Spark of Passion - Book 7 (Ebook)

Stepping out of the car with Beathan’s small hand in mine, we’re immediately greeted by the sleepy hum of Becca Falls. It’s as if the town pauses for a moment, acknowledging our return after five long years. The air holds a crispness of new beginnings and old memories mingling together. Glancing down at Beathan, his wide green eyes take in everything with pure childlike wonder. His hair is tousled from the drive, making him look like a little explorer ready to conquer new lands or, in this case, rediscover old ones.
“Momma, it looks like a storybook,” he says, his voice tinged with awe.
Squeezing his hand, I say, “It does, B. Our story started here.”
We stand on the sidewalk, staring up the town’s main street. We are two doors down from the bakery, owned by Jamie’s girlfriend, Isabelle. It’s called Baked Goodness. Trees line the main street, and in front of the building I own is a large oak tree, its branches offering shade on this warm summer day. Beathan’s grip tightens around my fingers, grounding me as we stand before the red-brick building that now houses my yoga studio and our new home above it. My heart pounds against my ribcage, and a strange cocktail of emotions floods through me. This town is the past I thought I wanted to leave behind, and now it’s the future I’m yearning to build.
Memories flash in rapid succession—the scent of rain on the pavement, the sharp sting of loss that once drove me away. And now, here I am, back to where it all began, with my son by my side.
“Are you okay, Momma?” Beathan’s voice is soft, but an undercurrent of concern belies his years.
I crouch to meet his gaze. “I’m better than okay,” I tell him, mustering a smile. “We’re starting fresh, you and me. This place is part of us, and we’ll make new memories. Just wait and see.”
He nods, his grin infectious, and I feel the weight on my shoulders lighten ever so slightly. We turn toward the entrance, each step taking us closer to the building, and a sense of excitement bubbles within me. Becca Falls has never had a yoga studio, and I’m looking forward to building a new business and creating a life for my son and me.
“Look, Momma, it’s just like you said it would be,” Beathan says, his eyes fixed on the sign above the door, etched with the name of our new sanctuary.
“Serenity Space Yoga,” I whisper the words.
“Can we go inside?” he asks, tugging at my hand, already eager to explore.
“Let’s do it.”
The red door creaks open, its familiar groan a whisper of welcome as Beathan and I step over the threshold. The floors are all wooden, and a desk is set off to one side. It’s one big space with mats and cushions ready for our first clients. At the back of the studio are two doors, one leads to the women’s locker room with showers and toilets, and the men’s is mirrored on the other side. Next to the front door is a set of stairs leading up and at the top is another red door with the word ‘PRIVATE’ written in gold. Beathan lets my hand go and climbs up to our apartment above. He opens the door, and the space wraps around us like a warm embrace. Soft lighting spills from overhead, casting a gentle glow on walls painted in hues of buttercream and honey. It’s a stark contrast to the enormous apartment we shared in New York with Tyson Reed.
Tyson was a lifesaver. Without him these past five years, I’m not sure I could have survived in New York for as long as I did. He was always there to lend a hand, babysit, and take care of us. But as Beathan got older, the skyscrapers of New York didn’t feel like the right environment to raise my son. And although it’s for the best to be back home, a part of me wishes Tyson had come with us.
“Wow,” Beathan breathes out, his voice pulling me out of my memories.
This apartment has two bedrooms and bathrooms, with a living room, small dining room, and kitchen. It’s cozy, and as I look at the mismatched cushions scattered on a plush blue sofa, a sense of belonging comes over me.
“Is this really our home, Momma?” Beathan’s eyes, like Lochlan’s, search mine for affirmation.
“Every corner of it, love,” I assure him, my fingers brushing against a photograph on the mantle. Lochlan’s smile beams at us from behind the glass, forever frozen in time yet somehow still offering comfort.
From below, laughter filters up through the floorboards, punctuated by the timbre of foreign and known voices. The MacKenny clan, voices that have filled countless phone calls and letters but now swell around me, real and present.
“Who’s here?” Beathan asks, inching toward the staircase drawn by the magnetic pull of voices.
“It sounds like your uncles,” I reply, swallowing the knot of emotion that forms in my throat.
I take a deep breath and follow Beathan’s lead as he bounds back down the stairs. The chatter grows clearer and more distinct as we enter the yoga studio.
“Annette!” Kyle’s gruff bark is softened by an undercurrent of joy.
“Welcome home!” Sean calls out.
“Home,” I echo silently, allowing myself to be drawn into the fold, into the heart of the MacKenny clan.
Beathan puts his small hand in mine, suddenly shy under the gaze of his uncles.
Kyle, the oldest member of the MacKenny clan, steps forward and holds out his hand to my son. His brown hair, a little more peppered with gray than I remember, doesn’t diminish the vitality in his eyes.