CHAPTER 114: SOMEDAY

Due to the heavy traffic, Nick and Georgia reached her family home late in the afternoon, the sky already melting into sunset.

The familiar two-story, four-bedroom traditional style house stood warmly against the fading light, its silhouette stirring a mix of nostalgia and comfort. Katie’s excitement, however, could not be contained a second longer.

"Yay! Home!" she squealed, springing from the car the instant Nick unlocked the doors.

"Katie! Don’t run!" Georgia called, shaking her head as Wendy hurried after the little girl.

Nick watched with an amused smile. "She’s got a lot of energy," he remarked, stepping out and moving to the trunk.

He retrieved the suitcase, carrying it toward the doorway, only to pause at the threshold. Georgia had already stepped inside but turned when she noticed him lingering.

"Aren’t you coming in?" she asked.

Nick’s gaze held hers, his lips catching briefly between his teeth before his hands slipped into his pockets. "Can I?" he said with a hint of hesitation and a bit of shyness, like a teenage boy going to his girlfriend’s house.

Something about his tone made her heart skip. She found his shyness cute.

Georgia chuckled softly, the corners of her mouth curving with a mixture of curiosity and warmth. "Yes... Come in. Stay for dinner. I’ll cook," she said, reaching back to take his wrist, her touch sending a jolt through him.

Nick’s grip tightened briefly on the suitcase before following her inside, his eyes drinking in the space as if memorizing every detail.

"You can leave that there," Georgia told him, gesturing toward the hallway. "I’ll unpack it late, so Wendy can take Katie’s clothes before she heads home."

Nick tilted his head. "Home? She doesn’t live here?"

"She does... but her own home is just out back. A small one-bedroom that my father built for her and her husband. They’ve been with our family for years, almost like a second set of parents to me and my brother. Now, to Katie, too. Her husband used to drive for us."

"Where’s her husband now?" Nick’s voice was quiet, but the question carried a heaviness that made Georgia’s steps falter.

Her gaze softened, though her tone was steady. "He died before my father... during the pandemic. He was the first to get sick. Then it was Katie’s mom... and my father.

Wendy and her husband felt terrible, blaming themselves somehow. When he passed, she told me and my brother she’d never leave us—said she’d stay until her last breath."

"They don’t have kids and treated me and my brother as their children," she added.

Georgia drew in a slow breath, the memory tightening her chest. "My brother wanted her to go back to her own family, to heal. But Wendy... she’s a strong woman. She stayed. And I’m glad she did. She was my rock when my brother died."

The weight of her words seemed to settle over the room like a shadow. Nick felt an unexpected pang deep in his chest, sharper than he anticipated. He remembered David—meeting him briefly at business events, in the rare moments when their families’ paths crossed. He recalled how Raymond had always brought him along to such gatherings...

The more he got to know Georgia and her past, the more he wanted to find out the true killer of her brother. The grief in her story didn’t just move him—it rooted itself in him, pulling him closer to her in ways he couldn’t explain.

"Stay here," Georgia said softly, her fingers brushing the edge of the sofa. "Make yourself comfortable. I’ll cook."

Nick’s lips curved faintly. "Let me help you."

She tilted her head, assessing him for a moment. "Alright... but let me see first what’s available. The house has been empty for weeks."

As she moved toward the pantry, Nick’s voice followed her. "Where was Katie before you boarded Raymond’s ship?"

Georgia’s hands stilled briefly on the pantry door. "Katie’s been sick lately—nothing serious, but her allergies were flaring up before the wedding. I decided she should stay here. But I was supposed to be gone nearly a month for the honeymoon... so Wendy asked if she could take Katie to her hometown by the sea.

I agreed. The air there helps with her allergies." She paused, glancing at Nick with a shadow in her gaze. "Good thing I did... or Raymond might have used her to blackmail me."

The tension in her voice rippled through the air, but she quickly masked it by rummaging through the shelves. "Hmm... pasta. Looks like I can only make aglio olio with Spanish sardines." She plucked two heads of garlic from the pantry and handed them to him, their fingers brushing—sending a strange, warm spark between them, especially Nick.

"Peel these for me," she murmured, her eyes briefly locking with his before she turned to gather the rest of the ingredients.

Nick didn’t hesitate. He reached for the knife and chopping board, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he took position beside her. The simple task felt anything but simple, but not for Nick. He was enjoying every second of it.

Georgia set the pan of water on the stove, the faint hiss of the burner filling the silence between them. She turned, catching the curve of Nick’s mouth. Tilting her head, she studied him. "Are you smiling? What’s making you smile like that?"

"You," he said simply. "This house... and dinner."

Her brow arched. "Why? Do you like cooking?"

Instead of answering, Nick closed the distance between them in two steps and brushed a quick, heated kiss against her lips—so brief it left her blinking.

"That’s what I like," he murmured, his gaze steady on hers. "You and me... cooking together in a real kitchen like this. Not crouched over a campfire. I never had this when I was young. I only learned to cook when I moved into my penthouse."

"How come? I saw your mom, Violet Knight, in a TV interview once. She said she loves cooking with her kids," Georgia said casually, though her eyes stayed on him.

Nick froze for half a breath. His fingers tightened around the knife’s handle, the tendons in his forearm taut. "She’s not my..." He shut his eyes briefly, exhaling as though forcing the air out. "That’s with Reagan and Liam."

Georgia’s frown deepened. "Not with you and Vicky? Most girls follow their mothers around, especially in the kitchen."

"No," he said shortly. "We don’t." He slid the chopping board toward her with the peeled garlic, the move controlled but firm, quickly changing the subject. "These are done. What’s next?"

She accepted them, reading the subtle shift in his posture. ’He doesn’t want to talk about it...’

"Nice. I’ll roast these with olive oil for a few minutes before making a puree with butter," she replied, turning toward the oven.

As the heat from the preheating coils brushed against her skin, she cast him one last glance. ’Someday,’ she thought, her chest tightening, ’I hope he opens up to me about his past...’