Page 7

I jolt upright at the sound of my alarm, groaning when I check my phone to see that it’s only 5:30 a.m. As a chef, I’m used to getting up early, but it never gets easier. It doesn’t help that I spent the past two nights tossing and turning, worried that I’d fall asleep and wake up to find a fake snake under my pillow, a creepy doll on the nightstand, or the wood floor coated in honey. It’s hard to imagine Harrison, the guy who had a meltdown over plants and throw pillows, would risk his floors getting ruined for a prank. The other two, though? Definitely plausible.

I lean over to grab my phone off the nightstand, shocked to see I have a new text message this early.

Lila: Good morning!

Fallon: Why are you up so early?

Lila: Winston’s in a committed relationship with the squeaky toy hedgehog my mom gave him, and apparently 5:00 a.m. is when the mood strikes.

Fallon: OMG, stop. At least one of us is getting some action.

Lila: Yes, my dog’s love life is more exciting than mine. Perfect.

Lila is a hopeless romantic, longing for when she finds her Prince Charming. She’s shared how difficult being a wedding planner can be, coordinating other couples’ perfect day while she eagerly waits for her own happy ending. I may not share the same idealistic views as she does, but my greatest hope is for her to find someone who embraces her sense of adventure and encourages her to explore the world beyond Starlight Pines. She deserves nothing less.

Fallon: And mine, lol.

Lila: At least you have eye candy in a three-piece suit.

Fallon: Trust me, Harrison’s grumpy demeanor cancels out any hotness happening.

Lila: Ah, still trouble in paradise, I see.You should consider asking him why he left after your weekend together. It might bring you closure.

Fallon: I’m not going to beg him for an apology. If he wants to fix things, he’ll have to bring it up.

Lila: Remind me to never get on your bad side.

Fallon: Impossible.

Still groggy, I rub my eyes and shuffle toward the bathroom, the soft light spilling from the hallway as my only guide. Halfway there, I freeze, my stomach lurching when I notice the swarm of shadows spilling from beneath the closed bedroom door. My pulse quickens as I make out the unmistakable shape of dozens of spiders. My hands tremble, and my phone clatters to the floor.

“This can’t be happening,” I squeak, my voice barely audible over the thundering of my heart.

My legs carry me backward, until I bump into the bed. I don’t hesitate to leap onto the mattress, wrapping the comforter around me like a flimsy shield against the advancing army, growing more menacing by the second. It’s like I’m stuck in one of the horror movies I’m obsessed with and that keeps me awake long after the credits roll, second-guessing every shadow. Only now they’re real.

“Nope, nope, nope,” I chant, covering my face with my hands and squeezing my eyes shut.

I could really use some backup right now, but I stay frozen, gripping the comforter like a lifeline as I exhale slowly, reminding myself this probably isn’t the apocalypse, even if it feels like it.

When my breathing finally slows down, I risk peeking through my fingers. The spiders remain eerily still, and their glossy surfaces catch the light. A mix of relief and embarrassment crashes over me in equal measure. Sliding off the bed, I inch closer, kneeling down to pick one up. Plastic. Great.

Not caring to control my reaction, I throw the door open, stepping on several more spiders on my way out.

“Harrison,” I shout, storming down the hall.

He’s in the living room, reclined on the couch, reading the newspaper. Who the hell reads a physical newspaper anymore?

“Yes?” he asks calmly, adjusting the reading glasses perched on his nose.

Oh my god.

I’m briefly sidetracked from my mission at the sight of his five o’clock shadow and those infuriatingly sexy glasses.

“You wear glasses?” I cringe at how obvious the question sounds.

“They’re for reading. Do they bother you?” he asks, tilting his head.

Not in the way he thinks.

“No, just curious.” I shrug.

He leans back in his chair and directs his stern focus on me…mainly my attire.

“Is there a reason you’re wearing a hockey shirt? And only a hockey shirt?”

I blink at him, snapping me out of my trance. “Huh?” I glance down at the oversized T-shirt falling to mid-thigh. My cheeks flush with embarrassment. At least I’m wearing panties underneath, but it’s not like it makes a difference since he can’t see them.

When I moved to the States, I lived with Jeremy before he broke up with me. He got a bunch of gear from the Stormbreakers when he signed on, including a bunch of T-shirts, and I snagged this one. It has no sentimental value whatsoever, but it’s super comfortable, so I kept it.

After we broke up, I got a job as a server at an Italian restaurant. That’s where I met my old boss, Theo. He was the sous chef, and when I took an interest in cooking, he showed me the ropes. To save up for culinary school, I picked up several gigs with catering companies. That’s how I met Harrison, serving drinks at an event for the Huskies.

