Page 26 of Our Bay Will Come

"It is," she cuts me off. "And you know it. Now, you have two choices: call Fox and make up some excuse about work, then spend the weekend reorganizing your perfectly organized office while wondering what might have been, or pack your bag, get in your car, and find out if there's something real here."

I stare at her, trying to formulate a rebuttal that doesn't sound pathetic even to my ears. "What if I get there and realize I want to end things?"

"Then you end things like the grown-ass woman you are." Rory shrugs. "But what if you get there and realize you don't want to?"

The question hangs between us. I think about Fox's voice on the phone last night, the way he described the sunset over the bay that I'd be able to see from his deck. The quiet anticipation in his tone when he told me he'd made dinner reservations at the only decent restaurant in town.

"I'm scared," I admit, the words barely audible.

Rory's face softens. "I know. That's how I know it matters."

She's right, damn her. I push away from my desk, decision made. "Fine. But if this blows up in my face, you're buying the ice cream and wine for the post-mortem."

"Deal. And if it doesn't, I expect a detailed report on whether his bedroom ceiling is as nice as he promised."

I throw a fabric swatch at her, laughing some of the tension off my shoulders. "You're terrible."

"I'm supportive," she corrects, dodging the swatch. "Now go home and pack. And Prue?"

"Yeah?"

"Go with an open mind, okay? Not everyone is going to hurt you like Daniel did."

I nod, my throat suddenly tight. "I'll try."

"That's all I'm asking." She moves toward the door, then turns back with a wicked grin. "Oh, and don't forget to pack that black lace thing you bought last month. The one with the?—"

"Goodbye, Rory!" I call loudly, but I'm smiling as I gather my things.

I've got three hours to pack and drive to Cedar Bay. Three hours to determine if I'm making the biggest mistake of my life or taking the first step toward something I've been too afraid to even want.

No pressure.

I manage to make it back to my apartment in record time, though the Seattle traffic does its best to sabotage me. My mind races faster than my car the entire drive. What am I doing? What am I packing? What am I expecting from this weekend?

My apartment greets me with its familiar, comforting order—the carefully curated furniture arrangement, the color-coordinated bookshelves, the precisely angled artwork—everything in its place, everything controlled.

Unlike my emotions right now.

I pull my weekend bag from the closet, toss it on the bed, and then stand there staring at it as if it might bite. This is ridiculous. I'm a grown woman who has successfully designed homes for some of Seattle's most demanding clients. I can pack a bag for a weekend trip.

"Casual but cute," I mutter, yanking open drawers. "Not trying too hard, but not looking like I rolled out of bed."

I select jeans, sweaters, and a casual dress that could work for dinner, then hesitate at my lingerie drawer. The black lace set Rory mentioned seems to mock me from its neat compartment.

"This doesn't mean anything," I tell the empty room as I stuff it into the side pocket of my bag. "I'm just... being prepared."

My phone buzzes with a text, and my heart does that stupid little flutter when I see Fox's name.

Drive safe. Looking forward to showing you around.

Simple. Direct. No flowery promises or overwrought declarations. It's one of the things I like about him—Fox Carmichael says exactly what he means, no more and no less.

I text back:

Just packing now. Should be there around 7:00.

His response comes quickly:

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