Page 36 of Story Of My Heart

After the intensity fades, I’m left with a quiet that is both comforting and unnerving. Being with Piper transforms me. Each moment spent in her embrace rewrites the lonely narratives I’ve held onto for so long. I feel different, as if she’s reshaping me from the inside out, and it’s terrifying in its intensity. It’s as though I’ve stepped through a door I didn't know existed into a brighter, more vivid world—a world that, before Piper, I hadn’t dared to imagine for myself. Now, faced with the possibility of this new existence, the thought of ever stepping back into the shadows is unimaginable.

After I pull out, I dispose of the condom in a trash can next to the desk. Piper’s breathing stays labored and ragged, her body still trembling from the intensity of our lovemaking. I can see the satisfied smile spreading across her lips as she gazes over her shoulder, her eyes filled with a mix of affection, desire and wonder. It’s a sight that never gets old, and I allow myself a moment to savor it. I can’t help but notice the curve of her hips, the way her skin glistens with a sheen of sweat, and the way her hair cascades down her back like a waterfall. The sight takes my breath away, and I realize that I have to go back to her and gently lift her back to her feet.

“Piper,” I say, my voice gentle and soothing. “Let’s go to bed. I want to hold you.”

She whispers something unintelligible, her voice barely audible. I can tell she’s still too overwhelmed with the aftermath of our lovemaking to speak clearly. Without hesitation, I reach out and wrap my arms around her waist, carefully lifting her off the couch and into my arms.

As I lift her, Piper’s weight settles against me in a way that feels natural, as if she’s meant to be there. Walking slowly towards the bed, I feel every point of contact between us, each one sending a thrum of connection through my veins.

“You’re my favorite person,” I whisper as I lay her gently on the mattress, my hands lingering on the curve of her hip. “Everything about you—your strength, your laughter, your incredible heart—it draws me in like gravity.”

“Mmm…” she mumbles, snuggling in deeper as she finally kicks off her shoes.

I brush a strand of hair from her face, watching the soft rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. “Being here with you, like this, it feels right. It feels like something I’ve needed without knowing it. I don’t just want you for tonight, Piper. I need your light in my life. But I’m scared too.”

As I settle beside her, pulling her close, the words hang in the air, heavy with meaning but not quite crossing the threshold into love. Yet, each beat of my heart seems to whisper it, an echo of a future I’m only beginning to allow myself to imagine.

Chapter Eighteen

Piper

Last night left me walking on air. Everything about the party was perfect. I felt just as beautiful as our surroundings. The well-wishers around us were bursting with love for each other and for Gibson and Avery. I’ve never lived in a small town, so I’ve never felt that kind of camaraderie that comes with seeing the same people day after day, year after year. They’ve shared in the same victories and losses, the same busy seasons and dead months. They’ve been to each other’s birthday parties and christenings and funerals and engagements. The feeling was so comforting it was intoxicating. I don’t understand why Tate left here all those years ago, or how he could find it so suffocating instead of inspiring and uplifting.

By the time the party wrapped up and we made it back to our cabin, my sides hurt from laughing and my calves hurt from the shoes. And then what came after when my calves didn’t get one bit of rest until Tate carried me to the bed whispering words that still seem like a dream.

We slept like logs, wrapped up in each other, and I woke up with a river of drool on my pillow, and I think I may have even snored. Seeing Tate’s face first thing in the morning is starting to become routine, and I know that I have to brace myself for the fallout that comes with whatever happens when we return to Minneapolis.

Will he ask me to stay over, or will we part at the end of each work day just like we always have?

Waking up next to Tate has woven itself into the fabric of my mornings, a soft, persistent thread that I dread cutting. But the shadow of our impending return to Minneapolis casts a chill over the warmth of these moments. What unsettles me isn’t just the transition from companions to colleagues, but also the prospect of being so close yet so impossibly distant from him. There, in the mundane grind of our daily routines, he’ll be just steps away but miles out of reach, always within sight but forever beyond my grasp. This proximity, coupled with the impossibility of crossing the invisible line back to intimacy, sharpens the sting of loneliness. I’ll see him, hear him, maybe even brush against him as we pass by each other, yet in every meaningful way, he’ll be a world away.

The thought of returning to a professional dynamic, rigid and formal after the electric intimacy we’ve shared, feels like a cruel joke. How will I bear the nearness of him, knowing that the passion we kindled here must be extinguished, leaving behind only the cold ashes of what could have been?

Because beneath my protests, I crave more—infinitely more. Yet I confessed nothing, silenced by the fear that reaching for everything might leave me with nothing at all. Especially since Tate all but admitted having a real relationship with me terrified him. And I know what happens when my boss is frightened, he shuts down completely all while pretending emotions don’t even exist.

To hold even the smallest part of him is better than emptiness. The scraps of his affection sustain me, bitter as it is to admit, because the thought of complete absence is a void too harrowing to contemplate. I could say that I’ve fallen in love with Tate Story, but that would be a lie.

I’ve always loved him.

We bumble about the cabin for a bit, decidedly hungover and sleep deprived, but the mood is still cheerful as I continue to ignore my real feelings. Which is why it’s so jarring when I catch Tate frowning at his cellphone screen, mired in thought at whatever it is that he’s reading.

“What’s wrong?” I ask with a stretch, massaging a spot in my lower back that I’m certain is being caused by the way Tate juts his knees up in his sleep. He either doesn’t hear me, or doesn’t care, eyes glued to the screen in front of him. I lean forward, obviously looking at the source of his frustration, giving him ample time to pull it away if he wants to. It’s Sunset Fake. Again. But this time, the headline isn’t about Gibson and Avery or the new Chipotle they keep threatening to open on Main Street. It’s about me.

My eyes widen. “This is crazy. How did you find it?”

“Google alert.”

I sink down onto the couch beside him, opening the Sunset Fake homepage on my phone. From the look on Tate’s face, I had expected the article to be something truly awful, either revealing our relationship to be a fraud, or worse—exposing Tate’s finances and his purchase of the resort. Instead, it’s borderline kind.

“Sad day for the ladies of Sunset Lake. Tate Story, perhaps not the most charming of the Story princes but a catch nonetheless, appears to be off the market for good. After arriving in town over the weekend with a mystery girl in tow, the pair could be seen attending his brother Gibson’s engagement party last night. A source calls the pair inseparable, even going so far as to say that the mystery girl was gifted with a sizable piece of jewelry later in the evening.”

The accusation is so ridiculous that it takes me a minute to realize what they could possibly be talking about. When I finally put the pieces together, I can’t help but laugh. “It was a ring pop. A ring pop, Tate! Clearly, this mystery blogger knows nothing.”

“Right,” he grumbles, still staring at his phone. I can tell from the look in his eyes that he isn’t thinking about the article, and that his mind has gone somewhere else entirely. From the depth of the line etched between his brows, it isn’t anywhere good. I stare at him for a moment, waiting for him to snap out of it, but no such luck. After last night, I don’t want to lose him to his fear. Not yet anyway.

But when he doesn’t budge, I give up, patting him on the thigh before standing with a stretch. “Ready to go make some chocolate?”

“Yes,” he agrees readily, tossing his phone onto the seat next to him and rubbing at his temples. “Let’s go.”

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