Chapter 13: Chapter 13

JAMIE

Ethan’s voice bounced off the screen, his face lit up with a knowing grin. “So, what happened after the dressing room?” he probed, a playful twinkle in his eye.

I faltered, struggling to put my whirlwind of emotions into words. “Nothing happened,” I murmured. “We got home, Penelope wasn’t feeling great, so Mason put her to bed. When he came back later that night…I pretended to be asleep.”

Ethan’s laughter rang out, a sound that was both comforting and slightly judgmental. “Jamie…”

“I know,” I sighed, feeling the weight of my decision. “I was scared,” I confessed.

“Scared of what? Of Mason?” Ethan asked, curiosity lacing his tone.

“Yeah, I guess so,” I admitted. “He knows so much about me, from before the coma. But for me, it’s different. I’m just starting to know him, his likes, his dislikes, his quirks.”

Ethan nodded, his face thoughtful. “You’re overthinking it,” he reassured me. “He’s getting to know you too, the new Jamie. You’re not the woman he remembers.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I asked uncertainly.

“Neither,” he replied. “But like you said, things are different. Mason expected you to wake up and love him like before, but that didn’t happen. This hasn’t been easy for either of you.”

I let out a light chuckle, a bittersweet sound. “That’s an understatement,” I agreed. “I don’t know… I guess you’re right. We’ve been getting along a lot better since we came here. Maybe being in Napa is our fresh start. Maybe I should let go of the past. It’s not like I remember any of it anyway.”

Ethan grinned, a mischievous spark in his eyes. “That’s the smartest thing I’ve heard you say,” he teased.

The conversation shifted as the sound of a doorbell chimed in the background. Ethan’s expression changed. There was a subtle shift that hinted at a hidden agenda.

“Are you expecting someone?” I asked, curious.

“Um, yeah. She’s early,” he replied hesitantly.

It was clear that he wanted to keep the details of his visitor private. I respected his privacy and didn’t press the issue. “Okay, I’ll let you go then,” I said. “I’ll keep you updated on what’s going on here.”

“I’ll call you during the week,” he promised before ending the call.

As I closed my laptop, a wave of loneliness washed over me. Not only was I navigating the complexities of my relationship with Mason, but I was also grappling with the changing dynamics of my friendships.

“Who were you talking to?” Mason asked in curiosity as he walked out of the kitchen through the opened double doors.

“Ethan,” I replied, turning my attention away from the laptop screen. “He was just wondering when we will be back.”

Mason pulled out a chair opposite me with a soft scrape. As he sat down, the familiar scent of his cologne mingled with the aroma of brewing coffee, a comforting combination that instantly relaxed me.

“What did you tell him?” he inquired, his gaze lingering on my face for a beat longer than necessary.

“I told him that we are enjoying ourselves and I have no idea when we’re coming home,” I replied, a smile playing on my lips. “I think he’s missing me,” I chuckled.

Mason nodded, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “Makes sense,” he said. “You haven’t seen much of him since you woke up.”

I sighed, a sense of melancholy washing over me. “I know,” I admitted. “I’ve just been trying to find my own footing again before jumping back into old friendships. They come with a lot of drama.”

“Ethan did suggest we grab dinner with him and Sara when we get back, though,” I mentioned, a hint of hesitation in my voice.

Mason’s eyebrows raised in amusement. “Like a double date?” he questioned, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

I hadn’t considered the implications of my suggestion. A double date? With Ethan and Sara? The image of the four of us sitting around a dinner table, chatting and sharing wine over our meal.

“Think of it as a double date…or just dinner with friends,” I managed to get out. I found myself nervously playing with a strand of my hair, a habit I’d picked up somewhere along the way.

Mason’s smirk grew wider. “I can’t say it’ll be the most comfortable dinner, but I’m game if you are,” he replied. “But there’s a catch.”

My heart pounded against my ribcage. What could he possibly want from me? What kind of game was he playing?

There’s always a catch, isn’t there? I have to admit, I’m curious about what his condition could be. Mason… He doesn’t strike me as the double dating type…or the dating type at all, really. Until me, that is… I guess I’m his exception.

“I’m a little scared now,” I admitted. “What’s the catch?”

He leaned in closer, his gaze intense. “Dinner with me tonight,” he said, his voice low and enticing.

A wave of relief washed over me. Just dinner? That was easy. It wasn’t a punishment—it was an invitation. Maybe even more than that. A secret thrill danced in my stomach. Dinner with Mason, just the two of us. The thought sent a delicious warmth through me.

