Page 29 of Depths of Desire (The Saints of Westmont U #4)
TWENTY-TWO
LENNOX
The lake was perfect.
Crystal-blue water stretched out like a mirror, reflecting the pine-covered mountains that rose from its shores.
Sunlight danced across the surface in diamonds, and somewhere in the distance, a speedboat carved white foam trails through the afternoon calm.
It was the kind of postcard beauty that made you believe in magic, in fresh starts, in the possibility that geography could heal what hearts couldn’t.
I took another sip of my mojito and tried to feel something other than hollow.
The same cabin. I’d specifically requested cabin 7, the one with the stone fireplace and the view of the hiking trails.
The one where Oliver and I had been snowed in six months ago, where we’d first kissed, where everything between us had started.
It seemed poetic, in a masochistic kind of way.
Like returning to the scene of the crime to prove I’d moved on.
Except I hadn’t moved on.
The deck chair was comfortable, the drink was cold, and the weather was perfect for a romantic getaway.
Everything exactly as I’d planned it, minus the romance.
Minus the other person who was supposed to be here, stretched out on the chair beside me, complaining about the sun being too bright or asking me to put sunscreen on his shoulders.
Don’t think about his shoulders.
I drained the mojito faster than I should have and immediately regretted it.
The rum hit my empty stomach like a warm fist, and suddenly, the perfect afternoon felt fuzzy around the edges.
I wasn’t drunk, not even close, but I was definitely tipsy.
And with tipsy came that familiar reckless energy that made me want to do stupid things just to feel something other than this aching emptiness.
I checked my phone. 12:47 p.m. Early even by vacation standards to be drinking alone, but I was on vacation, dammit. I was allowed to have a cocktail by the lake. I was allowed to feel sorry for myself. I was allowed to make questionable decisions.
The outdoor bar was a ten-minute walk down the main path, all rustic wood and string lights that would look magical later when the sun set.
During the day, it had a different energy, younger, more casual.
College guys and twenty-somethings nursing beers and taking Instagram photos of their avocado toast.
Perfect hunting ground for a guy looking to forget someone.
I ordered another mojito, a double this time, and leaned against the bar, letting my gaze wander over the crowd.
The afternoon sun had brought out all the beautiful people.
Shirtless guys playing volleyball on the sand court.
A group of what looked like grad students sharing a pitcher of margaritas.
A lone guy at the far end of the bar with dark hair and swimmer’s shoulders, scrolling through his phone.
Stop it.
But I couldn’t help myself. My eyes kept drifting back to him, cataloging the differences. His hair was too short, too neat. His shoulders were broad but not quite broad enough. He was handsome in a generic, magazine-model way that would have caught my attention six months ago.
Now, he just looked like a pale imitation of something better.
A group of guys at a corner table kept glancing my way, and one of them, blond, bright smile, probably a business major, finally worked up the courage to approach.
“Hey,” he said, sliding up next to me at the bar. “I’m Tyler. My friends and I were wondering if you wanted to join us for a drink.”
He was cute. Really cute. The kind of effortless, golden-boy attractive that usually made my brain go offline. Six months ago, I would have said yes without hesitation. I would have flirted shamelessly, bought rounds for his friends, maybe ended up skinny-dipping in the lake after dark.
“That’s really sweet,” I heard myself saying. “But I’m good here.”
Tyler’s smile faltered. “You sure? We’re pretty fun company.”
I looked past him at his table of friends, all of them young and eager and uncomplicated.
They looked like they laughed easily, like they’d never had their hearts broken by someone who chose ambition over love.
They looked like they’d be perfectly happy with a vacation hookup that didn’t mean anything beyond a few hours of fun.
They looked nothing like Oliver.
“I’m sure,” I said and turned back to my drink.
Tyler lingered for another moment, clearly confused by the rejection, then shrugged and rejoined his friends. I caught them glancing over a few more times, probably trying to figure out what was wrong with me.
Good question.
