Only home wasn’t the house—either of them. Home was sunshine, laughter, and broad shoulders. It was forty kinds of cocoa, football reruns, and blanket forts. It was new discoveries, heated kisses, and shared heartache. It was being young again. Free. Home was sharing burdens, as partners, because that’s what partners do. Trent Montgomery was my home. He was real. He was strong. And sweet. And capable. Reliable. Trustworthy. Kind.
