Then, with a sexy swing of her hips, she made her way through the dark to the carriage house, her flip-flops snapping into the quiet night.
A light went on inside, then shut off a few minutes later.
And he realized his truth.
He’d searched the globe looking for his future. Running from his feelings. Fulfilling a purpose misplaced.
When it had been right here all along. Sleeping on a lumpy mattress, in a broken-down shack, his heart in her pocket the whole time.
The Navy wasn’t home. Florida wasn’t home.
Maine Lane wasn’t even home.
Chloe was home.
The boxes were gone.
And with them, all personal items related to Jonah and Lydia Maine and family.
The furniture and accessories still remained, providing form, function, and convenience to the new owner, but offered no hint of the prior one.
It was a family home, move-in ready. All Chloe needed to supply was her toothbrush.
Oh, and a family.
Roaming the empty, eerily quiet house, she searched for signs. Signs he was still here. Signs he would stay.
She opened every closet and cabinet, without luck.
Jameson was gone.
Well, not technically.
His truck was parked at the hardware store when she drove by a few minutes ago, leaving her office for the day. No idea whether he’d follow suit and come home too or leave for Florida any minute.
His note, left on the counter in the carriage house early this morning—while she was sleeping, mind you—said it all while saying nothing.
The house is cleaned out. It’s all yours.
Another week had passed. Three weeks in total since his return to East Hampton, two weeks since he saw their son for the first time, and one week since they sat outside Maine Lane and she announced her decision to move forward.
Ever since then . . . crickets. Except for that cryptic note.
The man knew how to keep a lady on the hook.
But he was also a man of routine. Early morning swimming with the sharks, then off to the hardware store shortly thereafter. She heard his truck return around dinnertime, but he went inside the big house without a word.
No lobster rolls, no cheeseburgers, no second chance at forever.
There was, however, an update on the listing for Montauk Dive Shop. Chloe’s realtor bride had called just this afternoon.
“The property’s off the market,” she said. “An offer was made and accepted over two weeks ago. The sale closed this morning.”
Over two weeks ago? That was near the same time she and Jameson toured the business. Roger didn’t mention receiving an offer, but she would’ve taken it as a hard sales tactic and dismissed it anyway.
“Who’s the buyer?” she’d pressed. “Can you get a name?”
“I’m not an authorized broker for either party, so no. Not until the documents are processed and it becomes public record.”
Didn’t matter. That buyer’s name wasn’t Jameson Maine.
Being close to Johnny might have provided incentive to stay, but the timeline didn’t fit. The dive shop was purchased before he knew about him. And, as Chloe had learned the hard way, she herself wasn’t reason enough.
Any hope she had fizzled with that phone call.
An empty Maine Lane wasn’t helping.
His exit appeared imminent.
Walking back into the kitchen, Chloe unloaded the grocery bags she’d set there upon arrival. Baking was therapeutic, and since she put all her money on the losing bet of Maine Lane bringing him back for good, God knew she needed therapy. And she needed to follow through on a promise made one week ago. Moving forward.
That meant letting Jameson go.
Letting Johnny be.
Letting life happen.
It meant baking gender-neutral cupcakes for a gender-neutral baby shower, which would take place in this family-less home on Saturday afternoon, just under forty-eight hours away.
And so, just over three hours later, with the sun setting outside and music blaring inside, dozens of sugar cookies and vanilla cupcakes were spread across the marble countertops, cooling while she mixed buttercream frosting.
Dancing in place, Chloe filled four pastry bags with pure white, petal pink, powder blue, and elephant gray frosting.
Yep. Elephant gray.
“Classic rock and cupcakes? Why didn’t you call me?”
Screeching, she whipped around, hurling frosting all over the floor.
“Geez,” she hissed, laying a frosting-covered hand over her chest, calming her racing pulse. “How’d you get in here?”
Jameson held up his key, brow raised. It was dashing, that expression, and utterly sexy. It made her heart go pittery pat.
Then he turned the music down, grabbed a roll of paper towels, and spun out half of them to wipe up the floor.
“Hey, those are expensive!”
With that sexy smile, she watched him methodically re-roll the towels, then tear off exactly one sheet, look at her as if for acceptance, and attempt—and fail—to wipe up globs of buttercream with the single towel.
Chloe laughed for the first time in a week. Picking up the roll of paper towels, she tossed it at him. “Smart-ass.”
Catching it one-handed, he looked at her backside. “Sweet ass.”
Then he cleaned the floor, using far less than half the roll he originally intended, while she wiped frosting off the front of her T-shirt.
“Smells good,” he finally said, inspecting the cookies and cupcakes after washing his hands. “Can I have one?”
Not waiting for her okay, he picked up a vanilla cupcake, already decorated in white, pink, blue, and gray rosettes, and ate it in three bites.
Licking a smear of residual blue frosting from his thumb, he winked. “Tasty. But not as delicious as your muffin.”
How could watching a man inhale a cupcake with zero manners be a turn on?
“Did you come to say goodbye? Because that’s not like you.”
He laughed, moving closer and leaning back against the island where she worked.
“I’m not joking,” she said, wielding her pastry bag like a pro as she frosted gray elephant-shaped cookies.
She’d made thousands of custom cookies over the years. Some for the events she planned, some for friends and family, some for strangers who’d eaten them at a party and sought her out to order their own custom treats.
A nice side gig when you counted paper towels to save a nickel.
“You think I’m here to say goodbye?”
“The house is cleaned out,” she commented, her attention on her cookies, one after the other until they all had gray bodies. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
It gave her hope when she’d been bracing for hell. The hell that would follow his exodus.
“I moved all the boxes to a storage unit. Sorted through a few, but my dad was a packrat. It would’ve taken me years to go through them.”
“And you don’t have years to spend here.” An assumption he didn’t correct. “As long as I’m not responsible for the storage bill, do what you want.”
Using the pastry bag filled with white frosting, she added floppy ears to each cookie and drew in the trunk detail. He watched her hands fly over the cookies, seeming mesmerized.
“How many times have you done this? You’re like a cookie artist.”
“A few,” she said, switching to pink frosting. “It just takes practice.”