Page 12 of Take This Heart (Windy Harbor #1)

CHAPTER TEN

DOMESTICATED

MILO

I’m beginning to think Goldie Whitman is personally trying to kill me.

Not with poison or a shove off the deck, but with nitpicking every single thing I do.

She shows up to every design meeting like she’s emerged from a Pinterest board—perfect hair, biting commentary, and an uncanny ability to find the one architectural detail that might not be structurally feasible—and then she makes it my problem.

“You’re going to put the steps there?” she says one morning, eyes narrowed. She’d be clutching her pearls if she were wearing any. “Why not just beg people to fall?”

“Great idea,” I mutter, pretending to write it down on my sketchpad.

She hums. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

She’s frustrating beyond belief. And brilliant. And unfairly gorgeous in her puffer vest and boots and that ridiculous hair that’s so beautiful I want to touch it.

We’ve been working on the Windy Harbor project for a few weeks now, and somehow Goldie’s managed to wedge herself into every aspect of it—even the parts that don’t concern her. My planner? Annotated. My blueprints? Covered with sticky notes in every color with her many, many thoughts.

Yet, her ideas are really solid.

I just thought it was a lot before she quit her job, but now that she’s here most weekdays too, she is a control freak to the nth degree.

She hasn’t moved here yet. Small mercies.

But she’ll be moving here full-time soon.

Her house is on the market, and she brings boxes whenever she comes to Windy Harbor.

I’m staying at the apartment over Kitty-Corner Cafe, which helps since Goldie is invading every other part of my life, including my dreams.

Fortunately, Everett still loves me.

And unfortunately, I still haven’t talked to him about my uncle. He either doesn’t know I’m related to his archrival or he doesn’t care, and since I don’t care that he’s a Whitman, I’m going with the latter. Now, the longer it’s gone unsaid, the more nervous I am to find out.

Bruce said I was spineless, and I would’ve never believed him until now. It eats away at me, but I’ve been so busy and so preoccupied with Goldie. And Everett gets weaker and weaker. I’m ashamed to say I still haven’t made it right.

Goldie’s twin, Tully, shows up the next weekend and I’d expected him to give me the same shit she does, but he surprises me.

“You still driving my sister nuts?” Tully grins as he offers me a handshake that nearly dislocates my shoulder. “Respect.”

Goldie glares at him. “Don’t encourage him.”

“Too late,” I say. “We’re already planning our fantasy hockey league.” I point at him. “You’re my number one, by the way.”

“Oh, I am absolutely not letting you two bond over this,” she mutters.

But we do. Within minutes, Tully and I are shoulder-to-shoulder on the back deck, trash-talking teams like we’ve known each other for years.

My eyes flick to where Goldie is pacing the yard with a clipboard and what appears to be an extensive collection of paint swatches.

“I take it you’re a glutton for punishment,” Tully says when he catches me watching his sister.

“I must be. Every conversation feels like I’m failing a test.”

He laughs, but then his voice softens. “Honestly, I’ve never seen her like this. I expected you to be a real asswipe.”

“Glad to know I failed expectations,” I say dryly.

The next weekend, it’s Noah who shows up carrying a toolbox and Grayson with the dimples.

Grayson is three and loves worms, pine cones, and throwing rocks into the lake.

He also decides he loves me, which is both heartwarming and inconvenient, because he wants me to go on worm hunts with him when I should be finalizing elevations.

“Can we keep Milo?” Grayson asks his dad as I hoist him over a puddle.

“I don’t think he’s the domesticated type,” Noah replies with a grin.

“No, he’s not,” Goldie says firmly, arms crossed as she watches from the deck.

I can tell she’s annoyed that her family likes me. Tully’s already texted to invite me to a game. Noah asked for my opinion on renovating a client’s lake house. And Everett? He handed me a bourbon last night and called me son.

Goldie’s eye twitched when she heard that one.

It’s become a game. A slow-burn game of chicken.

She pushes. I push back. And in between, there are these tiny, electric moments—when her eyes catch mine and hold a beat too long, when her laughter is so genuine it knocks the breath out of me, when I forget to be annoyed because she’s said something brilliant and I want to tell her she’s brilliant, but I make fun of her instead.

The truth is, I like the chaos she brings.

I like her sassy mouth, the way she stares into space when she stirs her coffee or tea, and the way she draws trees like they’re living things with secrets.