I remembered what I’d told Ethan during our video chat. I need to let go of the past. This is a fresh start for Mason and me. This was the perfect opportunity to embrace that fresh start. A genuine smile spread across my face, chasing away the shadows of doubt.

I smiled at him. “Deal.”

This dinner with Mason wasn’t just a meal—it was a chance to start a new chapter, a chapter where I wasn’t defined by my past but by the exciting possibilities that lay ahead with him.

Penelope held the perfume bottle in her tiny hands, trying to spray some Victor Rolfe on my wrists. The scent was sweet, a favorite of mine since my mother gifted it to me one Christmas. It was my favorite, actually.

“One…two. Now rub them together,” Penelope instructed.

I smiled and rubbed my wrists together.

“I love that smell. Thank you.” I smiled at her. “Would you like some?” I asked, and she nodded. I sprayed a little on each of her wrists. “Now rub them together.”

Penelope rubbed her wrists together just like I had, then held them up to her nose.

“I like it. It smells like flowers.”

“It does, doesn’t it? It’s one of my favorites.” I put the bottle back on the white dressing table and looked at my reflection in the oval mirror.

I looked more like the Jamie I remembered. My makeup was done, my hair was wavy and tucked behind my left ear, with more volume on my right side.

I wasn’t sure what dinner entailed, whether it was a fancy restaurant or something casual. But I decided to go with a black, corset-fitted tulle mini dress with no sleeves. I chose black flats for shoes.

Since I’m in the chair, I didn’t think it mattered. Heels are more trouble than they’re worth anyway.

“You look pretty, Mommy,” Penelope said.

I turned and smiled at her, grateful that she’d sat with me while I got ready. She didn’t have to, but she wanted to.

“Thank you. How about I tuck you in and read you a story?”

“The hungry caterpillar?” she asked.

“Of course, I know how much you love that one.”

I read The Hungry Caterpillar twice before Penelope drifted off to sleep. I looked down at her, sleeping peacefully, her long brunette hair spread out across the pillow, and the little brown freckles across her nose.

She’s perfect, I thought. Even months after waking from my coma, I still find it hard to believe that she’s mine, even though she looks just like me.

I quietly wheeled my chair out of her room and closed the door slightly behind me. Mason emerged from our room.

My heart fluttered a little.

“I didn’t hear you come back. How long were you in there?”

“A while,” he replied, a smirk playing on his lips. “Are you ready for our date?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I replied.

With that, he took the handles of my wheelchair and began to push me slowly in front of him.

Am I ready? I suppose I am. I had convinced myself that a simple dinner and conversation with Mason was all I could handle.

But the memory of our heated kiss in the boutique dressing room lingered. I wasn’t sure I was ready for a repeat performance. I felt a flutter of nerves.

Mason was pushing my wheelchair down the hallway toward the kitchen. My heart did a little flip in my chest.

The entrance to the kitchen and dining area was adorned with a waterfall of twinkling fairy lights, their tiny bulbs casting a warm, inviting glow. Inside, the room was awash in a deeper, more intimate light.

The table was scattered with flickering candles, nestled amongst a tablecloth as bright as sunshine. Their soft flames danced and swayed, casting a hypnotic play of lights and shadows on the walls.

“Wow,” I breathed out. I had no idea Mason had this romantic side to him.

“That’s the look I was going for,” he said, a playful smirk on his lips. “Come on, I’ll help you to the table.”

Mason’s hands reached for mine, their warmth a comforting familiarity against my skin. I took them slowly, pushing myself up from the wheelchair with careful movements.

My black tulle dress, the skirt dancing a few inches above my knee, caught his eye for a fleeting moment. A flicker of something crossed his face, a silent appreciation that sent a secret thrill through me.

“I think I can manage,” I said, gentle but firm.

It wasn’t about being ungrateful, not really. I just yearned for a bit of independence, the ability to take those few steps to the table on my own. The romance, I reasoned, wouldn’t be quite the same if he had to fuss over me the entire time.

“Are you sure?” he asked. His brow furrowed slightly, a question etched into his features.

I offered a reassuring smile and a determined nod. Surprisingly, Mason didn’t argue.

Usually, he would fret about me falling or pushing myself when I wasn’t ready. Now, he seemed to have learned to trust my judgment.

With just a few steps, I made it to my chair. He was standing behind it, ready to assist me. I didn’t mind that; he was just being a gentleman.

“You look incredible,” Mason murmured, leaning in close as he positioned the chair for me.

