Page 46 of Tides of Discovery
We shed our clothes—except for clean briefs—climbed into Jack’s big, comfy bed, and burrowed under the covers. I settled on one side of the bed, but Jack had other ideas. He tucked me to him, my back against his chest, his arm wrapped securely around my waist. The storm outside had abated, with an occasional rumble of thunder the only reminder of its earlier fury.
“You okay?” Jack murmured into my hair, his voice heavy as sleep approached.
“Yeah,” I said, surprised to find it was true. “You okay?”
“Never better,” he whispered.
Despite the confusion, despite not knowing what this meant for us, for our bargain, I felt…content. Safe.
As I drifted toward sleep in Jack’s arms, I tried not to think about what would happen tomorrow. About whether this night was just an aberration brought on by stress and the storm, or if it signaled something deeper changing between us.
For now, it was enough to be here, warm and protected, while the world outside grew quiet. Whatever this was—whatever we were becoming—could wait until morning.
My last conscious thought was how strange it was that in all our years of friendship, I’d never realized how perfectly I would fit against Jack’s body. Like we’d been designed as matching pieces all along, just waiting to discover how well we connected.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Cooper
The Coffee Cove buzzed around me, the low hum of conversation blending with the familiar hiss of the espresso machine. A day had passed since I’d awakened in Jack’s arms, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how right it had felt—the weight of his body against mine, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way he’d held me even in sleep. Something had shifted between us since then, a heightened awareness that followed us through our daily interactions. When he'd grabbed his regular order yesterday, our fingers had brushed during the handoff, and Jack's smile had been just for him. The air between us felt electric with possibility, and all I wanted was to get him alone again—away from the curious eyes of the town. I wanted to explore this new closeness, to see where it might lead us again.
I wiped down the pickup counter. Jessica worked with me, her movements efficient as she organized the pastry case.
My gaze drifted repeatedly to the door as I watched for Jack. He’d texted earlier saying he was coming in for lunch, and my stomach had been doing flips ever since. The bell above the door jingled, and my head snapped up. Jack stood in the doorway. Our gazes locked across the busy shop, and something warmuncurled in my chest like steam rising from a freshly brewed cup.
This reaction to Jack was becoming alarmingly familiar: the way my pulse quickened whenever he looked at me, the heat that pooled low in my gut, the anticipation that made rational thought nearly impossible. Each time it happened, the pull grew stronger, harder to dismiss as mere physical chemistry. My body was learning to respond to him in ways that felt dangerously real, dangerously permanent.
He joined the line, patiently waiting his turn despite my instinct to wave him to the front. Jack always played fair—one of the many qualities I admired in him.
When he finally reached the counter, his smile brightened the day. “Hey,” he said casually, as if we hadn’t spent the other evening with our tongues in each other’s mouths.
“Hey yourself,” I replied. Movement caught my eye.
He held up a small terracotta pot with both hands like he was presenting some kind of sacred offering. “I brought something for you,” he said, and the way he said it—half-joking but with an underlying sincerity that made my heart squeeze—nearly undid me right there behind the counter.
“Boyfriend Starter Pack,” I read aloud from the handwritten label, squinting at the tiny green sapling poking up from the soil. My heart did a ridiculous little skip as I looked back up at Jack’s face, which had gone slightly pink around the ears.
I took the pot from him, our fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “A boyfriend starter pack, huh?” I tried to keep my voice steady while my insides cartwheeled. “Does this come with instructions, or do I just water it and hope for the best?” The laugh that bubbled up from somewhere deep in my gut felt foreign after the stress of the morning’s rush, but Jack’s answering smile made everything else fade into background noise.
“Thank you,” I said, touched beyond reason. Without hesitation, I turned and placed the little pot in a place of honor on the shelf behind the counter, right between the bags of coffee beans and the stack of ceramic mugs, where every customer could see it. It looked perfect there. When I turned back to Jack, I was grinning so wide my cheeks hurt. “Alright, boyfriend,” I said, “what can I get you? And don’t even think about reaching for your wallet—this one’s on the house.” I reached for a large cup. “Americano and…?”
He peered into the sandwich case. “I’ll take the tomato and mozzarella on focaccia today.”
“You got it.”
Jack took his lunch to go, and I tried not to let the disappointment show on my face. He caught it anyway, of course, his fingers brushing mine as he took the bag—a brief touch that felt like an apology and a promise wrapped together. But he had a project with a strict deadline breathing down his neck, and I had the lunch rush on my hands. We both had work to do.
I was mid-pour on a caramel macchiato when the bell above the door jingled. I glanced up, and my stomach twisted at the sight of Martin striding toward the counter, phone clutched in his hand like a weapon.
“I’m surprised,” he said loudly enough for half the shop to hear, “you’re still open.”
I finished the pour with careful precision and refused to let him rattle me. “Here for some better coffee, Martin? What can I get you?”
He ignored the question and shoved his phone under my nose. On the screen was a blurry but unmistakable image: an official-looking Health Inspection Report, posted anonymously on the town’s community chat page.
Health Code Violation: Improper Food Storage at The Coffee Cove.
“No wonder your staff was sick.” Martin’s raised voice dripped with mock sympathy. “Seems you can’t even store your milk properly.”