“I’d appreciate it if you don’t wear that shirt again,” Harrison says, his jaw tight.

“Why?”

“I have my reasons.”

I fold my arms across my chest and square my shoulders. “I’m not agreeing to anything until you explain why I woke up thinking my room was being infiltrated by an army of spiders.”

He leans back into the sofa, lacing his hands behind his head. His nonchalance mocking the seriousness of my question.

“Spiders, huh?” he replies, a small grin playing at the corner of his mouth. “Sounds terrifying.”

“This isn’t funny,” I hiss, clenching my fists. “I nearly had a panic attack when I saw the swarm at my door. They looked way too real.”

“You’ve never been a fan of spiders,” he states.

I squint at him. “What?”

“We watched Arachnophobia together, remember?”

How could I forget? During our weekend holed up in his hotel room, we spent Saturday bingeing horror movies. When I refused to go in the bathroom alone because of a mirror that looked like the one from The Ring Two, he suggested switching to a horror-comedy.

“If I remember right, we had to switch movies because you panicked when a woman appeared in the mirror. You nearly cracked my ribs squeezing me so tight,” Harrison says.

“I was just trying to cop a feel,” I counter, refusing to admit how scared I was.

“And when she yanked that guy’s reflection into the glass? You nearly knocked over the popcorn scrambling into my lap.”

“My attempt at rounding third base,” I retort.

“We did more than just attempt.” Harrison smirks.

The weight of unspoken tension hangs in the air, thick and undeniable. It’s suffocating, wrapping around us like an invisible thread, pulling tighter with every shared moment.

On the surface, I’m keeping my cool, but inside, I’m reeling. He remembers more about that night than I expected. If it meant nothing to him like I assumed, why does he recall every little detail? Which makes me wonder what else he remembers about our weekend together.

I press my nails into my palms, grounding myself. It’s important to remember that Harrison isn’t my friend, and whatever past memories he has of us don’t hold any weight after what he did.

“I better go change and get breakfast started,” I say, shifting into work mode. “Consider this your fair warning that you might want to stay alert. I won’t forget waking up thinking I was being attacked by an army of spiders,” I warn, biting back a grin.

“Bring it on,” Harrison replies, his mouth twitching with amusement.

Without another word, I rush out of the living room. The night we watched Arachnophobia, flashes through my mind like a worn-out film.

We’re halfway through the movie, and already I’m regretting my decision to watch this one.

“Isn’t this supposed to be a comedy?” I whisper.

Harrison chuckles. “It’s a horror-comedy… don’t worry, there should be a funny part coming up soon.”

I give him a faint smile, appreciating his attempt to lighten the mood.

My focus shifts back to the screen when a giant spider scuttles across it, sending a chill down my spine. I clutch the blanket draped across my lap, trying to fight the panic rising in my chest.

I feel Harrison’s hand gently slide over mine, lacing our fingers together, rubbing his thumb lightly over my knuckles.

“We don’t have to finish the movie if you don’t want to,” he says, his voice low and steady.

“I don’t think I’m a fan of spiders,” I admit.

When I glance over at him, the tenderness in his eyes eases the tightness in my chest. We barely know each other yet he can read me better than Jeremy ever could.

“I think you need a distraction,” he whispers, a sly grin tugging at his lips.

His hand cradles my cheek as he leans in, his mouth grazing mine, the movie fading to nothing in the background.

“I really like you, Elizabeth,” Harrison says.

“I like you too, Mr. Hotshot,” I murmur against his lips. “Now what are you going to do about it?”

He smiles mischievously, sending a flutter through my chest, and I squeal when he scoops me into his arms. I bury my face in his chest, laughing as he carries me to the bedroom. This weekend is quickly becoming one of the best I’ve ever had, and I don’t want it to end.

There’s no escaping the memories of our weekend together, etched in my mind—like the warmth of sunlight on a white duvet, and the feel of Harrison’s scruff against my inner thighs. Even ten years later, our intense chemistry remains—a spark refusing to fade no matter how much time has passed, which only adds to my growing contempt for him. He still hasn’t acknowledged what he did to me and has the audacity to act like he has the right to be upset with me. It makes me even more determined to turn the tables on him.

He wants to pull pranks? Fine, two can play this game.

The next morning, I’m in the kitchen whipping up a batch of orange rolls. I’ve spent a lot of time fine-tuning a gluten-free version, and I’m proud of the recipe I’ve created.

While I was waiting in the lobby for a grocery delivery, Walter told me that they’re his favorite dessert, but he hasn’t had them since his wife passed. He’s been so kind to me since I moved in, and I want to find more ways to show my appreciation since it’s not something I’ve experienced much in my life.

