I pocket the phone without answering.
She tastes like tea and possibility. And she's already running. Good thing I'm patient. SEALs are trained for the long game.
I sit back down in the armchair, pick up the Ishiguro, and try to read. But the words on the page keep rearranging themselves into the shape of her face, the sound of her laugh, the impossible softness of her mouth against mine.
Chapter twelve of her manuscript ends with a bracket: figure out what happens next.
My mouth still tastes like tea. The rain has picked up again, hammering the windows, and somewhere in this inn, Kassidy Monroe is outlining her feelings about me in a bathroom.
I open the Ishiguro. Close it. Open it again.
I’m sure the bracket's not empty anymore.
Chapter 9
Kassidy
The bathroom crisis takes forty-five minutes.
Not a breakdown—I want to be clear about that. It's a structured emotional inventory conducted while sitting on the edge of the bathtub, laptop open on the closed toilet lid, Notes app filled with the following:
SITUATION ASSESSMENT: 1. Tucker Brennan kissed me. 2. I kissed him back. 3. It was the best kiss of my entire life and I want to do it again immediately. 4. This is a PROBLEM because: a. I've known him four days b. He's working security for the retreat I'm attending c. I am in the middle of the worst creative and emotional crisis of my career d. My judgment in men is statistically terrible (see: Ryan) e. He read my manuscript and RECOGNIZED HIMSELF 5. Counter-arguments: a. Four days in a hurricane is equivalent to approximately three months of regular dating (citation needed) b. He reads Ishiguro c. He said "who said anything about casual" and his eyes did the thing d. The kiss. THE KISS.
I stare at the list. It stares back. Neither of us has answers.
The kiss. I keep circling back to it like a moth around a lamp, unable to think about anything else for more than thirty seconds. The way his hands framed my face—firm but gentle,like he was holding something precious. The way the kiss started slow and careful and then deepened into something that felt less like a first kiss and more like a continuation of a conversation we'd been having since the beach.
And the sound I made. The involuntary, undeniable sound that came from somewhere below thought and above shame, and which I will be mortified about for the rest of my life.
My phone buzzes. My best friend, Tara.
Tara: How's the retreat? Any cute security guys?
I stare at the message. Tara has a sixth sense for romantic disaster. She predicted my breakup with Ryan three months before it happened, using only a series of pointed questions about how often he asked about my writing.
Me: Hypothetically, if a person were to kiss a security professional during a hurricane, and that kiss was so good it rewired her neurological pathways, what would you advise?
Three dots. Then:
Tara: I would advise that person to kiss him again and stop overthinking everything.
Me: Overthinking is my primary skill set.
Tara: Your primary skill set is writing love stories. Maybe try LIVING one for a change.
I close the phone. She's not wrong. That's the worst part.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Tucker isn't in the room. He's left a note on the desk in precise, blocky handwriting: Doing a security round. Back in an hour. No pressure.
No pressure. Two words that contain more emotional intelligence than Ryan demonstrated in three years.
I sit at the desk, open the manuscript, and write. Not the bracket-filled, desperate writing of the last few days but something new—a scene that flows from the kiss like water from a spring. Sophie and Ethan, in their version of this room, finally honest with each other. Not just about attraction but about the damage they're each carrying, the fear that vulnerability is just another word for weakness.
The words come fast and sure, and for the first time in months, writing doesn't feel like excavation. It feels like breathing.
Tucker returns at dusk, rain-damp and smelling like the ocean. He enters quietly, sets his radio on the nightstand, and stands by the door like he's waiting for permission to exist in the same space.
"You can come in," I say without looking up. "It's your room too."
