Page 15

COOL GIRL

STELLA

I wake up warm. Not cozy but sweaty. Which is the first sign something’s off.

I always sleep with my cooling blanket. Always. I sleep hot, I sleep diagonally, and most nights, I pass out with Lightroom open and an energy bar still in the sheets. Comfort isn’t really the vibe.

But this?

This bed is soft. And still. Too comfortable.

My hand shifts across the sheets, instinctively searching for the blanket I know should be there, cool to the touch, always tangled at my side.

Nothing.

The second sign? I haven’t moved. Not even an inch. My limbs are still, like my body knew it didn’t want to mess this up.

Which is wildly suspicious.

The third sign?

There’s a sound outside, a faint city hum I don’t recognize. Distant traffic. A barking dog that’s too far away to belong to any neighbor I know.

I live in a house. With a yard. Even though my loud-as-hell niece is visiting Grandma, the Echo Dot in her room sill plays the worst Disney songs early in the morning.

But not this morning. This is different for sure.

This is… quiet. And then it hits me. Not the where , but the who .

Luke .

I crack one eye open and confirm what I already know.

He’s asleep, face turned toward me, one hand still tucked beneath his pillow, the other close enough that if I shifted, we’d be tangled again.

His lips are parted slightly, and he’s smirking in his sleep. It’s rude, really.

He even dreams smugly. Peaceful and shirtless. The man is annoyingly attractive. So is the rest of him, honestly.

Which is a problem. Because I don’t stay the night. Not even after… that.

I don’t stay, not for sleep, not for cuddling, not for pillow talk. And yet…here I am. Apparently, I’ve lost control of the narrative.

I study him for a moment longer than I should, because damn, he’s pretty. But I know it’s time to go. I slide out of the bed as quickly and quietly as I can; I don’t want to wake him. I’m not opposed to him catching me like last time, but I’ve made sneaking out an art form.

No strings, no expectations. Just a clean, silent exit before things have a chance to get complicated. But this time… it doesn’t feel as clean.

I move through his apartment like a thief, quietly pulling on my clothes and wrangling my hair into a quick messy bun.

I pause near the kitchen counter, hand resting on the edge like it might anchor me.

My eyes flick to the notepad on the island next to a pile of mail. A pen beside it. It’s nothing special.

Still, I stare at it for a solid thirty seconds.

What am I doing?

I need to walk out that door. No note. No follow-up. That’s the deal. That’s always been my deal. But my fingers move before I tell them to.

I tear off a page, click the pen, and write:

Thanks for the climb—figuratively speaking...

- Stella

Reading over the note once, I notice my handwriting’s messier than usual. I want to fix it, but I don’t. Instead, I jot down my phone number.

I tuck the corner of the note under the coffee maker where he won’t miss it, then take one last look toward his room.

Still no movement from the bedroom.

Good.

Because if he walked out now—messy hair, sleepy smile, using the nickname he’s coined for me—I’m not sure I’d make it to the door.

And I need to leave first. I always leave first.

But I can’t decipher the origin of the flutter in my stomach. It feels like I’m leaving something behind this time.

The ten-minute walk back to The Trading Post to grab my car is quiet, the early morning light stretching long across the sidewalks. This part of the city feels calm. It might even be peaceful—if I weren’t so busy thinking about Luke.

By the time I slide into the driver’s seat, my thoughts are too loud. I crank the music, hoping the volume will drown them out. “Cool Girl” by Tove Lo blasts through the speakers. It’s all bass and sarcasm—exactly the distraction I need.

Until it isn’t.

That familiar, guilt-tinged tug of reality starts to settle in, low and persistent.

Pulling into the driveway, I spot a familiar car parked on the street and an even more familiar redhead standing on my front porch.

“Hey, lady,” Hazel calls, all chipper and glowing. Of course she is. Her hair’s perfect, her skin unfairly radiant. She’s rocking boyfriend jeans and a powder-blue shirt like she didn’t just wake up at the ass crack of dawn.

I squint at her. “How long have you been awake?”

She shrugs. “Four a.m., boo.”

I shiver. “That’s disgusting.”

She follows me inside, and that’s when I notice the Tupperware in her hands. I glance at it, and she catches me looking.

“I made new scones. Was just gonna leave them for you and Harper.”

“You know they’re out of town, right?” I ask as I unlock the door.

