“Big Joe?” His brows knit a deep line in his forehead.
“Everyone knows Big Joe.” I shrug again, knowing I sound like an idiot because clearly, this man doesn’t know him.
An awkward pause pulls between us, like cheese from a mozzarella stick that’s about to fall on the floor and be completely inedible.
“Do we count that?” The confusion layers over the top of his words.
Because I’ve dug myself a hole, I keep going. “Only when it’s sweet corn season. Then Golden Harbor hastwogrocery stores.” I put my hand up with two fingers showing, like a peace sign.
What am I even saying? Where did the extra side of cringe come from? I put my hand behind my back, afraid to put up any more numbers or who the hell knows what.
Sadie. Get it together.
Colson looks at me for a beat too long, like he’s deciding whether to say something or maybe he’s planning his escape. Hell, he could be looking for the emergency exit sign.
“Got it,” he says, pushing his cart, slowly but enough for me to take the hint.
My brain short-circuits for half a second before my feet betray me and follow. I pull out my grocery list and set it inside the front compartment of my cart.
“What are you doing?” he asks, turning to see my cart almost in line with his.
“Shopping,” I answer, acting like this is something we’ve done a hundred times. “I, uh… also need groceries. Which are… here.”
Brilliant, Sadie. Truly groundbreaking logic.
Colson blinks once. Twice. His cart wheel squeaks in the silence, and I swear it’s judging me too. He stops, taking me in before continuing. He runs his hand through his hair, his arm thick and muscular.
Something warm—and terrifying—settles low in my stomach. He smells like soap and sun-warmed cotton and maybe trouble. Definitely trouble.
I have the sudden sinking realization that I’ve invited myself into his personal space and there’s no socially acceptable way to back out now without faking a phone call or my own death.
Awesome.
I’mbackhome,standingin my tiny kitchen with the door still half-open like I forgot how to walk into my own apartment. I press my palms to the counter, trying to steady myself, but my mind keeps circling back to the way he looked this morning—rumpled, brooding, irritated at the world and somehow still magnetic.
Colson Burke. In Golden Harbor, Michigan of all places. It doesn’t make sense. Guys like him don’t disappear into sleepy lake towns unless something’s wrong, and everyone who follows anything sports related knows exactly what’s wrong: the bench blow-up, the shouting match with his coach, the endless commentary dissecting his character like he’s on trial.
I wonder who owned this house before him? Maybe he’s renting it? It was clear someone was renovating, but no one seemed to stay after that. Not all the way surprising when it comes to towns like this—millionaire CEOs with their lake house, on another lake, to match the ones scattered about their favorite vacation towns.
After putting away all the groceries, I stare at my small kitchen table and think back to the entirely painful interaction with Colson. I know this is something my brain will play on repeat for many years to come: an anxiety-induced feature film titled, “Remember when you made a complete ass out of yourself in front of the gorgeous NBA player?”
The thing about Golden Harbor is that it’s predictable. All the locals know how to move around each other. Tourists come and go, cluttering the streets, but it’s like the unwritten bargain you come to terms with when you live in a lake town. A local would never try to get a video of someone while they were here. That’s tourist behavior and why I stepped in.
Colson Burke seems unpredictable. Why isn’t he in Chicago trying to smooth things over with his team? Or trying to find another roster spot? Maybe he’s stepping away from the game? And why did my heart do a weird, traitorous flip the second I got close to him?
I haven’t dated anyone in the last two years. I mean, I’ve gone on dates—typically horrible and nothing to be repeated—but haven’t seriously seen someone more than a handful of times. The idea of being alone has been one I’ve latched onto because I’m barely all the way together after my last failed relationship.
Nick was the master at taking pieces of me, ones he made me feel like I should want to give, and others he had no business to. Hindsight is always 20/20.
My skin prickles as the memories try to come roaring back. I practice pushing them down, tucking them away, doing my best not to let them pull me under. The feeling of not being wanted. Discarded. That’s what happens when the man you thought you’d spend forever with calls off the wedding.
There are days where I still have a hard time believing it. My mind replays it back: me with my ribbon bouquet, gathered from my bridal shower gifts, pretending to walk down the aisle, and Nick blurting out words I never thought I’d hear.Sadie, I can’t marry you,which hurt allon their own, but not as much asI don’t want to marry you.I thought it was a cruel joke or maybe he was having cold feet. I was right about it being cruel.
I don’t know if there’s anything quite as earth-shattering as sending back wedding gifts. Like, thank you for the monogrammed gift but these are not my initials and I can’t even think of a fun acronym to associate with it, so, here you go? What will you do with it? Believe me, I know the answer is nothing.
Something warm and terrifying settled low in my stomach when Colson looked at me, like recognition of risk. Someone complicated, bruised, dragging a city’s worth of scrutiny behind him, storming into the town where I’ve found safety and happiness. His shadows mixing with mine seem like a bad idea. The shadows I’ve done my best to tuck away, move on from, and try to smother with the good things I know are out there.
And yet, standing here in my quiet kitchen, I can’t shake the feeling that whatever brought him to Golden Harbor isn’t something he plans on sharing… and that somehow, I won’t be able to stop myself from wanting to know anyway.
