I drive around for a while after the confrontation with Dominic, taking the long way through town, letting my pulse settle back to something resembling normal. In my head I was going to approach him like the mature, professional, woman that I am. Cool and collected, maybe even gracious. I had a whole speech prepared about professionalism and mutual respect and putting the past behind us for the sake of the story.
Instead, the second I saw him get out of his car with that look on his face, that infuriating, smug, how-dare-you-exist look, I turned into the same eighteen-year-old who used to scream at him in the school parking lot.
That man gets under my skin like nothing else on this planet.
I flew in yesterday afternoon, rented a car at Sea-Tac, and drove straight to my parents’ place for dinner. They downsized three years ago when Dad retired, traded the three-bedroom I grew up in for a little cottage on the water, which meant I crashed on their couch last night, my feet hanging off the end.
I didn’t mind. I love my parents, though there’s a pang of guilt underneath it. They love visiting me in New York. Dad likes showing me all his old haunts from before he moved west, Mom likes the Broadway shows and the shopping, and they both like bragging to their friends about their daughter, the big-shot journalist.
I’ve stayed away from home too long, I know that, but for a few hours during our dinner last night, I remembered that not everything about this town was something I needed to escape. This town has always felt complicated in ways I’ve never fully explained to anyone, and it’s easier to fly them out, than to come back here and face all of it.
I sigh and pull into the small lot behind The Harbor Inn, a boutique hotel in downtown that definitely didn’t exist back when I lived here, though that was nearly fifteen years ago. I grab my bag from the passenger seat and head inside.
The lobby is charming in that intentional way that boutique hotels always are. Exposed brick, local photographs on the walls, a little bowl of wrapped peppermints on the counter, a velvet armchair in the corner that’s probably more for Instagram than actual sitting. But it works. It feels warm and welcoming, and right now I’ll take warm and welcoming.
The woman at the front desk looks up with a bright smile, and she reminds me of my late grandmother. Maybe the large yellow-rimmed glasses, maybe the way her whole face lights up when she sees me, like I’m exactly the person she was hoping would walk through the door.
“Welcome to The Harbor Inn! Checking in?”
“Brooke Bennett.” I set my bag down and lean against the counter, already feeling some of the tension ease out of my shoulders despite my best efforts to stay wound up. “I have a reservation.”
“Perfect, let me pull that up.” She types with two fingers, squinting slightly at the screen in a way that’s deeply endearing, her tongue poking out just a little in concentration. “Room seven, water view. You’re going to love it. First time visiting Dark River?”
“I actually grew up here.” I slide my credit card across the counter. “I come back to visit every now and then, but it’s been a few years.”
“Oh, welcome home then!” She processes the card and slides it back with an actual metal key, not a key card, which delights me. “You have to check out the new waterfront trail if you get a chance. They finished it last spring, and it’s gorgeous. Four miles if you do the whole loop.”
“I might have to do that.” I smile, already thinking about how good a long run would feel right now. Maybe it would help burn off whatever’s still humming under my skin from this morning. “Thanks for the recommendation.”
“Of course! And the bookstore just down the street now has a cat named Hemingway. He’s very opinionated.” She laughs at her own description, a warm chuckle that crinkles the corners of her eyes. “I highly recommend both the books and the cat.”
“I love cats so I’ll have to stop by,” I say.
The room is up a narrow staircase and down a hallway that creaks pleasantly under my feet. It’s small but lovely—a window seat looking out over the harbor, soft pink bedding, white curtains. There’s a claw-foot tub visible through the bathroom door, and I’m already planning a very long soak with a very large glass of wine.
It’s all very coastal cottage, very different from my apartment in Manhattan with its curated minimalism. But it’s peaceful in a way that I think I’ll need during my visit, if this morning’s interaction with Dominic is any indication. I drop my bag, kick off my shoes, and sink onto the window seat, pulling my kneesup and watching a fishing boat cut across the gray water toward the marina.
My phone buzzes and I smile when I see the name. Dara Okonkwo, my closest friend atThe Sporting Standardfor almost a decade now. “Please tell me you’re calling to distract me,” I say when I answer.
“I’m calling because you texted me ‘went to see Dominic, now I might commit murder’ at six in the morning and then went radio silent,” she says, her voice amused. “What happened? Did you see him? Did you commit murder? Do I need to establish an alibi?”
“I saw him.” I lean back against the window seat, tucking my feet under me and pulling a pillow into my lap. The harbor is gray and flat outside my window, a few boats bobbing near the marina, and I watch them while I try to figure out how to explain this morning. “It went... not great.”
“Define not great,” she says, and I hear the creak of her desk chair on the other end. I can picture her settling in with her feet up on the filing cabinet she’s not supposed to use as a footrest.
I sigh. “I ambushed him, he called me a vulture, I think I called him an asshole, and somehow I still got access for the story.”
“That’s my girl,” she laughs, that big warm sound that always makes me feel like everything might be okay. “Also, after your text I looked him up.”
I groan. “Dara.”
“I needed context! You’re about to spend a few weeks with this guy and I wanted to see what we’re working with. And you didn’t tell me he looks likethat.” Her voice goes up about half an octave. “Cause I’m looking at his gym’s Instagram right now and there’s a photo of him demonstrating with a punching bag and he is built like a Greek god. And that jawline?”
“He’s not—“ I start, but she cuts me off.
“He absolutelyis. Don’t even try.” More clicking. “Oooh, here’s one of him with a client. He looks tall. What is he, like 6’2”?”
“6’3”,” I grumble.