The warmth of his breath tickled my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.

A slow smile spread across my face. “Thank you,” I whispered back.

“So, where is everyone?” I scanned the room, noticing the absence of the usual crowd.

“Out. Sid took Barbara to see a movie,” he replied as he walked toward the stove. “They won’t be back until late, so we have the place to ourselves.”

“Sounds great.” My gaze lingered on the counter where a feast was slowly taking shape.

The aroma of sizzling onions and fragrant spices danced in the air, a symphony of smells that tickled my nose and sent a rumble through my stomach.

“What culinary masterpiece are you whipping up tonight?” I asked, leaning closer to get a better look.

It felt strange, this absence of familiar voices and laughter. Staying at Sid and Barbara’s Napa home meant dinners that stretched late into the evening, followed by homemade wine on the deck and funny stories of Mason’s childhood.

Tonight, it was just the two of us.

“Sid’s recipe for chicken stew, minus the chicken of course,” Mason replied, his voice a low murmur as if respecting the unusual quiet.

“But knowing Sid, he’s taken it up a notch on the spice scale.” He winked, a playful challenge in his gaze. “I’ve followed his recipe. I hope you can handle it.”

“I’m up for the challenge.” My tolerance for spicy food has increased since staying with Barbara and Sid. I think I can handle it.

“Good, because this is just about done.” Mason lifted the lid off the pot of stew and a wave of steam erupted, carrying with it the promise of a delicious and flavorful meal.

Across the worn wooden table, I watched Mason ladle the stew into hefty white bowls.

The aroma that billowed out from the pot was enough to make my mouth water. A low growl escaped my stomach, a traitor betraying my attempt to appear nonchalant about the fiery challenge ahead.

He placed a warm loaf of brown bread in the center of the table, and beside it a pat of creamy butter, its pale-yellow color sitting neatly in a white butter dish.

My belly gave another loud rumble just as Mason set a bowl of stew in front of me. He’d placed it carefully on a round, braided wooden placemat.

Mason’s eyebrow arched at the sound of my hunger.

“Someone’s got an appetite,” he teased.

A soft chuckle bubbled up from me. “I guess physio with Greta earlier worked me up. She may be older, but she sure knows how to push me to my limits.”

Mason laughed in response. “That’s the idea, isn’t it? Barbara recommended her, remember? She did wonders for Sid after his hip surgery a few years ago.”

I bit my lower lip, a thoughtful frown creasing my forehead. “Greta’s great, no doubt about that. But Adam… He was different. His touch was gentler, almost calming. And he just seemed to understand what I was going through—the frustration, the ‘what ifs’, the anxiety. It was like he’d been there himself.”

Mason’s eyebrow shot up again. “Sounds like someone’s got a bit of a crush on their physiotherapist,” he teased, finally settling into his seat across the table.

I shook my head. “No, it’s not like that. It’s just…easier with him. Like a comfortable silence that doesn’t feel awkward. Not like Greta’s boot camp routines where I spend half the time gritting my teeth and the other half questioning my sanity.”

A small laugh escaped me. The memory of Greta’s drill sergeant persona brought a smile to my face.

Mason’s eyes, the color of melted chocolate, crinkled at the corners as he laughed along with me. “There it is,” he said, his voice a low rumble that sent a pleasant shiver down my spine. “I’ve missed that laugh.”

Our eyes held each other’s gaze a moment longer than necessary. I could feel the heat creeping up my neck and into my cheeks. Laughing with Mason felt good.

It’s not that we didn’t share humor—I’m sure we’ve had plenty of funny moments together. I just can’t remember them.

I dipped my spoon into my steaming bowl of stew. The rich scent of vegetables and herbs wafted up to my nose.

I stirred it around before scooping up a small bite and bringing it to my lips. The first burst of flavor hit me like a wave. Rich brown gravy coated my tongue, followed by the sweetness of carrots and the sharp tang of onions.

“Oh wow,” I breathed, letting out a surprised laugh. “This is amazing!”

I knew it would be, and it wasn’t just because I was starving.

Across the table, Mason chuckled.

“Not too spicy, is it?” he asked, a playful glint in his brown eyes.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” I replied, dipping my spoon back into my stew. “Really, Mason, this is delicious. Thank you for going to all this trouble.”

“Anything for you,” he replied, throwing me a wink.

As we ate, our conversation flowed naturally.

At times, a comfortable silence fell between us, punctuated only by the clinking of our cutlery as we savored our meal. And that was perfectly fine too.