I had the unfortunate privilege of being raised by my grandmother, Josephine Pembroke. She wasn’t exactly the warm, nurturing type, and her version of love came in the form of silent disapproval and constantly trying to meet her impossible standards.

Born and raised by a wealthy family in England, her life was marked by strict traditions and the art of maintaining an impeccable reputation. When my father chose to attend university in the United States and fell in love with a waitress from New Jersey, she was mortified.

After her threats to cut him from his inheritance if he didn’t come back to London failed, she severed all ties. That is, until twelve years later, when she received a call informing her that he and his wife had been in a car accident on their way home from dinner and didn’t make it. She had no idea I existed before the officer informed her that my parents had left behind a daughter.

I had to move to London and spent my teenage years walking on pins and needles to avoid setting off my grandmother’s disapproving gaze. There was no shared laughter or comforting embraces. Just a cold silence that settled over me like a heavy weight, a constant reminder that she resented me for being the spitting image of my mother. That’s why, as soon as the opportunity presented itself, I moved to Florida with Jeremy. I’ve always considered the States my home since I grew up here with my parents.

The sweet scent of oranges fills the kitchen, and I close my eyes for a moment, imagining my mom beside me. I can almost hear her voice, reminding me to press the dough gently, her hands steady over mine, guiding me with the patience I miss so much.

My eyes flutter open when I hear Harrison’s voice coming from the dining room.

“Fallon, get in here,” he hollers.

I pause kneading the dough for the orange rolls, dust the gluten-free flour blend off my hands, and take my sweet time strolling into the room.

I stop next to the table where Harrison is scowling at his coffee. The plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and gluten-free toast with homemade strawberry chia seed jam I made remains untouched.

He went for his coffee first, just as I predicted.

Good.

“You shouted?” I deadpan.

“What did you do to my coffee?” His tone is exasperated.

I bite the inside of my cheek, stifling a laugh. “You said you liked it black with one sugar. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.” He eyes me warily, lifting the mug to his lips, and takes a sip. Immediately after, he spits it out, his face contorting in disgust.

His icy gaze locks on me with unrelenting intensity. “This isn’t drinkable,” he mutters, setting the cup down a little hard, causing it to slosh. “What did you put in it?”

“Maybe your taste buds are broken,” I say, feigning innocence.

He watches me closely, a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth making me uneasy. “Would you mind giving it a try? Just to be sure?” He nudges the mug toward me, a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth.

I shake my head. “I don’t share beverages. Germs and all.”

He arches a brow. “We’ve swapped more than our fair share of germs in the past. In fact, I recall sharing a bottle of champagne straight from the neck with you.”

Heat rises to my cheeks, knowing that’s far from the only thing we’ve shared.

Harrison pushes the drink closer when I don’t respond. “Come on, take a sip,” he commands.

He has me cornered, and he knows it. I stare down at the black liquid, debating my approach. One thing is for sure, there’s no chance I’m putting a drop of it in my mouth.

I tap my chin thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, I might have accidentally swapped salt for sugar. They’re in the same kind of container, and I got confused.”

“Confused my ass,” Harrison scoffs. “What about your coffee? Did you accidentally put salt in yours too, or was I the only victim of your mistake? ”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Please tell me you’re still not a fan of Diet Coke.”

I shrug. “It’s my guilty pleasure.”

“But having it this early in the morning?”

“At least my vice isn’t bitter, burnt liquid and doesn’t come with a side of crankiness,” I quip, nodding toward his coffee.

“Oh, my vice is bitter, alright.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Am I going to have to double-check everything I put in my mouth from now on?”

“Depends on what you’re planning to put in it,” I deadpan.

He heaves a sigh and picks up his phone from the table. “I’ll have Cabrina pick up coffee on the way to the office. Looks like I can’t trust my private chef with breakfast anymore.” The small curve of his lip betrays his amusement.

“Don’t be dramatic. A mistake with your drink order is one thing. My food will always be flawless,” I say with confidence.

One thing he’ll never have to worry about is me messing with his food. Cooking is my passion, and I’d never jeopardize my reputation as a skilled chef as a means to get back at Harrison. There are far more creative ways to mess with him without ruining my food.

“Great, so it’s just my drinks that are at risk, got it,” he says with a hint of teasing.

“Enjoy your meal, Mr. Stafford,” I say before going back into the kitchen.

I drag a hand across my face, forcing a smile from breaking free. I’m unable to resist the urge of getting a rise out of Harrison, and our banter is always more entertaining than I care to admit. The problem is, it’s a challenge to stay indifferent when he looks like he belongs on the cover of a business magazine, creating fantasies in my head that I know I shouldn’t entertain—even though a small part of me wishes they could.

