The moment I step into Sheriff Reynolds' home, I feel it…
That sense of a space being truly lived in, truly loved.
It's nothing like the sterile perfection of my parents' Boston mansion or the meticulously curated apartment Sebastian and I were supposed to share after the wedding. This place has soul.
Toys are scattered across a worn but comfortable-looking living room.
Colorful artwork—clearly created by small hands—adorns the refrigerator.
A bookshelf overflows with an eclectic mix of crime novels, children's picture books, and what appear to be carpentry manuals.
Everything about this house tells the story of the family that inhabits it.
"Sorry about the mess," the sheriff says, quickly gathering up a pile of laundry from the couch. "Didn't exactly plan for company today."
"It's perfect," I tell him honestly. "Please don't apologize."
Sophie immediately grabs my hand. "Want to see my room? I have a stuffed animal collection and a special rock that looks like a heart."
"Sophie," her father warns, "let Miss Isabella breathe. She's our guest, not your show-and-tell project."
"It's really okay," I assure him, secretly delighted by the child's enthusiasm. "I'd love to see your room, Sophie. Maybe after dinner?"
This compromise seems to satisfy everyone. Sophie nods solemnly, and Sheriff Reynolds gives me a grateful look as he moves toward the kitchen.
"Girls, homework while I start dinner," he directs, opening the refrigerator. "Emma, help your sister with her reading sheet, please."
"But Dad," Emma protests, "Miss Isabella is way more interesting than homework."
I laugh, touched by the compliment. "Homework is important. Besides, I promised your dad I'd help with dinner." I turn to him. "I meant that, by the way. I'm not a great cook, but I can follow directions."
He looks momentarily caught off guard, as if he's not used to having help in the kitchen. "Uh, sure. You can grate the cheese if you want."
I roll up my sleeves, oddly eager for this simple domestic task. After months of fittings and tastings and endless discussions about floral arrangements, there's something deeply appealing about doing something as straightforward as grating cheese for a family meal.
The sheriff moves and gathers all the ingredients while giving occasional guidance to the girls, who have settled at the dining table with their backpacks. I notice how his eyes constantly flick toward them, checking, reassuring himself of their presence.
"Block of cheddar's in the fridge," he tells me, nodding toward an ancient-looking box grater on the counter. "And there's some parmesan in there too, if you can find it."
I open the refrigerator, eventually locating both kinds of cheese, and set to work at the counter beside him.
"I'm realizing I don't know your first name," I say as I begin grating. "Unless it's actually 'Sheriff.'"
The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Jake. Jake Reynolds."
"Jake," I repeat, testing the name. It suits him—straightforward, unpretentious, strong.
"And I know you go by Bella, but I like Isabella," he says, not looking up from the pasta he's measuring. "It suits you."
Sebastian always called me Bells, slightly nasal and clipped. My father uses "Isabella" only when he's disappointed in me, which is often.
"Thank you," I say softly, focusing on the cheese to hide my flushed cheeks. "For everything. Not many people would take in a stranger like this."
"Cedar Falls is a small town," he replies, as if that explains everything. "We look out for people in need."
"Is that why you became sheriff?" I ask, genuinely curious about this man who seems so naturally protective.
He considers this while filling a pot with water. "Partly. My dad was sheriff before me. It was sort of expected, I guess."
I recognize that tone—the weight of family legacy, of predetermined paths. "I understand that feeling."
He glances at me, something knowing in his expression. "I figured you might."
"Daddy wanted to be a forest ranger," Sophie pipes up from the table, apparently eavesdropping. "He told us so."
Jake's ears redden slightly. "Focus on your worksheet, Soph."
"Is that true?" I ask, moving on to the parmesan.
He shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. "Kid's dream. I like being outdoors and working with my hands. But the sheriff's department was a better fit, especially after..." He trails off, eyes darting toward his daughters.
"I think it's admirable," I say. "Following your own path, even if it wasn't your first choice."
I wonder what he sees when he looks at me—a spoiled rich girl running from responsibility or someone trying to find her authentic self beneath years of familial expectation?
"Dad!" Emma calls out. "Sophie's not doing her work. She's drawing you and Miss Isabella."
Sophie quickly tries to cover her paper, shooting her sister a betrayed look. "Tattletale!"
