Page 21

THERE WERE NO more messages from Sam on my phone.

He’d given up on me, and who could blame him?

Why would he message?

I’d left Caldwell Crossing without so much as a proper goodbye.

No explanation. Just that stupid note.

Sorry.

Not that I’d messaged him, because whenever I reached for my phone, my fingers froze.

What would I say? I’m back in Boston.

I miss you. Sorry for vanishing.

I want to come home.

To you.

None of it felt like enough, and it was a list of things I couldn’t promise.

I sat on the edge of the bed, scrolling through my photos instead.

I couldn’t bring myself to delete them.

The tree at Sweetheart’s Haven, with its heart carving.

The overlook where Sam had pointed out the Lakeside Inn, his voice full of pride.

A shot of me holding one of the sap buckets, grinning like an idiot.

And then one of Sam.

He wasn’t looking at the camera, caught mid-laugh, his face lit up with that quiet joy that seemed to radiate from him effortlessly.

I sighed, tossing my phone onto the nightstand.

Messaging him would only pull him into this mess, and wasn’t that what I swore I wouldn’t do?

Hell, what I wasn’t allowed to do?

I leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling.

Maybe Sam didn’t want to hear from me anyway.

Maybe his silence was his answer.

If I messaged him now, I might ruin whatever good memories we’d made together.

And what if he asked me to come back?

What if I said sorry I hadn’t said goodbye—would he forgive me?

The phone rang loudly, shattering the quiet of my room.

I stared at it for a moment, taken by surprise.

Nobody had ever called the hotel’s internal phones, right?

With a sigh, I picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Marshall, there’s a delivery for you at reception,” the voice on the other end said.

“Right. Thank you,” I replied, rougher than I intended.

I stood there momentarily, staring at the phone as if it might explain itself.

A delivery? It had to be something else from Theo’s office—more paperwork, more forms to sign, more reminders of the mess I’d dragged myself into.

I took my room key and headed for the elevator.

The ride down felt endless, and the soft hum of the elevator only intensified the miserable feelings I was losing the battle against. I didn’t want to see more documents suggesting I knew more than I was saying.

The polished floors and warm lighting felt almost too bright as I entered the lobby, but I went to the reception desk and smiled politely.

“Hi, I’m Ben Marshall. I was informed there’s a delivery for me.”

The receptionist glanced up and nodded.

“Yes, Mr. Marshall. It’s behind you.”

I turned, expecting to see a courier with a stack of documents or a bland envelope waiting on the desk.

But instead, I saw them —Conor, leaning against the wall, scowling.

Haider, arms crossed and staring—Ryan with a half-friendly smile.

I’d take the friendly part and ignore the rest.

And then I saw him .

Sam.

Standing a little behind the others, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, looking nervous.

Perfect. Gorgeous. The kind of man who could ground me and make my heart race all at once.

The sort of man I never thought I’d have in my life.

He was here. Right in front of me.

And for a moment, all the noise in my head—the doubts, the fears, the endless cycle of what-ifs—just stopped.

My breath caught, and I had to grip the counter to steady myself.

“Hey,” Sam said and stepped forward, his voice cutting through the haze of my thoughts like a lifeline.

His eyes locked on mine, steady and warm, and for a moment, all I wanted was to grab him, hold him, and never let him go.

“What are you doing here?” The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them.

My face burned, my pulse raced, and I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

But then I saw that flicker of hurt crossing his face, twisting the hope I’d clung to into something broken.

“You left,” he said, his voice low, but the confusion hit me harder than I expected, like a punch to the gut.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry.

“I had to,” I managed.

“Why?”

The weight of the word hung between us, crushing me under its sheer force.

My reasons seemed feeble now—excuses more than explanations, and it wasn’t a conversation to be had here, not in front of everyone.

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Why did you then?”

“If people… I can’t… I don’t want to hurt you.”

Sam’s gaze dropped, and then he moved back toward his friends.

They were all watching me, their expressions ranging from confusion to outright hostility.

I should let Sam go.

I should let him walk away because I had no idea what tomorrow would bring.

Tomorrow, I’d either be sitting across from Brad, risking the chance of being set up by a man who had reasons to hate me, or I’d be back in court, testifying and trying to get myself out of this mess.

Panic surged through me.

He’d almost reached Conor, Ryan, and Haider, and I couldn’t let him go.

“Don’t go!” I called out, my voice cracking.

My legs moved before I could think, closing the distance between us.

“Sam, please—can we talk?” He paused but didn’t turn around.

His shoulders tensed, and I felt the ground slipping from under me.

“I love you,” I blurted, louder than I intended.

“Please don’t go.”

A collective gasp rippled through the lobby.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Haider clutch his chest dramatically as if he were swooning.

Conor muttered something sharp, and Ryan nudged him with an elbow.

And not once did Ryan stop glaring at me.

Sam didn’t turn. Instead, he spoke to his friends in hushed tones, too low for me to hear, and my heart twisted.

I’ve fucked this up.

I’ve fucked everything up.

I should’ve told him sooner.

I should’ve trusted him.

The four men did some complicated bro fist bump thing, then hugged.

While they were trying to support him , their pointed glances at me made it clear what they thought of me.

“Please. I’m sorry.” I don’t know if it was loud enough, but I meant it.