The swimmer at the end of the bar had looked up from his phone and was watching me with obvious interest. When our eyes met, he smiled. It was a slow, confident smile that promised he knew exactly what to do with his hands. Under normal circumstances, that smile would have been irresistible.
But all I could think about was another smile, softer and more hesitant, the way Oliver had looked at me that first morning in this very place when he was trying to figure out if what had happened between us was real.
The swimmer raised his beer in a silent toast. I lifted my mojito in response but didn’t move closer. After a moment, he shrugged and went back to his phone.
Strike two.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I was in paradise, single, reasonably attractive, and surrounded by equally attractive people who seemed interested in getting to know me better in all the uncomplicated ways.
This should have been easy. This should have been fun.
This should have been exactly what I needed to prove to myself that I could move on, that one intense relationship hadn’t ruined me for everyone else.
But every potential connection felt like putting on clothes that didn’t fit. Nothing looked right. Nothing felt right. Every smile was too bright or not bright enough. Every laugh was too loud or too forced. Every pair of eyes was the wrong shade of brown.
I finished my second mojito and immediately wanted a third, which seemed like a sign that I should probably stop drinking and go back to my cabin. Maybe take a nap, or go for a hike, or call Rhett and pretend everything was fine.
Instead, I ordered that third drink.
The bartender, a guy about my age with impressive forearms and a knowing smirk, slid it across the bar with practiced ease. “Rough day in paradise?”
“Something like that.” I took a sip and winced. Either he’d made this one stronger, or my tolerance was lower than I thought.
“Vacation’s supposed to be relaxing, man. You look like you’re working pretty hard at not having fun.”
He wasn’t wrong. I was working hard at this, treating my attempt at moving on like another training drill, another goal to achieve through pure determination.
Just like Oliver would.
The thought hit me like a sucker punch, and I had to grip the edge of the bar to steady myself.
Even here, hundreds of miles away from campus and responsibility and the pool where he spent his life pursuing perfection, I couldn’t escape him.
He’d gotten under my skin so completely that I was starting to think like him, to see the world through his lens of discipline and single-minded focus.
Maybe that was the real problem. Maybe I’d fallen for someone so deeply that I’d lost track of who I was without him.
I drained the third mojito and set the glass down harder than necessary. The bartender glanced over, probably wondering if he should cut me off, but I was already walking away from the bar, away from Tyler and his uncomplicated friends, away from the swimmer with the confident smile.
Away from all the people who weren’t Oliver.
The path back to my cabin wound through a grove of pine trees, their shadows cool and welcoming after the bright heat of the afternoon. I walked slowly, letting the alcohol buzz settle into my bones, trying to figure out what the hell I was doing here.
Moving on , I reminded myself. That’s what this is supposed to be.
But moving on implied motion, progress, or some kind of forward momentum. What I was doing felt more like running in place. Or worse, running backward, trying to retrace steps that would lead me back to him.
I’d thought that geographic distance would help. That being in a different place, surrounded by different people, would somehow reset whatever Oliver had rewired in my brain. But it wasn’t working. If anything, being here made it worse.
Every corner of this resort held memories. The main lodge where we’d eaten breakfast, him grumpy and gorgeous in the morning light. The hiking trail we’d pointed out through the window when it was buried in snow. And the cabin. God, the cabin.
I could see it now, tucked between two massive pines, exactly the way it had looked that snowy December night.
I climbed the steps and let myself inside, the familiar scent of cedar and old wood hitting me like a physical blow.
I paced to the window, stared out at the lake where speedboats carved white wakes through the blue.
Families on vacation, couples on romantic getaways, groups of friends making memories they’d laugh about for years.
All of them moving forward with their lives while I stood here, paralyzed by the ghost of something that was never supposed to matter this much.
Maybe I should go swimming.
The thought swelled in me, desperate and slightly manic. Physical activity had always been my go-to solution for emotional chaos. Exhaust the body, quiet the mind. It worked for hockey, worked for stress, worked for everything except this.