Page 32 of Stick Break (Boston Bucks #8)

“Oh my…” I breathe, the second I cross the threshold, it’s like stepping into someone’s memory.

The living room is filled with honey-toned wood, soft light, and furniture that says,‘ come sit, stay awhile’ .

Wooden beams stretch across the ceiling, and the kitchen smells faintly of cinnamon, warmth… home and hearth.

But it’s the details that get me. Family photos line the walls, dozens of them on mantels and walls. Smiling faces. Birthday candles. Sandcastles. laughter frozen in time. Decades of life, love, growth, laughter. Generations layered together in frames.

It hits me like a sucker punch to the ribs.

This is what I want. What I’ve always wanted. Not the fame. Not the clicks. This.

A life.

As if sensing my emotional free-fall, Rip appears beside me, his hand brushing mine before slipping into it.

He gives it a small squeeze. I look up and find him watching me carefully.

That’s when I see it, reflected back in his eyes.

That same longing. That same grief for something he’s always dreamed of.

Except he’d dreamed it with someone else.

I swallow the lump in my throat and try to speak. “This house,” I say softly. “It’s beautiful.”

“It has three bedrooms,” Marta chimes in, all business now. “Plenty of room for a growing family. Just perfect for you two.”

My heart clenches. I glance at Rip again and all I can manage is one word. feeling. All I can manage is one word. “Yes.” Not a commitment. Not a decision. Just… an honest answer to everything this moment is stirring inside me.

Marta sighs softly, and I watch her face shift, as if memories are flickering behind her eyes like old home movies. There’s a lightness there, a fondness that both hurts my soul and fills it with longing.

“My kids are grown now,” she begins, her voice hitching just slightly in her throat. “I’ve got grandbabies all over the place now. Marty and I need a bit more room to fit everyone under one roof. Big summer barbecues. Board games during rainy days.”

“That sounds amazing,” I squeak out.

She clasps her hands together, and a smile brightens her whole face.

“We think we’ve found the perfect place, but as for our cottage here…

” Her eyes flick to Betsy. “…we want the right owners. Someone who will love this house like we did. Not just live in it, but treasure it.” She gives Betsy a wink.

“If Betsy vouches for you, that’s good enough for me. ”

My stomach knots. Not because I don’t want everything she just laid out, but because I do.

It’s the kind of place that makes you feel something the second you walk through the door, like it’s already waiting to make room in your life. Like it’s already whispering,you belong here.

Marta gently leads us through the cottage, her hand light on my arm.

We pass by the bedrooms. Pristine now, the beds neatly made, the quilts too crisp, too still.

But I can feelthe echoes. The laughter.

The tiny feet pounding down the hall. The squeak of a closet door opened during hide and seek.

These rooms were once full of life, chaos and happiness.

And now… they’re just waiting for someone to mess them up again.

I glance at Rip beside me. He hasn’t let go of my hand since we stepped inside. Emma is skipping ahead, singing a song she appears to be making up on the spot. It involves frogs, popsicles, and something about a dog with a purple bowtie.

She opens cupboards like a realtor-in-training, presenting each empty shelf with flair.

“That one always used to have Pop-Tarts in it,” Marta declares with a laugh.

I smile despite myself. Sometimes even grown men keep Pop-Tarts in their cupboards. Especially the ones with strawberry frosting—which I think is an atrocity—and secretly eat them cold.

Everything about this place feels right.

Which is exactly why it’s terrifying.

Then Marta slows, narrowing her eyes at me like she’s trying to adjust a blurry memory. “You look so familiar,” she says.

My pulse jumps. Before I can respond, Betsy swoops in with the speed and precision of a woman who doesn’t wear kaftans and orthopedics. “She’s been here with Paisley before,” she says quickly, her tone breezy but a little too eager.

My heart thuds.

Does she know? No, she can’t. If she did, she wouldn’t treat me like one of her own. This woman has old fashioned values, and would turn her back on me if she knew. Right? I quietly slip my hat back on, tugging the brim low.

Marta tilts her head. “Yes, maybe that’s it,” she says slowly, though her eyes are still searching my face. “Or maybe it’s because you remind me of that singer who won The Spotlight. What was her name…” She snaps her fingers. “Indie Rhodes.”

My stomach somersaults.

“She has long dark hair, though,” Marta continues. “And she wears too much makeup.” Marta wags a playful finger. “Still, she’s a pretty little thing. You’re a pretty little thing too.”

I force a small laugh. “Thank you. That’s sweet of you.”

Beside me, Rip makes a sound, a low, gruff throat-clear that almost sounds like a warning or a question or maybe both. I glance at him, trying to read the tension in his shoulders, the stillness in his jaw.

How much does he know?

“Where would we find the listing for the cottage?” he asks casually, but his hand tightens around mine.

Marta’s eyes light up. “Give me two seconds.” Her voice lifts with excitement as she shifts her focus from me to him.

“Yes, of course. The place is perfect,” Rip says, giving my hand a gentle squeeze that somehow reverberates straight through my ribs. “Don’t you agree?”

