Page 24 of Stick Break
God, I’d forgotten how much I love the beach.
I close my eyes and, for the first time in ages, my thoughts aren’t consumed by my ex. Or the tabloid disaster that has flattened me. Instead, I think about the man I’m sharing a roof with.
Kind. Thoughtful. Funny as hell.
And now I’m grinning like an idiot, picturing him in a pair of cartoonish water wings.
Honestly? I might need to find a boat, just to make that dream come true.
Inside, my phone pings, and my eyes snap open. Rip?
Nope. We didn’t exchange numbers. And it’s not like I have friends regularly checking in on me. I push to my feet and step inside, spotting a message from my brother. Just a check-in. I text him back, and soon we’re chatting about his wedding in August. I try to match his excitement, but the knot in my stomach tightens. The thought of facing our parents again, the hovering cloud of media attention—it’s all going to be the icing on a very bitter cake.
Needing air, I wander around the cottage, ending up in the lounge chair tucked into the fenced backyard. I close my eyes and let my mind drift—to music, lyrics, melodies. This whole hideaway could become a song one day. A whole album, even.
Eventually, I open my phone and dive into a book. The words pull me in, and for a while, I forget where I am. Until I hear the door. I’m up in an instant, practically skipping toward the sound like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Hey,” I say, trying to rein in my enthusiasm. Cool, Charley. Be cool. “Did you get everything? I’m starving.”
“Got everything,” Rip says, holding up a bag. Then, grinning, he pulls out a box. “And this.”
“S’mores?” I gasp. “What was that you just said about being a couch potato?”
“I won’t tell if you won’t.”
“Deal.”
“At least I’m not sneaking cinnamon rolls every night like my buddy Roman.”
“Roman?” I tilt my head. Is he referring to Roman Marinelli?
“My best friends growing up,” he supplies. “Still is.”
“Nice,” I say, trying not to sound envious. “I lost touch with most of my high school friends.”
Something in me clenches tight, and I quickly turn to the bag to hide the sudden pang of loneliness. I start unloading fresh produce. “This looks amazing. Wait, did you remember?—”
“Potatoes?” he says with mock seriousness. “Of course. I value my life.”
“Smart man.” I laugh, washing a cucumber and placing it on the cutting board. Rip sets the potatoes beside me, and the sound of my stomach growling fills the space between us.
God, I’ve been depriving myself for so long, maybe trying to earn my mother’s approval, maybe punishing myself for being so difficult, disobedient. But not this week. This week, things are being done differently.
Rip must catch something in my expression. “I still don’t get why your parents think you were disobedient,” he says gently. “Teenage years are brutal for everyone. I was no saint.”
“I never actually thought you were,” I tease, slicing the cucumber.
I hold a piece out for him to take. Instead of grabbing it, he leans in and eats it—straight from my fingers.
All righty then.
He bumps his shoulder into mine, playful but firm enough to make me sway. “Don’t act like you know me,” he warns playfully.
If only he knew…
“Careful,” I reply, grinning. “I’m the one with the knife.”
I toss the cucumber into the bowl, pretending not to feel the sizzle in the air between us.
