Page 6 of Stick Break
He pauses, glancing over. “Yeah?”
“I’m doing some yoga on the beach later. Thought it might help with, you know… the tightness.” I casually rub my shoulder, trying not to make it obvious that I’m totally calling him out.
He looks down, brow furrowing like he’s debating whether to take the offer or pretend he’s fine. After a beat, he gives a small nod. “That might be a good idea.”
Progress.
He gestures toward the bedroom. “Go get dressed. I’ll make us something that isn’t oatmeal. Or porridge. Any allergies?”
I shake my head, and he holds up the oatmeal wrapper, crinkling it in mock horror. “Obviously carbs aren’t a problem. And hey, I'm not mad about that.”
He tosses me a grin, casual and cocky, and it does strange, fluttery things to my insides.
“I was stress eating,” I say defensively, even though we both know I’d dive headfirst into another bowl if given half the chance.
He goes quiet, his expression softening, something tender flickering in his eyes. “I’m sorry you’re stressed, Charly.”
I offer a smile, but it’s the kind that never quite reaches your eyes. It sits on my face like a mask, brittle and tired. “I’m sorry for dumping that on you.” I try to shake it off with a wink. “But hey—a week at the beach? That’ll be just right.”
He huffs a soft laugh. “Okay, go. I’ll get cooking.”
I make a quick stop in the bathroom, where I wash my face, brush my teeth, and temporarily pack my emotional baggage. On my way to the bedroom, I sneak a glance at him, fully dressed now. He reaches into a cabinet, pulls out a box of pancake mix, or something equally simple. My eyes betray me, lingering just a second too long on the way his broad shoulders flex and shift under the fabric of his t-shirt.
Nope. Not the time. I speed into the bedroom like I'm outrunning my own hormones.
I unzip my duffel and sigh at the sad excuse for a wardrobe inside. I'd packed in a panic, bolting from my tiny California apartment after the story broke. Paparazzi on the sidewalk, neighbors whispering, phones buzzing with fake concern. I barely had time to call a rideshare, let alone think about clean underwear.
At first, I didn’t even know where I was going.
Most of my friends—what few I had left—had faded into the background over the years. Turns out singing in bars every night doesn’t leave a lot of time for socializing. My ex and I met during a last-minute booking screw-up at a bar. We hit it off, played a few duets, dated for a year… then came The Spotlight auditions, the rise, the chaos, the friends I didn’t know I had, until…..the so-called scandal. A "leak," they called it. I called it betrayal.
With after my name made the headlines again, for all the wrong reasons, people either vanish or turn into moral compasses you never asked for.
I didn’t even consider going home to my parents. One, they’re easy to find. Two, they acted like I personally posted the video for clout. Because clearly, that’s what every daughter dreams of. My brother was the only real safe space left—but he’s newly engaged, running his own physiotherapist clinic, and too good to be dragged down by the dumpster fire I’ve become.
So here I am. Hiding out at Paisley’s cottage.
She’s one of the few people who’s always been in my corner. We met back in high school—her heading for university and classical training, me heading for smoky barrooms and open mics. Different paths, same dream. We stayed in touch, and I knew about this place. When I saw she was off on her honeymoon, I figured fate had finally thrown me a bone.
I pull out a pair of yoga pants and a snug spandex top from the bag, changing quickly as music starts to drift through the cottage. Not just playing—thumping. Bassline heavy, upbeat, with a little groove.
I crack the bedroom door open quietly… and bite down on my lip to keep from laughing out loud when I spot Rip at the stove, spatula in hand, hips swaying slightly to the beat. He’s not full-out dancing, but there’s movement. A shoulder roll here, a head nod there. For a big guy, he’s surprisingly… rhythmic. The man’s got secrets, but he’s also got some well-hidden kitchen swagger. And God help me, I’m sort of looking forward to a week here.
“Rip’s got moves,” I tease.
Okay, so maybe they’re a little stiff, but they’re moves nonetheless. Like a grumpy bear trying to groove.
He shoots a look over his shoulder, deadpan. “Be nice or no carbs for you.”
“I’m always nice.”
“I’m not,” he mutters, slipping back into his signature grump-mode, but something tells me he’s bluffing. “I’m only moving because someone found my bed just right and now my shoulders are kinked.”
Kinked.
Well, great. Why did that word light up every inappropriate corner of my brain?
“Won’t happen again. And hey, look at that, we now know something about each other now,” I say, trying to steer us away from dangerous territory. There’s an unspoken agreement between us. Boundaries. Breathing room. No peeking past the surface.