I glance at him, searching his face, but I can’t read him this time. My brain races. What does he want me to say? That I love it? That I want this life with him? That I’m ready to dive headfirst into a future neither of us has dared to talk about, to…define?

“It is,” I say slowly, “But we’re a long way off from thinking about a cottage, Rip. We’ve got… a wedding to plan. And a lot on our plates.” My voice sounds more rational than I feel.

Go me.

Rip doesn’t miss a beat. “Right. And I still need to upgrade from my small two-bedroom apartment.”

He says it smoothly, effortlessly, like it’s always been part of the plan. For a moment, I wonder if it really was. His ability to think on his feet is impressive—and slightly terrifying. It reminds me just how practiced he is at this whole pretending game.

But then I catch something in his eyes. Something quiet.

Steady. Real . He’s not faking this. At least…

not all of it. Had he been planning to upgrade all along?

Why? Sure he asked me to go back with him, until I figured life out, but my temporary presence doesn’t require a move.

That’s when I remember what he said about his ex… she liked Tiffany.

Is he upgrading for her…are they about to be ‘on again’.

“Yeah,” he adds, more softly now his eyes going to some distance spot, like he’s recalling sweet memories—before he met me. “We’ll have to start house hunting soon.”

“House shopping,” I echo with a stiff nod, trying not to let my inner panic show.

“Oh, I can send you all the listing information,” Marta says cheerfully, bustling off to the kitchen for a pen and paper. “Just give me your email!”

Of course. Because this fake engagement apparently comes with real estate paperwork now.

Betsy turns to me, beaming like she’s won a prize at the county fair. “I knew you’d love it,” she says, grabbing both of my hands and squeezing them tight. “I think you two will be a wonderful addition to our little community.”

Then, without missing a beat, she spins to glare daggers at Rip. “Afterthe wedding.”

Rip’s brows rise, clearly caught off guard. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, standing straighter like he just got called out by a military commander. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I bite back a smile. I’ve never seen a man so large look so thoroughly put in his place.

“Grandma,” Emma pipes up from her perch near the front door, “Can I have ice cream now?”

“Of course, you can, sweetheart,” Betsy says, patting her on the head.

Just put your information here,” Marta says, handing Rip a pen and a flowery notepad. “Or, if you’re on your way to town again, the listing’s right in the real estate window. Front and center.”

Things reallyaredifferent in this sleepy little community. No apps. No glossy brochures. Just a handwritten note and a spot in the town square window. And somehow… that simplicity makes my chest feel light.

Rip writes down his email, neatly, I notice, and we all step back out into the sunshine.

“Charley,” Emma chirps, tugging on my hand. “What’s The Spotlight ?”

My stomach tightens, but I keep my tone even. “It’s a singing show,” I say. “People compete for prize money and exposure. It’s a big deal if you win. It can change your life.”

It did change mine. Just not the way I thought it would.

“You should go on it,” Emma says brightly. “I bet you’d win.”

Rip makes a low, strangled noise next to me, like he just swallowed a marble. I glance at him, and he immediately looks away, hand suddenly very interested in the back of his neck.

My stomach coils tight.

Okay. So… he might know who I am. But that doesn’t mean he’s seen the tape.

Rip doesn’t strike me as the headline-scrolling, scandal-chasing type.

He doesn’t even post on social media. Most of the time, he’s too busy rehabbing his groin ad well, take me to his bed.

The only time I ever see him on his phone is when she messages.

I tug my sunhat lower over my eyes, shielding myself from more than just the sun. Rip does the same with the bill of his cap.

As we walk to town, the scent of fried dough, carried on the summer breeze, drifts toward us. Laughter echoes from the town square.

“Oh, look,” Emma squeals. “A Ferris wheel.” She tugs on my hand. “Charley, please go on it with me!”

“I… uh… not really a fan of heights,” I say quickly, my voice a little too high-pitched.

Rip leans in, his breath warm on my cheek as he murmurs, “Really? That surprises me. You know, being a rebel—with a tattoo and all.”

I laugh despite myself. “That was a very small act of rebellion.”

He grins. “It’s only kiddie-size,” he adds. “I’ll go on it with you guys, if that helps.”

He says it so simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. To volunteer for something just to make it easier for me. And somehow… that fills me with more courage than I expected.

“Pretty sure there’s a weight limit for each seat,” I tease.

“Yeah, Rip,” Emma pipes in helpfully. “You’re too big . We don’t want to break it.”

Rip clutches his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. “The only thing you two are breaking…” he says dramatically, “…is my damn heart.”

We laugh and just like that, with my hand in Emma’s, I start skipping with her toward the Ferris wheel—light as air, like something’s finally been lifted off me. Like joy isn’t something I have to borrow anymore. It’s just… here.

And then I realize I left Rip with Betsy .

Oh, crap.

I glance over my shoulder, half-expecting to see him sweating bullets while Betsy grills him on wedding timelines and reproductive plans. But instead, they’re deep in conversation— really talking.

She’s nodding, arms crossed. He’s animated, hands moving like he’s trying to explain something important.

And that surprises me.

What the heck are they talking about so passionately?