Page 83 of In Case You Didn't Know

Then he lowers his forehead to mine, our noses brushing. His hand finds mine on the bed, lacing our fingers together.

“I’ve never…” He trails off, his throat working. “That was?—”

He shakes his head, like the words aren’t coming. But I understand. I feel it too.

The shift. A quiet weight of something that might matter.

I squeeze his hand. “Yeah,” I whisper. “Me too.”

We stay like that for a moment longer, just breathing each other in. No teasing. No tension. Just him and me and this fragile bubble we’ve created.

He pulls the sheet over us, holding me tighter than before. “Whatever this is,” he murmurs, “it’s not going away.”

And neither am I.

twenty-three

FRANCIE

When I shuffle into the kitchen the next morning, I feel like I’ve aged forty years overnight. Everything aches. My thighs, my hips, and about a dozen muscles I didn’t even know existed. I blame Asher Fitzgerald and his magic wand of a cock. That thing should come with a warning label.

May cause spontaneous acrobatics and full body exhaustion.

The man himself, the cause of this pain, left an hour ago to meet Hudson at the hotel, freshly showered, shaved, and looking like a walking sex fantasy in his open-collared shirt and navy pants. At some point during the night, while I was in an orgasm-induced coma after our fourth time, he must have slipped out and gotten his travel bag ready for the morning.

He didn’t say when I’d see him again. But I’m pretty sure it’ll be soon. Or I hope so anyway. This island is tiny, after all.

I look over at the stove where he cooked pancakes that we never managed to eat last night. It’s pristine, just like the rest of the kitchen. He must have cleaned that up, too.

I bet if CSI walked in here right now, there’d be no evidence he was ever here. And it shouldn’t bother me. This was never meant to be anything, but the silence he left behind feels bigger than the room. Like an echo I can’t quiet.

He hasn’t texted or called since he left, either. Not that I expected him to. I know he’s busy, but the quiet hum of my phone on the counter feels louder than it should.

The doorbell rings, bringing me out of my thoughts. I take a steadying breath, forcing the ache in my chest down. It’s probably Skyler, but for one foolish second, I let myself wish it were him.

When I pull the door open, Skyler stands there in full small-town FBI mode, wearing a pretty flowing skirt and a crop top, beneath a beaten up denim jacket. She’s holding a coffee in one hand and what looks like an herbal tea in the other, plus a bag from Mylene’s coffee shop. “Chamomile,” she says, nodding at the tea. “Baby doesn’t like caffeine. Or anything fun, apparently.”

She follows me into the kitchen. “You look like shit,” she says, pulling no punches as we walk to the kitchen. “Let me see the damage.”

I touch my head. I’d forgotten I’d hurt myself until she mentioned it. “It’s nothing.”

But she insists, pulling my hair back, her eyes narrow as she inspects it closely. “Hmm,” she says. “Just as I thought.”

I blink. “What?” I ask. I can smell the pastries in the bag and my stomach growls at them.

“You smell of sex.Fitzgeraldsex.”

I roll my eyes. “If you’re talking about Asher, he was a perfect gentleman,” I tell her. I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about this with her. Or anybody. I also know that if Autumn finds out I’ve told somebody else first, it’ll cause problems.

Skyler raises an eyebrow and gives me a long, meaningful look. “Uh huh. So you’re walking like a baby deer on a frozen lake because he held your hand too firmly?”

“I pulled something when I fell,” I mutter, lifting the coffee to my lips while I think of a better excuse. But what excuse is there for the way I’m walking like a girl who rode a horse for hours?

Skyler pulls the pastries out of the bag and hands me one. There’s no judgment in her eyes. Of all the people on the island, she probably understands me the most. Like me, she didn’t grow up here. But she and Hudson fell in love and now Liberty’s her home.

We’re still both technically out-of-towners. And I guess we’ve also now both slept with a Fitzgerald brother.

My heart tightens at that thought. I already miss being in his arms. More than I want to admit. And I don’t want to admit it. Because that would mean this is something. That he might matter.