I mumble something incoherent and flee upstairs to my room, cheeks burning.
I don’t even make it three steps before my phone buzzes in my pocket.
It’s a text from Liam.
Liam aka The Best Boss Ever
If I hadn’t pulled back just now, would you have kissed me?
I stare at the screen.
My heart does that ridiculous flutter again, like it wants the chaos. I don’t answer right away. Because if I do, I might not be able to lie.
Instead of replying right away, I go to the bathroom and strip out of my damp clothes, the fabric clinging to my skin like it knows I’m unraveling. The hot water is a welcome shock as steam curls around me as I stand under the spray, trying to washoff the night, trying to calm the heartbeat that hasn’t slowed since the almost that nearly became something real.
By the time I’m wrapped in my fluffiest robe, damp hair twisted into a towel and face pink from the heat, I’m still thinking about his hand on my waist.
His eyes on my mouth.
The way he said "Better get you inside" like it was either that or lose control completely.
I curl up on the edge of my bed, thumb hovering over my phone for a second too long before I finally type the truth.
Yes.
His reply comes fast.
Damn. Knew I should’ve just gone for it.
I stare at the message, heart in my throat. I type slowly this time.
Why did you stop?
The dots appear. Disappear. Then reappear.
I’m not sure, to be honest.
That’s all he says. But it’s enough.
Because now, I’m not sure what happens next either.
6
The next morning, I wake up feeling different. Not anxious. Not tight in my chest. Just light. Maybe a little happy. Like something shifted inside me during the night, and for once, the weight I usually carry has loosened its grip.
I dress slowly, the morning sun sneaking through my curtains in soft gold streaks and make my way downstairs to the café. Lura is just wrapping up breakfast service, the scent of maple syrup and fresh biscuits lingering in the air like comfort and nostalgia. Without being asked, I grab a towel and start drying the dishes she’s washing. This is our rhythm. It’s unspoken but familiar.
As usual, she’s already deep into her morning report of Broken Heart Creek Confidential.
“Sherry and Buck are at it again,” she says, scrubbing a plate like it betrayed her. “Buck told that trollop, Debbie—you know, the one with the French tips and the barely there morals—all about their problems. Right over pancakes.”
I choke on a laugh. “He did what?”
“Oh yes.” Lura’s eyes flash with fire. “Right at table three, like it was a damn therapy session. I should’ve told him he’s not going to disrespect my pancakes that way.”
I snort. “Poor Sherry. Does she know?”
“She came in five minutes later looking for him. Never saw Debbie move that fast in my life.” She sets the plate aside with a clink. “Nearly tripped over a chair trying to flee with her dignity and that knock-off garbage she calls a purse.”
