Page 25 of Our Bay Will Come

"Tomorrow. Early." I rest my hands on her hips, already dreading the coming goodbye.

"So soon?"

"Got a job starting Monday. But—" I hesitate, not wanting to push too hard. "Two weeks, you said. For the Henderson project."

She nods slowly, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I could probably drive up that Friday. Stay the weekend."

"I'd like that." It feels like an understatement. The thought of showing her my world makes something unfamiliar bloom in my chest.

"I'd like it too." She rises onto her tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. "But let's still take it slow, okay?”

I think about how I now know the exact spot on her neck that makes her gasp, how she hums when she's content, how she takes her coffee (cream, no sugar), and the small scar on herknee from a childhood bike accident. It feels like I've known her much longer than a day.

"Slow," I agree, even as I pull her closer. "We can do slow."

Her laugh tells me she doesn't believe me more than I believe myself.

CHAPTER EIGHT

PRUE

"And that's why the Henderson kitchen should have an island instead of a peninsula," I finish, placing the concept board on my desk with a flourish. "More counter space, better flow, and it'll make the space feel twice as big."

Rory leans against the doorframe of my office, arms crossed, eyebrow raised in that way that tells me she's not buying what I'm selling. Not the kitchen design—that's flawless—but the casual way I've been avoiding any mention of my upcoming weekend plans.

"Great. Fantastic. The Hendersons will love it," she says, tapping her foot. "Now, can we talk about the fact that you're leaving for Cedar Bay in three hours and haven't packed a single thing?"

I busy myself organizing colored swatches that are already perfectly organized. "I'm a light packer."

"You're a nervous wreck," Rory counters, pushing off the doorframe to perch on the edge of my desk. "This is the third time you've reorganized those swatches today."

"I'm being thorough."

"You're stalling."

I sigh, finally looking up at my best friend and business partner, Rory McLean. She's known me since design school, so she can read me like an open book with extra-large font and illustrations.

"Fine. Yes. I'm nervous." I slump back in my chair. "This is a mistake. Going up there, meeting his friends, seeing his hometown, it's too much, too fast."

"It's been two weeks since your sister's wedding, and you've talked to him every day since."

"Exactly!" I throw my hands up. "Two weeks! That's nothing! And I'm already driving three hours to spend the weekend with him? Who does that?"

"Someone who's falling hard and fast for a hot construction worker with, and I quote, 'hands that should be illegal in at least forty states'?" Rory's grin is insufferable.

"I hate that I told you that." I drop my head into my hands. "God, what am I doing, Rory? I don't do this. I don't fall for guys this quickly. I don't rearrange my schedule to drive to tiny coastal towns. I don't..."

"Care this much?" she finishes gently.

"Yeah." The word comes out smaller than I intended.

Rory's expression softens. She reaches over to squeeze my shoulder. "Look, I get it. After what happened with Alan, you built walls higher than some of the buildings we've designed. But maybe—just maybe—this Fox guy is worth lowering the drawbridge for."

"Or maybe I'll drive up there and realize we have nothing in common outside of incredible chemistry and mutual attraction to each other's siblings." I twist my watch around my wrist, a nervous habit. "Maybe I'm setting myself up for another heartbreak."

"Or maybe you're setting yourself up for something amazing." Rory stands, hands on hips. "Prue Griffin, you are thebravest person I know when it comes to everything except your own heart. You'll take on impossible clients and deadlines, but the minute someone makes you feel something real, you look for the exit."

"That's not?—"

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