Page 50 of Holiday Pines

Wes:Always.

Jake clutched the phone to his chest, grinning at the ceiling.

Saturday felt like a lifetime away.

Thursday morning, Jake packed his bags and checked out of the Hawthorne House. Barb cornered him at the front desk.

“You’re coming back, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Because if you break that boy’s heart, I’ll come to Atlanta and hunt you down myself.”

Jake believed her.

He spent the morning tying up loose ends—emailing Diane, calling the Whitlocks, and confirming follow-ups for the new year. Another client, a soybean farmer named Alvin McCoy, had been radio silent for weeks. Jake left a third voicemail, hoping for a callback.

At noon, he drove out to Holiday Pines. Wes was in the barn, potting trees, face flushed from exertion.

“Hey,” Jake said.

Wes looked up, startled. “I thought you were leaving today.”

“I am. I just wanted to see you first.”

They stood there, surrounded by the smell of pine and hay. Wes wiped his hands on his jeans, suddenly and inexplicably bashful.

“I’m glad you came.”

“Me too.”

Jake stepped closer, glancing toward the farmhouse. “Is Henry?—”

“Napping.”

Jake kissed him, slowly and deeply. Wes made a soft sound, melting into it.

When they broke apart, Jake said, “I’ll be back Saturday morning. Afternoon at the latest.”

“Okay.”

“And Wes? Think about what I said. About telling Henry.”

Wes’s expression shuttered. “I will.”

Jake wanted to push, but he could see the fear in Wes’s eyes—the same fear Jake had seen in a hundred mirrors growing up, bouncing between foster homes, never knowing which one would be safe.

So he just nodded. “I’ll call you tonight.”

“Drive safe.”

Jake kissed him one more time, then forced himself to walk away.

The drive to Atlanta took three hours. Jake spent most of it on the phone—first with his boss, confirming the Friday meeting, then with Wes, talking about nothing just to hear his voice.

By the time he pulled into his apartment complex, it was dark. His place looked exactly as he’d left it two weeks ago: sterile, impersonal, and temporary–his whole life in a nutshell. The furniture was rental. The walls were bare, and the only personal touch was a photo of his college roommate’s family—the closest thing he’d ever had to relatives.

He unpacked, showered, and called Wes again.