Later that day, I’m riding the elevator to the lobby with a plate of freshly baked orange rolls in hand, heading down to visit Walter, when I get a text.

Harrison: I have to make a last-minute trip to Chicago.

Harrison: I’ll be back in the morning. Have breakfast ready by 7am.

Fallon: Please.

Harrison: What?

Fallon: I think you meant to say will you please have breakfast ready by 7am.

Fallon: It’s called good manners, but I guess you’re not familiar with those.

Harrison: Maybe if you didn’t push my buttons, I’d make an effort to ask nicely.

Fallon: Doubt it. You’re too stubborn.

Harrison: You’re one to talk.

Fallon: At least I’m not making excuses to avoid you.

Harrison: I’m not avoiding you. I have a business meeting, remember.

Fallon: And you couldn’t go to Chicago, finish your meeting and be back by tonight?

Harrison: You’re an expert on business trips now?

Fallon: Nope, just pointing out the obvious.

Harrison: Which is?

Fallon: You’re avoiding me.

Fallon: It’s okay. I get it. You can dish out a prank but can’t take it when you know you have one coming your way.

Harrison: See you tomorrow, Fallon.

A smile crosses my face before I can stop it. I’m stunned Harrison actually took my request seriously. Communicating with me directly might not be his first choice, but I appreciate the effort. I refuse to read into the way my heart skipped a beat when his number appeared on my screen. It was just a reflex, that’s all.

When the elevator chimes, I tuck my phone into my pocket and step into the lobby.

“Someone’s in a good mood today,” Walter says from his spot behind the reception desk. “Who’s got you smiling like that?”

“Believe it or not, Harrison,” I say, holding up my hand when he gives me a curious look. “It’s only because he’s out of town, and I’ll have the apartment to myself tonight.”

He chuckles softly, setting down the magazine he was reading. “Sure, that’s it.”

Okay, so I enjoy going toe-to-toe with Harrison more than I should. There’s a rush in our verbal sparring matches, and the push and pull of our exchanges is exhilarating. But do I like him? Let’s not get carried away. Just because his smirk sends a flurry of butterflies swirling in my stomach and the memories of the weekend he worshipped me like a goddess plague me at night doesn’t mean I’m about to forgive him or, heaven forbid, make the same mistake twice.

The latter sends a traitorous shudder through me. It’s exasperating how logic vanishes when it comes to Harrison, leaving me vulnerable to the possibility of him slipping through the defenses I’ve worked so hard to build.

I won’t let that happen, right?

I redirect my focus on Walter, who’s watching me with an inquisitive gaze.

“A courier just dropped off a package for you,” he says, leaning over to grab a box and scoot it closer to me.

“Thank you.”

I read the label to confirm that Theo sent it. He was in Japan recently and mentioned wanting to give me bluefin tuna as a housewarming gift. It’s a delicacy that tastes incredible, though it can have a potent smell.

“I made these for you,” I say with a smile, setting the orange rolls on Walter’s desk.

He cocks his head, his gaze shifting to the pan. His hand hovers above it like it’s a precious gift he’s afraid to touch. “You remembered,” he whispers.

I nod, passing him the napkins I brought. “You mentioned that today was your anniversary, and I wanted to give you something to remember the love you and your wife shared.”

My chest tightens as he reaches out with a shaky hand, taking an orange roll from the pan. With his eyes closed, he takes a deliberate bite, chewing slowly, a nostalgic smile crossing his lips.

“It’s like my Pearl is here with me,” he says, his voice filled with reverence.

“I’m sorry she’s not,” I respond softly, resting my hand on his arm.

His eyes glisten as he looks at me. “You’re a good soul, Miss Fallon. Don’t ever change.”

As we sit in a comfortable silence, I think about how Walter’s love for Pearl runs deep. I didn’t know them as a couple, but it’s obvious their love was the kind people spend their whole lives searching for.

Until now, my perspective on the subject has been a different story. My grandmother divorced my grandfather when my dad was a kid, and after that, no man was good enough for her. And she made sure everyone knew it.

Over the past ten years, I’ve casually dated, but never for more than a few months at a time. Serious relationships require vulnerability, and the men I’ve been with in the past have taught me they can’t be trusted—whether leading me on, ghosting me, or cheating. I’ve been through it all. So, the concept of finding someone who fits into my soul like a missing puzzle piece is a foreign concept.

But now that I’ve witnessed the aftermath of a lifetime of love, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to experience that myself. Great, now I sound like Lila, dreaming of a Prince Charming and my own happily ever after. Too bad I accepted a long time ago that love wasn’t in the cards for me.