Page 71 of Stick Break
Charley stands frozen, hand pressed to her chest, caught somewhere between amused and horrified. I clear my throat and back up a few steps, positioning myself in front of her, a human shield for her near-naked body.
“Oh, sorry, am I interrupting something?” Mrs. Callahan arches a perfectly gray eyebrow in my direction, suspicion practically dripping off her. “You putting those two boxes to good use?”
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
A tortured groan gets stuck in my throat while a soft chuckle bubbles up from Charley behind me.
“We were just getting ready to go to town for breakfast,” I say, trying to sound casual, but failing miserably.
That judgmental eyebrow stays pinned high. “Mmm-hmm. Just checking. I’ve seen less sexual tension in a romance novel.”
I cough, laughing despite myself. “How many romance novels are we talking, exactly?”
“Enough to know a thing or two,” she replies, setting the container down on the counter with a satisfied smile. Then, her eyes soften as she looks at Charley. “Now, Charley, I also made some special lemon bars for you. And Ripley?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
She steps closer, reaches out, and pats my cheek with a knowing smile. “If you mess this up, I will personally shave your eyebrows off in your sleep.”
“Not messing anything up,” I assure her.
“Um, Betsy, you have your own key,” Charley asks.
She holds it up like a trophy. “Of course I do. I check on the place when no one’s here.”
“Well, I guess there’s no need to check on it now. Not while we’re here,” I say, biting my tongue before adding, “...sullying up the place.”
“I hope I get an invite to the wedding.” Grinning, Mrs. Callahan turns on her heel, her dress catching a breeze as she disappears as quickly as she came, leaving behind the faint scent of lavender and mischief.
Charley shakes her head, still smiling. “Did she really say, ‘less sexual tension in a romance novel’?”
I shiver mockingly. “Out loud. But you get it now, right?” I roll my eyes and groan. “Get why I was so mortified when I heard her say ‘sexcapades’—”
We both burst out laughing, the sound filling the kitchen, chasing away the chill left by Lyra. And somehow, right there, everything in our world feels perfectly, undeniably… right.
Except…there will be no wedding.
18
Charley
As the golden afternoon sun slants through the kitchen window, pooling warmth across the counter, I press my hand to the sink edge and shake my head. One week. Somehow it’s already been a week since I arrived, and it feels like I’ve lived a lifetime here, one that’s quieter, slower, and maybe... more honest.
I’ve spoken to my brother a handful of times. My parents only called twice. I didn’t answer them. There’s no point—they don’t believe anything I say. And I don’t have it in me to keep fighting.
But out there, I’m sure the world has moved on from Indie Rhodes, the darling of the Spotlight. s moving on. That’s the way it is in showbusiness. But the paparazzi don’t forget so easily, which is exactly why I told Rip I’d stay a little longer.
Okay, that’s not entirely true.
I’m staying because this beach house has turned into a bubble I don’t want to pop. Because when Rip Hart touches me, I forget about performances, and like who I am with him. Because we’ve spent lazy mornings tangled in bed, and nights that blur into sunrise—full of laughter, aching honesty, and, frankly, the best sex of my life with a man who still hasn’t told me what he really does for a living. Maybe I don’t want him to. Maybe I like the space we’ve carved out.
But even beyond that, I see the way he’s physically improving—how the swelling has gone down, how he walks easier, breathes deeper. The ice, the stretching, the rehab work I’ve been quietly guiding him through has been making a difference. He’ll be ready when camp starts next month. Assuming they do call it camp. I wouldn’t know. I’ve always been more familiar with stages than stadiums.
Then there’s Emma. Bright-eyed, hungry to learn, absorbing every note I share with childlike enthusiasm. I didn’t expect to love teaching, but somehow it settled into an empty space inside me.
“Something on your mind?”
Rip’s voice breaks through my reverie, low and gravel-rich, as he steps behind me and folds his body into mine. His warmth wraps around me and I turn slightly, my hands still resting on the sink, and he leans in. God. That look. That softness in his eyes that never quite matches the gruffness in his voice. My chest tightens, and I wonder—not for the first time—if I’m falling a little too fast, a little too deep.
