Page 52 of On the Shelf

He raised an eyebrow. “You already did, mister. The whole thing’s one floor down.”

“I don’t mean odd jobs and a treehouse. Invest.” He scooted back so they could see each other. “Money. Mine, on paper, with a lawyer. So that when the boiler goes the way the roof went, it isn’t you alone at two in the morning with a flashlight.”

“I can’t take your money.”

Chuck nodded to head off the protest. “I know. That right there’s the part I’m asking you for. Can you do that for me?”

For seven years, every decision in this building had been Niall’s, including the bad ones, and he had probably liked it that way the entire time and never once said so out loud. Chuck also knew the pad by the register had eleven school orders on it and two bookings for summer, and they were just getting started.

Niall searched his face. “How much are we talking?”

“Whatever I’ve got, which is not a lot, and the number is probably less than it should be.”

“Then you can’t leave,” Niall said. “Not without a lawyer.”

“That’s the plan.”

“I love that plan.” A big satisfied grin. “A fantastic plan.” He lay back against Chuck’s chest.

“So….” Chuck didn’t want to embarrass himself or get too goofy, “When do I tell Aunt Lydia I’m moving out? She’s going to be so flipping smug about this, you know.”

“Gavin too,” Niall groaned. “He’s going to claim credit for the whole relationship. Something about his ‘matchmaking acumen’ or whatever self-help blather he’s latched on to this month.”

“Maybe we should just elope. Avoid all the tuxes and whatnot.”

The words were out before Chuck considered their implications, hanging in the air between them like a question neither of them had an answer for.

“Someday,” Niall said, his voice soft but certain. “When we’re ready. When Winnie’s ready.”

“Someday,” Chuck agreed, feeling a rush of something like relief mixed with anticipation. Call it a not yet. “I can work with that.”

They fell into comfortable silence, the events of the day catching up to them, and sleep dragged them both under by degrees. As Chuck drifted off, Niall’s steady heartbeat beneath his ear, he found himself thinking about the treehouse again—how a maybe-someday promise had turned into the soundest thing he’d ever built. Bolted to the studs. Going nowhere….

Chuck fell asleep with that thought warming him, with Niall’s arms around him and the knowledge that he was exactly where he belonged. Not passing through, not looking for the next escape, but home.

THE GRAND reopening of Driftwood Books & Treehouse was, by all measures, an overwhelming success. As soon as Niall unlocked and flipped the sign to Open, customers flowed through the store in a chirpy stream, gushing at the renovations, the treehouse, Gavin’s newest display window (“Book Lovers” at last. Niall had lost that battle). Winnie held court in her treehouse wearing her Mustardseed wings by popular demand, reading to a rotating audience of enthralled children while their earthbound parents browsed and purchased books below.

Niall glowed with calm confidence. All their work had paid off because the store had blossomed—the new windows, the crazy display, and best of all Winnie’s crazy-pants treehouse, book-haunted and happy.

As Chuck watched, a woman they didn’t know caught Niall’s sleeve by the register with her phone already out. “You do parties? My daughter turns seven in March.” Third request tonight.

“Indeed we do.” He nodded. “Ninety for two hours, and you bring your own cake.”

She was still typing when he turned around. Ninety dollars. He wrote it on the pad under the school orders, in the same handwriting he used for everything.

Chuck moved through the crowd, answering questions about the treehouse design, accepting compliments with a mix of pride and slight embarrassment at being the center of attention.

He was refilling the cider urn when he saw them by the door.

His sister stood unsure, purse held like a shield. Four times he’d driven up to Portland and sat in her kitchen. She’d never once come the other way. Liv was taller than him now. Nearly. She had one earbud out and was looking at the treehouse with the deliberate blankness of a thirteen-year-old refusing to be impressed.

Chuck put the urn lid down and forgot to straighten it. “You came.”

”We did.” His sister looked at the tree instead of at him. “Four hours. She griped for three.”

“Whatever.” Liv pulled the other earbud out, walked over, and pressed her palm against the trunk. “It’s fake.”

“It’s plaster.”