“Good,” she snaps. Then her tone softens. “But you’re also my brother, and I love you. So now we fix it.”
“I don’t know if itcanbe fixed.” The admission costs me. “You didn't see her face, Lil. She looked at me like... like I'd betrayed her.”
“You did,” Lily says bluntly. “But not all betrayals are equal and this doesn't have to be the end of the story. Not if you're genuinely sorry and actually do better.”
“What do you suggest?” I ask, desperation creeping into my voice. “I can't undo what I did.”
“No, but you can show her who you really are now.” Lily pulls out her phone. “Starting with making sure that cottage is not just fixed, but perfect. I'm calling Dad's contractor right now.”
As Lily makes calls, ordering premium upgrades for the cottage and arranging for a cleaning crew, Mason watches me thoughtfully.
“What?” I ask, catching his expression.
“You're different with her,” he says. “I've known you most of your life, and I've never seen you like this over a woman.”
“Yeah, well, fat lot of good it did me.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He finishes his beer. “But the Grant Taylor I knew, before Mia showed up would have chased after her, forced a confrontation, insisted on fixing things his way, on his timeline.”
I consider this. “And now?”
“Now you're sitting here, beating yourself up and letting her have the space she asked for.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “That's growth, brother.”
“Or cowardice,” I mutter.
“Respecting someone's boundaries isn't cowardice,” Lily chimes in, ending her call. “It's actually the opposite of what got you into this mess.”
She's right, and I know it. Painful as it is to let Mia go cool off without charging after her, that's exactly what I need to do. I need to show her I respect her autonomy, that I understand what I did wrong here.
“The contractor’s meeting us at the cottage in thirty minutes,” Lily announces. “He's bringing paint samples, fabric swatches, the works. We're going to make that place magazine-worthy by tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I blink. “That's impossible.”
“Not when you throw enough money at it.” She grins, clearly enjoying this. “Dad called ahead and pulled some strings—got extra crews working double shifts. Said it's the least he can do since—and I quote—'his son is making a mess of the best damn thing that's happened to him since he set the arena record at the Houston Invitational.’”
Despite everything, I feel a small smile tug at my lips. “Dad said that?”
“Yup” she pops the ‘p’. “He also said some stuff about your head being so far up your ass you could check your own tonsils, but I'm editing for sensitivity.”
Mason snorts. “I like the unedited version.”
For the next eight hours, I throw myself into transforming the cottage like a man possessed. The flood damage had been extensive, but I’m hell-bent on making this place feel like home for her again—like she still belongs here. Mason helps rip up the warped floorboards, cussing with flair every time a nail fights back. Lily’s in charge of paint—mostly supervising with iced coffee in one hand and a playlist of questionable country remixes blaring from her phone, and we furnish it with everything Mia might need. Mama shows up in her Sunday best, fresh from choir rehearsal and clearly on her way to the church bake sale.
She walks through the door carrying a glass pitcher of sweet tea and a tray of lemon bars. “Y’all look like you’re one minute away from heatstroke,” she says, setting everything down on the porch table.
“We are,” Mason deadpans, wiping his brow with his shirt.
Mama leans over to inspect a patch of fresh flooring with a pleased hum. Just as she’s about to head out the door, she pauses like an afterthought’s hit her. “Oh, Grant, I almost forgot. The new postman accidentally dropped some envelopes for Mia off in our postbox. You were out at the pastures, and Mia wasn’t home, so I went ahead and dropped them on your desk for you. Looked too important to be sittin’ in the mailbox for God knows how long.”
The very envelopes—passport, ID, bank cards—that made Mia think I’d trapped her here.
She says it so breezily, like she didn’t just casually mention the spark that lit the powder keg, like she didn’t just accidentally toss a live grenade into my study.
I school my face into something neutral, biting down on the surge of guilt that punches up from my ribs. “Thanks, Mama,” I say, forcing a smile, trying not to flinch, but relieved for the explanation of how those envelopes came to be on my desk.
She says something to Mason about needing to donate a pie to the firehouse soon, then disappears down the path in a cloud of perfume and grace.
I borrow my Dad’s truck and head into town, where I do a monumental amount of décor shopping, with no idea what Mia might like, but going on the Pinterest boards Lily sent me, I know it would look good. By midnight, the place looks better than it ever has—warm, welcoming, and completely hers for as long as she wants it.
