Page 149 of The Love Operation

We prep the spa tubs together—adding salts, warm water, a few drops of lavender oil. He hands me a towel, and we carry the soon-to-be-bubbling basins back into the living room.

I set up Kate’s in front of the couch, and Benedict kneels beside his mom’s chair, easing her feet into the water with the kind of gentleness that breaks me open. It’s obvious he’s done this before.

How many sons would ease their mother’s feet into a foot bath? How many brothers would draw a spa bath for their sister when she had cramps? He’s had to step up, do things most men wouldn’t do for their wives, let alone their mother or sibling.

Kate giggles when the bubbles start.

“Now go,” Wilton says with mock sternness. “You’ve played nurse long enough.”

At the door, I turn back. “Don’t you try to lift those tubs,” I warn Wilton. “I don’t want you messing up my hard work.”

He crosses his heart, and his smile makes me want to kiss his cheek.

We say our goodbyes, and Benedict places a hand on my lower back as he guides me out the door. Suddenly, I don’t want to leave. I want to curl up beside Kate, eat ice cream, and watch a movie.

Everything inside that house served as a distraction—a momentary reprieve from the unraveling outside their walls. But the second I sink into his car, the weight returns. Heavy. Familiar. Inescapable.

“I like your family,” I say, blinking up at the windshield, fighting those damn tears again.

“They’re not so bad,” he says gently.

“You’re really great with them.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t take a certain kind of soul to show up like that every single day.

We fall into silence after that—the soft kind that doesn’t beg to be filled. When he finally pulls into another gravel drive, I glance up.

His house is a two-story masterpiece, framed by a chorus of trees that catch the late afternoon sun and make them glow. The exterior is a harmony of cedar, river rock, and black-framed windows—simple but striking. There’s a wide front porch with thick timber beams, the kind of space you could sit on for hours with a blanket and a cup of something warm.

As soon as he opens the glass front door, the scent of wood shavings and lemon balm greets me, warm and earthy.

“Welcome to my home,” he says, stepping aside.

“Benedict . . .” I breathe. “This is beautiful. It looks like a magazine.”

The inside is just as breathtaking—polished concrete floors underfoot, reclaimed wood beams stretching across the ceiling. The living room is clean lines and thoughtful details: low-slung furniture, oversize cushions, and a stacked-stone fireplace that draws the eye. Soft light spills in through floor-to-ceiling windows that open up to rolling hills in the distance.

It’s not just an aesthetic—it’s him. Quiet strength. Warmth. Intentional care in every detail.

“I love it here,” I say, and I mean it.

“I’m glad.” He glances at me, something knowing in his eyes. “Think you’ll be ready to talk after your bath?”

My head whips toward him. “I’m not taking a bath.”

“We both promised Kate.”

“Yeah, but—”

He folds his arms, leaning against the wall. “One day, Kate showed me pictures of this dream-bath setup—candles, flower petals, the works. It was all she could talk about for weeks. So, when she had a rough stretch, I made it for her. She was so happy, you’d think I solved world peace.” He smiles faintly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do I want to be known for crafting five-star spa baths? Not really. But here we are. And if you don’t take one, she’ll be crushed.”

I exhale and fight the smile trying to wrestle onto my lips. “You make it hard to resist.”

He shrugs. “Also . . . when’s the last time you actually let yourself take a bath—not for function, for comfort?”

I pause. “Probably when I was a kid.”

“Well, maybe it’s time. I’ll go get everything ready. Put Tad Cooper wherever he’ll be most comfortable. I’ll keep him company while you relax. And take your time—we’ll talk after. Okay?”