"Let me see," Jake says, wiping his hands on a dish towel and crossing to the table. He examines the drawing and smiles. "That's pretty good, Soph. But you still need to finish your reading first."
"What does it look like?" I ask, curious.
Sophie holds up the paper proudly. It's a typical child's drawing—stick figures with disproportionate features—but unmistakably depicts a tall man in what must be a sheriff's uniform standing beside a woman with red hair. We're holding hands. My face heats.
"It's very nice," I manage, catching Jake's equally embarrassed expression.
"Kids and their imaginations," he mutters, returning to the stove where the water has begun to boil.
An awkward silence falls as he adds pasta to the pot and I finish with the cheese. I can’t help but be aware of his presence beside me—the way he moves, the faint scent of pine and something uniquely him, the occasional brush of his arm against mine in the confined kitchen space.
"So," he finally says, keeping his voice low enough that the girls can't hear. "Do you want to talk about it? What happened today?"
I consider deflecting, changing the subject. But something about his direct gaze makes me want to be honest.
"I couldn't go through with it," I say simply.
"Standing there in the church, everyone watching, my mother hissing last-minute instructions about how to hold my bouquet.
.." I shake my head at the memory. "I suddenly couldn't breathe.
Couldn't take another step. And I realized I was about to make a promise I didn't intend to keep. "
He nods, not rushing to fill the silence.
"Sebastian, my fiancé, he's not a bad person," I continue, surprising myself with my candor. "He's just... not the right person. Not for me. And I'm not the right person for him either, though he doesn't see that yet."
"How long were you together?" Jake asks, stirring the pasta.
"Two years. But it never felt..." I search for the right word. "Real. It was more like we were playing roles in some elaborate production my parents were directing."
"And you decided to go off-script."
I smile at his phrasing. "Very off-script. My understudy was not prepared."
This earns me a low chuckle. "What will you do now?" he asks.
The question I've been avoiding since I fled the church. "I'm not sure," I admit. "I have some savings, separate from my family. Not a lot, but enough to figure things out. I just need to..." I trail off, unsure how to articulate what I need.
"Breathe?" he suggests.
"Yes," I say, grateful for his understanding. "Exactly that."
He nods, reaching for the colander. "Well, Cedar Falls has good air. Lots of trees. Good place for breathing."
Is he suggesting I stay? The thought is simultaneously terrifying and tempting. I've never lived anywhere but Boston, never been more than a few hours from my family's influence.
"I've never done anything like this before," I confess. "Just... run. Without a plan."
"Sometimes plans are overrated," he says, draining the pasta. "Sometimes you just need to trust your instincts."
My instincts led me here—to this kitchen, this man, these children. To this moment of quiet domesticity that feels more genuine than anything in my recent memory.
"Dinner's ready," Jake announces, his voice lifting to reach the girls. "Emma, clear your homework. Sophie, wash your hands."
The family dinner's routine unfolds around me. Emma setting mismatched plates on the table, Sophie carrying napkins, Jake transferring the bubbling mac and cheese to a serving dish. I stand awkwardly, unsure of my role in this tableau.
"You can sit here," Sophie declares, patting the chair beside hers. "It's Mommy's chair, but she's in heaven now, so she won't mind."
"Sophie," Jake says sharply, then softens his tone. "We've talked about this. That's not something we say to guests."
"It's okay," I tell him, though my heart aches at the child's matter-of-fact reference to her mother's absence. "Thank you, Sophie. I'd be honored to sit here."
As we settle around the table, I'm struck by how long it's been since I've experienced a family meal this unpretentious.
Growing up, dinner was a formal affair, even when it was just the four of us—cloth napkins, multiple courses, conversation restricted to appropriate topics.
When I started dating Sebastian, meals became networking opportunities, each restaurant chosen for who might see us there.
This—mismatched plates, slightly lumpy mac and cheese, elbows on the table—feels revolutionary in its ordinariness.
"We hold hands for grace," Emma informs me, extending her small hand toward mine.
I take it, surprised by the lump forming in my throat as Jake takes my other hand to complete the circle. His palm is warm and calloused against mine, the touch sending an unexpected current up my arm.
"Would you like to say grace, Isabella?" he asks, his eyes meeting mine across the table.
I panic slightly. My family wasn't religious. I don't know the right words. "I—"