to my lower back, steadying me as I shift closer, the heat of his palm burning through the thin fabric of my blouse.
I can forget. Here, in his arms, I’m just me. Not the girl who kept silent about murder, not the woman fighting her demons with every meal.
Just Naomi.
He breaks the kiss but doesn’t pull away, his forehead resting against mine. “You don’t get to decide what you deserve. Not anymore.” His thumb brushes my cheek, catching another tear. “You’re shaking.”
“Am I?” I hadn’t noticed, but he’s right. Fine tremors run through my body, aftermath of too much emotion and not enough food. “I can’t go back there.”
“To the house?”
“To work.” My fingers twist in his shirt. “I can’t—I can’t face him every day.”
“I can talk to Elijah. He’s always looking for?—”
“No. I need… I need time to figure out what I want. Who I am without all this.”
“Okay.” His voice is soft, understanding. “What’s your plan?”
“I have three weeks of vacation saved up.” I straighten, some of the fog clearing from my head. No more dreading morning meetings with my father, no more reports he doesn’t bother to read, no more cinnamon buns in the break room. “I’ll take that and concentrate on our restaurant?”
“Is that what you want?”
“I want to do this with you.” The certainty in my voice surprises even me. I’m not calculating risks or potential failures. “But that job… God, I’ve spent years trying to prove myself there, and for what? For him? For her? I don’t have everything planned out. And that should terrify me, but…”
“But?”
“But it feels like breathing.” I meet his eyes. “Is that crazy? After all that, I feel like I can finally breathe?”
“No.” His smile is gentle. “That’s freedom.”
Freedom. I close my eyes, letting his words wash over me.
“Cupcake?”
“Mh?”
“I’m proud of you.”
“For what?”
“Everything.”
I curl deeper into his embrace, letting his steady heartbeat anchor me. The bourbon buzz has faded, leaving behind an odd clarity, like emerging from murky water into sharp sunlight.