“I do. I knocked to see if you were up. Then I was gonna tuck them in your flower pot and text you.” She nods toward the giant ceramic planter on the porch.

My stomach loudly growls right on cue.

Hazel smirks. “Breakfast is on me, apparently.”

I chuckle and head down the hall to brush my teeth while she makes herself at home in the kitchen.

When I return, she’s popped a K-cup into the machine and preheated the oven like she lives here.

“Is this the walk of shame?” she asks casually, like she’s asking about the weather.

“It’s not the walk of shame. I drove. And I’m not hungover. That’s a stride of mild regret at best.”

She laughs as I slide into the kitchen chair.

“What do I get to sample this morning?” I ask, eyeing the container.

“White chocolate raspberry, and spinach feta.”

“My god. Marry me.”

She snorts. “Flatter me like that again, and I might.” She grabs a mug from the cabinet and leans against the counter. “So… tell me about sexy climber guy.”

I freeze. “Shit, how do you know about Luke?”

Her grin goes feral. “Word travels fast.”

“Damn it, Cassie.”

“She even snapped a photo of you two dancing last night.”

I groan. “She took a photo?”

“Yup. That man is a snack. And girl, you looked like you wanted to eat him up.” She slides the coffee in front of me and winks.

I drop my face into my hands.

“Talk to me, Goose.” Hazel settles across from me like she has all the time in the world.

So, I tell her.

How I ran into him at the wedding.

How we danced.

How I walked away.

How I showed up at The Trading Post, not even really looking for him…

And how I didn’t leave.

Hazel raises an eyebrow. “And then you stayed the night?”

I sigh. “I stayed the night.”

She grins. “And this is a problem because…?”

With total honesty, raw and unfiltered, I admit the thing I’ve been trying to deny.

“Because he’s good. And kind. And sexy. And the second I start thinking too hard about that combination, I want to bolt.”

She snorts. “So... a literal walking green flag. Terrifying.”

Then, gentler, she taps the edge of my mug.

“Just because it’s good doesn’t mean it’s dangerous, Stell.”

I let her words hang in the air. She’s not wrong. I’m just not ready to admit she’s right.

Hazel doesn’t push. She just gives me a soft, knowing look and stands.

“Alright. I’m gonna leave you to overthink this in peace.” That earns a real laugh.

She moves toward the door, tossing a grin over her shoulder.

“The scones just need five minutes in the oven once it’s ready.”

I walk her out, still clutching my coffee like it might tell me what the hell to do next.

“Send me the photo,” I call after her as she opens her car door.

“Already did!” she shouts back.

Once she pulls away from the curb, I finally sink onto the couch and fish my phone from my purse.

Two new messages. One from Hazel—and one from an unknown number. But I know exactly who it is.

Unknown:

Glad you didn’t ghost me. What are your thoughts on another climb? You free this week?

I stare at the screen for a second longer than I should. Of course I’m free.

But that’s not the real question here. I stare at the screen, then finally type out a reply.

Me:

I didn’t realize “not ghosting” came with a workout offer. What exactly are you proposing, Farley?

Hesitating, I almost delete it. But I close my eyes and hit send.

Great. Now I sound like I’m trying to play it cool and failing. Which is exactly what’s happening.

Why did I say “workout”? Like I’m some breezy flirt who hasn’t been thinking about him all week? Is he talking about another hookup?

God, I need a hobby. Or a dog. Or a personality transplant.

My phone buzzes.

You. Me. A climbing wall. A challenge. Definitely not a date.

Another buzz.

But if you want to pretend it is, I won’t stop you.

I snort as my thumbs hover over the screen.

So just a casual public display of strength and mild humiliation? Sounds romantic.

Exactly. Tuesday? 8 p.m.? Wear something you can move in.

I consider it for half a second. And I don’t know what comes over me as I start to type.

Fine. But if I win, I pick the next not-date.

Deal. I like your odds.

I arrive at exactly 8:00 p.m. I'm not early, and I'm not late. Just punctual enough to prove I’m not nervous. Which, of course, I am.

The gym is quieter than the last time I was here.

I noted the hours of business on the door as I walked in.

The place closes in thirty minutes. A few climbers dot the walls, but it’s mostly staff wrapping up for the night.

The fluorescent buzz of the lights has dimmed to a softer glow, and the air smells like chalk, effort, and something faintly citrusy.

Luke is waiting near the front desk, leaning against the counter like a man who knows he’s about to win something.

