“I can make us some eggs and tea,” he offers. “Something light.”
I nod, grateful for the offer, for the simple, domestic normalcy of it. He stands up and walks over to his discarded jeans, pulling on his boxers. The soft cotton settles low on his hips, and I can’t help but laugh, a short, breathy sound. He’s still half-hard, a blatant, physical reminder of what we just did, of what’s still simmering between us.
The sound makes him turn, a questioning look on his face. But my mind is already racing, a tumble of thoughts I can’t voice.
I want to ask what this means for us. Are we back to fucking? Are we more? Is this just a temporary fix, a way to soothe old wounds, or is it something real? Is he my boyfriend? The questions are a frantic, caged bird in my chest, but I don’t let any of them out. I can’t. It’s too much, too soon. The secret I’m keeping is too heavy.
The drive to The Cocoa Nook is silent. The rain is still coming down in sheets. He’s focused on the road, his jaw tight, and I’m staring out the passenger window, watching the world blur into a watery mess.
We’re on a stretch of road that’s particularly exposed, the wind whipping the rain across the pavement in blinding sheets. Liam slows down, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “This road is a fucking death trap,” he mutters.
And then it happens. The truck hydroplanes. For a terrifying, heart-stopping second, we’re weightless, floating on a cushion of water. The world outside the windows becomes a spinning, nauseating vortex of green and gray. I let out a sharp cry, my hands flying out to brace myself against the dashboard.
Liam curses as he wrestles with the steering wheel. The truck fishtails, then slides with a sickening lurch into a ditch on theside of the road. The engine dies with a final, pathetic cough, leaving us in a sudden, ringing silence, broken only by the sound of the rain drumming on the roof and our own ragged breaths.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice tight as he turns to me, his hands immediately reaching out to check me over.
“I think so,” I say, my heart hammering against my ribs. I’m shaking, but I don’t think I’m hurt.
“Fuck,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Just… fuck.”
We sit there for a moment, the reality of our situation sinking in. We’re stuck. In a ditch. In the middle of a storm. My phone is dead, of course. I left it charging on my nightstand.
“We need to call someone,” I say, my voice small.
He pulls out his phone, the screen lighting up his grim face. He stares at it for a long moment, his thumb hovering over the contacts. I know who he wants to call. A tow truck. His mom. Anyone but the one person we probably should.
But then he looks at me, his eyes meeting mine, and a silent understanding passes between us. There’s only one person to call.
He finds the name and presses the phone to his ear. It rings once.
“Maddox,” he says, his voice rough. “Hey, man. We’ve got a problem.”
Knox
The rain is a relentless drum against the windows. Inside, the air is warm, scented with the smell of the sea and Clara’s cherry-vanilla lip gloss.
We’re on the couch, a blanket draped over our legs, watching some ridiculous reality show about competitive cake decorating. She’s curled up against my side, her head on my shoulder, a solid, warm weight that feels more like home than this house ever has.
“You know, for a guy who’s supposed to be in charge of an entire town, you’re surprisingly bad at stocking a kitchen,” she says, her voice dry and amused. She gestures with her chin toward the mug in my hands. “This is just hot milk. There’s no chocolate in it. No cocoa.”
I take a sip, grimacing. She’s right. It’s just sad, warm milk. “I’ve been a little busy, what with the whole ‘rebuilding a town from the ashes’ thing,” I retort, but there’s no heat in it. I’m smiling. “I’ll run to the store. Get you some real hot chocolate. The good stuff, with the little marshmallows.”
She perks up, her eyes lighting up. “The good stuff? Deal.” She shifts, sitting up straighter. “But you have to promise not toarrest anyone on the way. I don’t want my cocoa tainted by your police work.”
“I make no promises,” I say, setting my mug down and ruffling her hair. She swats my hand away with a dramatic groan, but she’s smiling. “Be right back. Don’t burn the place down.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she mutters, already sinking back into the couch and grabbing the remote.
The drive into town is a lesson in caution. The rain has turned the coastal roads into slick, treacherous ribbons of asphalt. The wipers on my truck work overtime, a frantic, metronomic swipe against the deluge. My headlights cut through the gloom, illuminating the sheets of rain that blur the world into a watercolor painting of grays and blacks. I’m focused, my senses on high alert. This is when accidents happen.
I’m coming around a sharp bend, a part of the road I know is prone to pooling water, when my headlights catch on something. A flash of red. A vehicle. It’s not just on the side of the road; it’s in the ditch. The front end is crumpled, angled at a sickening, unnatural tilt.
My heart stops. It’s not a professional, calculated assessment. It’s a gut-level, primal lurch. My foot is on the brake before my brain has even finished processing the image. The truck slides on the wet pavement, but I bring it to a stop, my knuckles white where I’m gripping the wheel.
And then I see it. The shape. The make. It’s a truck I know. One I’ve seen parked outside The Cocoa Nook. One I’ve seen parked outside her apartment.
It’s Millie’s.
