She wasn’t even in the room anymore, and I still felt the echo of her—her laugh, her breath on my neck from earlier, her hand in mine as we walked home. I closed my eyes and saw her smile, the way she’d looked at me under that damn gazebo, rain clinging to her lashes.
The cushions were lumpy, the expensive—probably cashmere—throw blanket barely covered my chest, and the streetlight outside was flickering maddeningly, casting a disco ball–like stream of light over the living room. But the worst part—the absolute worst part—was knowing she was right down the hall, tucked into bed, that soft, delicate sweater wrapped around her in a way that I wanted to be. And I couldn’t stop imagining what it would feel like to crawl in beside her, to pull her close, and pretend we had more than this borrowed, strange moment between us.
***
Before the sky even thought about lighting, I was already up, elbow-deep in Doyle and Jordan’s junk drawer, sorting thingsthat didn’t need sorting. The acrylic containers were already lined up like a showroom display, but I rearranged them anyway—tape rolls by size, post-its by color family, pens laid out in neat rows, even though I was pretty sure half of them didn’t actually work.
It didn’t do a damn thing to calm me down.
I was halfway through debating whether to alphabetize the spice rack or kick open her door and show her, in great detail, what other fun things my mouth could do, when I heard the faint click of claws on tile. Nancy entered first, her nails tapping out a disapproving rhythm, as if she could read my thoughts. Tally followed a few seconds later, hair shoved into a messy knot, one sleeve falling off her shoulder, eyes still puffy from sleep.
She didn’t say anything as she stood there watching me crouched over a drawer, every nerve on edge, trying to remember why I cared so damn much.
And then her expression eased, barely enough to notice. Not a smile, not even softness really—just a little looser around the edges. Whatever it was made her look less like she was already halfway out the door. For the first time since she got here, it felt like she wasn’t passing through anymore.
But whatever that moment was, it flashed and vanished.
“Doyle’ll be back soon,” she said, heading to the fridge like this was any other morning. “Guess that means you’ll be off the hook. What’ll you do with yourself once I’m out of your hair and everything goes back to normal?”
She said it breezily, but tension ran beneath the words. A thread pulled tight, waiting to snap. She was daring me to open my mouth, to admit I didn’t want her to leave.
I squared my shoulders, bracing myself with a hand on the counter. When she looked at me again, her gaze lingered for a heartbeat on my chest, and the look she gave me this time wasn’t quite teasing. It had teeth.
And because I’m a dumbass, I opened my mouth and said the worst possible thing.
“Don’t you have a boyfriend?”
Her expression froze long enough to register the hit. Then she blinked and reached for a glass like I hadn’t just punched her with my insecurity.
“Pretty sure everyone knows what happened when Nick showed up here a few weeks ago,” she said. “So, no. No boyfriend.”
“Right.” My voice came out rougher than I meant it. “So then, there’s not someone here, in Savannah? That you went to coffee with not that long ago.”
She stopped mid-motion, the glass in her hand barely hanging on. “Come again?”
“At Savannah Coffee Roasters. Sutton said you were… canoodling. With someone.”
Her stare went flat. Then she barked out a laugh so loud it bounced off the marble backsplash.
“Canoodling? Jesus, Charlie. That was Dig. We were having one of those bestie moments in front of the fireplace, and Sutton happened to walk by. But, no, definitely not canoodling. Unless you count having to listen to Dig recite a monologue about a misbehaving crawfish as foreplay.”
I dragged a hand across the back of my neck, still standing there like I’d forgotten how conversation worked. Idiot didn’t even begin to cover it.
Tally had almost reached the lanai before she stopped. She turned slowly, arms folded tight across her chest, mouth set in that unreadable way she had when she was either about to tear me apart or crack a joke.
“So let me get this straight,” she said, voice calm but with an edge enough to slice me clean. “You chased me through the streets in the rain, kissed me under a gazebo like we werestarring in a Nicholas Sparks fever dream, spent half the night looking at me like you were trying to crawl in my pants and set up shop there—andthat whole time, you thought I had a boyfriend?”
I opened my mouth. Not a single word made it out.
She didn’t look mad. Not exactly. She looked amused. Dangerous.
“You ever think to just, I don’t know,ask me?”
I blinked. “Guess I didn’t want the answer.”
She let that hang there for a second, tilting her head like she was trying to figure out what part of me was most emotionally constipated.
Then she grinned. Slow. Familiar. A little smug.