“You’re on time,” he says, grinning.

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m not. Just impressed.” His eyes skim over my outfit: black leggings, tank top, half-zipped hoodie. “You came prepared.”

“You said wear something I can move in,” I reply, trying not to notice how good he looks in a fitted T-shirt and joggers—forearms on full display. Rude.

“I did.” He moves to behind the counter where the climbing shoes are organized in neat rows by size. “I pulled a route for us. It’s technically intermediate, but I have faith in you.”

“Oh, that’s your first mistake.”

He laughs. “We’ll see.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m standing at the base of a wall that looks… vertical.

Luke’s at my side, explaining handholds and technique, the basics I already know but let him say anyway. His voice is low, warm, and a little too close to the shell of my ear.

I glance up the route. “So this is your idea of a fun Tuesday night?”

He shrugs. “You learn a lot about people when you watch them climb.”

“Oh? And what will you learn about me?”

He smirks. “That depends. Are you gonna play it safe or try to beat me?”

I lift an eyebrow. “Is this a race?”

He steps back, gesturing toward the wall. “Let’s call it a challenge.”

I don’t answer. I just smirk, chalk my hands, and start to climb.

By the time I reach the top, I’m sweating, but I don’t hesitate. I slap the final hold like it’s a buzzer, grinning down at him.

“Your turn, Farley. Let’s see if you’re all talk.”

Luke’s grinning up at me. “Damn. Alright, Snapshot.”

"Don’t start with the nicknames,” I call down, but I’m already smiling.

He laughs, stepping up and clipping into the auto-belay system. “Watch and learn.”

I descend, unclipping at the bottom and catching my breath just as he pushes off the wall and makes it look… easy. Of course he does.

When he lands beside me, he barely looks winded.

“Show-off.”

He tosses me a water bottle. “I earned that one.”

The gym is quiet now. Empty. It’s just us.

“You’re better than you let on,” he says, still catching his breath.

“I’m full of surprises.”

He looks over at me. Not smirking. Not teasing. Just… looking.

“Yeah. You are.”

We make our way back to the front desk. He cleans the shoes and puts them back on the shelf. He pulls out two new water bottles and hands one to me.

“Not bad for a non-date,” I say, twisting the cap.

He walks a little closer. “Not bad at all.”

And suddenly, we’re standing too close again. His knuckles brush mine as he takes the bottle from my hand. His gaze dips to my lips, then back to my eyes, waiting for something I don’t say.

I should pull away. I don’t want to.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice lower now, “I still owe you a prize.”

“For what?”

“For winning.” His hand drifts to my hip, just a whisper of pressure.

My breath catches. “And what exactly does the prize involve?”

He grins, leaning in. “That depends. You still afraid of casual?”

“Terrified.”

“Good.”

He kisses me.

Slow and steady. Heat that builds instead of sparks all at once. My fingers find the hem of his shirt, and he doesn’t stop me when I tug. His lips move from my mouth to my jaw, then my neck, and everything about this moment screams bad idea.

But I’ve never been very good at listening to warnings.

“Gym’s closed,” he whispers against my throat.

“Mm. What a shame.”

“I mean…we don't have to end this non-date yet.”

I blink. “You’re not talking about trying to have sex on a rock wall, are you?”

He grins wickedly. “I'm all for adventure, but I don't tend to live dangerously. I find it interesting that's where your mind went, though."

My mouth opens to protest. Then closes. He's right. My mind went straight to the extreme.

"I was talking about my office. There's a couch in there that has a lot of non-date potential.”

“I hate how charming you are,” I mutter.

He grabs my hand. “You love it.”

I narrow my eyes, lips twitching. “How many other girls have explored that potential with you?”

He stops walking, turns to face me fully, hand still laced with mine. “I know saying you’re the only one is exactly the kind of thing that’ll make you bolt.

I raise a brow. “Then maybe don’t say it.”

He leans in, voice low and rough. “Too bad. It’s the truth.”

The air snaps tight between us. My breath stutters.

His thumb brushes over my knuckles, slow and distracting. “But if it helps, I’ve thought about you on that couch since the night you showed up at The Trading Post and wrecked my plans to keep things simple.”

I swallow hard. And then I let him lead me—past the gear bins, down the dim hallway, and into his office.

The door clicks shut behind us…

And we don’t waste a single second finding out just how much potential that couch really has.