Then he says something—I can’t hear it over the music and conversation—and her face falls. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to see disappointment flicker before she masks it with a professional smile. He releases her, gently but finally, and she slips away into the crowd.
Waitstaff. She’s waitstaff, and he just dismissed her.
Down goes another one. She’s better off.
Well, that’s not fair. He may have—I don’t know—matured in the past six years…maybe?
Another familiar face comes into view, but Jace doesn’t enter at all.
He leans against the doorframe, one shoulder pressed to the wood, arms crossed over his chest. He’s in all black—black slacks, black button-down, black everything, like he’s attending a funeral instead of a wedding party. His hair is short, military-precise, and his jaw is sharp enough to cut. He’s bigger than I remember. Broader. All that teenage lankiness filled out into something solid and immovable.
He’s not looking at the party.
He’s looking at me. But not the way he used to.
2
PARKER
The patio is quieter.
Not silent—the party hums behind me through the open doors, laughter and glassware chiming—but the night air softens everything. Humidity presses close. The harbor smells like brine and diesel and old wood, the kind of coastal quiet that lets me breathe without performing.
I check my phone for the hundredth time.
Still nothing.
No email from Sandra. No missed call. No,Congratulations, we’re thrilled to bring you on—orThanks for your time.Just another social media push I don’t care about, and a text from my roommate asking if I watered her plants before I left.
I didn’t.
I hover over Sandra’s contact. I could call. Rip the bandage, hear yes or no, find out if the last two years meant anything. It’s Saturday. She said Tuesday. Calling now would read as desperate.
Even if I am.
The sun has slipped below the horizon, smearing pink-gold across the water. Masts tick in their slips. Boats rock, gentle as breathing. It should be peaceful. My brain won’t shut up.
What if the presentation wasn’t enough? What if Marcus gets it? What if I came back to Black Harbor to stand in a courtyard that looks like a life I don’t belong to anymore?
My phone buzzes. I snatch it so fast I nearly launch it into the harbor.
Another social media post.
“Perfect,” I mutter, sharper than I mean to.
A warm breath ghosts my ear. “Easy,firefly.”
I spin—a heel skids on the flagstone, the railing tilts, the harbor surges up?—
—and a hand closes hard around my elbow, steadying me with unyielding heat.
Silas Vale.
He’s broader than memory, a dark wall in an open doorway: black shirt, sleeves pushed to his forearms, ink ghosting the edges of thick veins. Hair cropped close, jaw cut from stone, eyes the color of a storm rolling in off the water. He doesn’t smile. Not really. But something like it tugs at the corner of his mouth for a heartbeat, gone before I can name it.
“Silas.” My voice is breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Parker.” He says my name like it’s been sealed under glass. His thumb rests against the inside of my arm where my pulsestutters. He feels it. He lets me know he feels it with the smallest press, then releases me. “You okay?”