I like how she knows the name of every plant on the property and how she can tell when her dad’s having a rough day just by the way he sets his coffee mug down.

I like how fiercely she defends this place, even when she’s being completely unreasonable.

I like the way she looks at me when her guard is down, and the way her eyes fire up when she’s annoyed by something I’ve said.

I like her. A lot more than I should.

Everett’s first chemo treatment leaves him pale and weak. The man who usually stands with such quiet authority now slumps slightly in the oversized leather chair, his skin a shade too gray, his movements a beat too slow.

And Goldie?

She’s the perfect combination of attentive and calm.

Her brothers have made frequent visits. They’re all trying to figure out how to navigate this transition with their careers.

I don’t envy them. But Everett made Goldie swear she wouldn’t tell them the date of his chemo treatments, and she hated that, argued until she cried, but then agreed to do what he wanted.

I hover awkwardly by the doorway at first, unsure if I should even be here, but I’ve grown to really care about Everett and want to make sure he’s okay.

Goldie doesn’t miss a beat. One glance and she waves me in, her expression wiped clean of the usual fire.

Then she turns back to her dad, adjusting the blanket on his lap.

“Want ginger tea or ginger ale?” she asks him gently, already walking to the kitchen before he fully gets the words out.

“She doesn’t give you time to argue,” I murmur, stepping closer.

“She never did,” Everett chuckles, hoarse but smiling. “She used to boss her brothers around when she was a tiny thing. She could convince them to play tea party with her.” He laughs again. “Now she bosses me around with ginger and electrolytes.”

Goldie returns with both drinks, ignoring our smirks, focused only on getting her dad comfortable. She fluffs the pillow behind him and gently rubs his back when he coughs. She tucks an eye mask next to him and kisses the top of his head.

The way she loves him undoes me.

It shows in every breath she takes.

I don’t say much. I don’t trust my voice not to crack. But when her dad drifts off and she comes to sit next to me on the couch, I reach for her hand. She lets me take it, lets me thread my fingers through hers. Her other hand still holds the ginger tea, growing cold.

“You’re kind of incredible,” I whisper.

She looks at me, surprised. “I’m just being a daughter.”

“Exactly.”

She exhales a long, weary breath.

I feel a gut-punch of—I don’t even know what—for her.

Warmth? Longing?

Not because she’s beautiful, or smart, or stubborn enough to drive me up the wall. But because she shows up. When it’s hard. When it’s messy.

When most people would run, Goldie Whitman stays.

I have no idea what to do with all these…feelings.

“I’m fascinated with large families. I always wished I had siblings,” I blurt out.

She turns to look at me. “Really? It’s just you?”

I nod. “My parents wanted more kids but weren’t able to have them…”

She winces. “That’s really hard. Are you close to your parents?”

“Very.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without my brothers. We might all be a little too co-dependent, but it works for us.” She shrugs. “I think when you lose a parent, the family either scatters with the loss or they grow even closer. We’ve definitely grown closer.”

Seeing the way she loves her brothers makes me long for what I never had.

I call my parents after dinner. I’m pacing the shoreline behind the lake house, enjoying the longer days with more sunshine. The second Mom answers, I regret how long it’s been since I checked in.

“Milo!” she says, voice bright. “You’re alive. I miss your face. Lake Minnetonka is not that far, you know.”

I smile. “I know. I miss yours too. And I’m sorry. Let’s do dinner next week. How’s Dad?”

“We would love that. Dad’s here. Being nosy. Say hi, Anthony.”

“Mio figliolo!” my dad booms in the background. “Come stai? You still working too much?”

“Always.”

“When are you ever going to find a woman, working all the time?”

“Okay,” I cut in, laughing. “We’re not doing that tonight.”

Mom laughs too. “Are you doing all right, honey? You sound a little...tense.”

I sigh and sink onto one of the big rocks. “I’m fine. Just dealing with some stuff up here. I’ve been working on a project out by Lake Superior…Windy Harbor.”

“That’s a beautiful area. Bruce mentioned you’d been working with Everett Whitman.”

“Yeah, I have,” I say slowly.

Silence.

“Hello?” I look at the phone to make sure the call hasn’t dropped.

“We’re here,” Dad says.

Another pause.

Then Mom says, “Are you sure that’s a good idea? It’s not something we talk about often. It’s old. Silly, really. But the feud between our family and the Whitmans goes back decades. I’ve always tried to stay out of all of it, but I’d also be careful of getting too close to them.”