Asher’s still frowning, like he’s trying to solve a riddle. “Right… goodnight, Sadie.”
Zach doesn’t say a word, but I can still feel the weight of his gaze as I turn toward the door. It skims over me, dark and hot, like a secret I shouldn’t know exists.
I don’t look back. I’ve thought about him enough for today.
But as the door swings shut behind me, my pulse still runs wild, like I never stopped being chased.
And I know I need to get over this. Before I do something to embarrass myself even more.
twelve
SADIE
The first thing I do when I walk back into my apartment later that night is pour myself a glass of wine. I’m not a big drinker. The bottle’s been in the fridge for months. A ‘just in case’ Chardonnay for nights when my thoughts refuse to switch off.
Not that I’m spiraling. I don’t know what I’m feeling, if I’m being honest. Confused, maybe.
My apartment came with the shop, and although it’s small, I fell in love with it as soon as I saw it. Whoever was in here last renovated it tastefully, keeping the original features where they could, adding modern conveniences like a compact laundry room tucked beneath the sloping roofline, and wide plank pine floors that creak softly when I walk.
At night, it feels like the whole world narrows to this one warm space, the sound of the ocean muffled by the old glass windows. The air smells faintly of paper andsalt, a mix that clings to the shelves stacked high with books waiting to be catalogued. It’s imperfect and a little uneven, but it’s mine, and that’s enough.
Nobody can hurt me here. Unless I want them to.
That confidence wobbles a bit as I take my first sip of wine, and think about the way Zach Fitzgerald looked right through me tonight. Like I was a stranger.
I remind myself that I’m the one who told him to cool it at the beach. It was supposed to be a one and done. A challenge. But it still stings a little.
I take another sip, the smooth dryness coating my tongue. He’s only doing what we agreed to. He chased me, he caught me, and nobody will ever know.
They won’t know that I shattered into pieces in his arms. Or that I crave something… more. I don’t know. All I do know is that the last thing I need is whispers about me going around town. I would hate that.
I press the glass to my lips again, trying to drown out the heat curling low in my stomach.
But before I can take a second sip, my phone buzzes. I grimace because I never like getting messages or calls at this time of night. My mom always said phone calls after ten only meant bad news.
When I slide my finger across the screen, bad news has a name.
Zach Fitzgerald.
My pulse stutters. For a second I consider putting the phone back down, pretending I didn’t see it. But curiosity wins, because tonight I really am a glutton for punishment.
Did you get home safely? - Zach
That’s it. Five words. They’re simple. Almost polite. The kind of message a first date would send to you after you promise to be careful when you take the subway home alone.
But why now after he ignored me? Why so late at night? Is he expecting me to reply? For things to descend into sexting?
Oh God, I’m so out of touch with dating. Not that being chased by him is dating, unless you have a warped sense of how a gentleman should treat a woman.
Which obviously, I do.
It takes me finishing the glass of wine to decide whether to reply. And in the end – because part of me is apparently a petulant teenager – I send a one word answer.
Yes.
And then I shove my phone in my pocket and stand up, because every part of me is starting to ache.
Leaving my empty glass on the kitchen counter, I head into the bedroom and prop my phone on the nightstand, kicking off my slippers. My gaze is caught by the only piece of art I have on the bedroom wall. And one of the only things I brought with me from my old life.