Sam was leaving, and I would face whatever I was facing, and then I’d…

What?

What was left right now?

Thirty-eight, miserable, regretting doing the right thing, wishing I’d never tasted love.

Sadness and loneliness…

followed by being swallowed by a city that had already chewed me up and spat me out.

Then they filed out of the hotel individually, but Sam didn’t go with them.

I braced myself for him to tell me what he thought, ask for explanations, or just tell me to fuck off.

He turned back to me, his expression unreadable, and my breath caught in my throat.

“Please don’t tell me to fuck off,” I whispered.

He frowned at me. “I want to talk,” he said, his voice steady.

Okay, I could do this.

“Do you want to get a coffee?”

“No, let’s stay here.”

“Here? You want to talk here ?” I pointed at the carpet under my feet.

“Your room,” Sam said, his grip on my arm steady as he pulled me up the ramp.

My heart raced as he called the elevator, his movements deliberate, and I struggled to read his expression, but it was impossible.

His jaw was tight, his eyes focused ahead, and all I could do was follow his lead.

We stepped inside when the elevator doors slid open, glanced at the panel, then turned to me.

“Floor?”

“Three,” I managed, my voice uneven.

He nodded, pressing the button before stepping closer.

He backed me to the rail, his hands cradling my face.

His thumbs brushed over my cheekbones as he tilted my head, forcing me to meet his gaze.

“I’ll never tell you to fuck off,” he murmured.

The weight of his words hit me harder than I expected, igniting a flicker of hope in my chest. I opened my mouth to respond, but the elevator stopped, the doors sliding open.

In an instant, Sam moved away, his touch vanishing so quickly it felt as if it hadn’t happened at all.

I followed him out, my mind spinning as I guided him to my room at the end of the corridor.

The walk down the hallway felt endless, the silence thick with unspoken words.

When we reached the door, I fumbled with the keycard, my hands trembling.

The lock beeped, and I pushed the door open, stepping aside for Sam to enter first.

He walked in and sat on the desk chair; his posture stiff.

“Okay, I’m listening,” he said, gesturing to the bed.

I hesitated for half a second before giving in and sinking onto the edge of the mattress.

The door clicked shut behind me, and the small room felt smaller.

The space between us was charged with tension.

“What made you run?” he asked.

“I didn’t run…”

“You left a note.” He pulled it out of his pocket, and I winced.

“That’s all you could say? Sorry? You didn’t even add your name. What the hell does that even mean?” Sam raised an eyebrow as he waited for me to talk.

“I’m sorry I left.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Well, that certainly has more syllables.”

“I want you to be happy,” I blurted.

“Happy was hiking to the lookout. With you. Happy was kissing, watching trash television, and showing you sugar on ice. That was happy. With. You. But you left—”

“I can’t bring my shit down on Caldwell Crossing,” I blurted.

“I can’t do that to you, to anyone.”

His brow furrowed.

“I don’t understand.”

I swallowed hard, the words caught in my throat.

“I’m not just burned out, Sam. I’m a freaking whistleblower.”

“What?”

“I single-handedly destroyed a billion-dollar investment firm. And now…” My chest tightened as panic began to claw its way up.

“They want me to go to the prison.”

His mouth dropped open, and he went pale.

“No! I won’t let them.” He was so fierce.

“I’ll… I don’t know… We’ll go somewhere, we’ll get lawyers, we’ll—”

“No, stop! Not me in prison.” I rubbed my eyes.

“They want me to meet with one of the people who…”

My breath hitched, and I pressed a hand to my chest to force the panic away.

Sam was on his feet instantly, crossing the room to sit beside me on the bed.

He took my hand, lacing his fingers with mine, his touch grounding me.

“How about you start from the beginning,” he said, his voice shaky.

I exhaled and relaxed enough to breathe, then let the words flow.

It was easier now, with him beside me instead of across from me, offering quiet reassurance.

“NDAs,” I said, but keeping secrets had left me exposed, and now it was going to cost me the only good thing I had in my life.

“I don’t know where to start.”

“How about why you left Boston?” Sam asked, his tone soft but insistent.

“My lawyer said I needed to leave.”

“Why?”

“To stay out of the way, to not get involved. Out of sight, out of mind.” I glanced down at our joined hands, the sight of his fingers wrapped around mine giving me the courage to speak.

“I didn’t lie to you. I was burned out,” I admitted.

“But it was more than that. I was… I am…” I drew in a deep breath, forcing myself to continue.

“I reported fraud at the firm I worked for. Massive fraud. It took everything down—the firm, the people running it. And now they’re trying to get me to testify in open court because the guy I worked with says I knew more than I let on. But I didn’t!”

“Of course you didn’t,” Sam murmured.

“You’re my Ben.” He said it matter-of-factly as though he trusted me completely after the two months we’d been in each other’s lives.

It meant something that he gave me blind faith when so many different people didn’t trust me at all.

“I thought leaving would make things easier,” I said.

“That I could escape it all. But if I can’t prove I knew nothing, it could follow me to you, Sam, Harriet, your friends and family, and the small town that finally let me breathe. The real truth is tangled up in litigation, and I haven’t told anyone everything. Not even Harriet. It’s always there—lawyers and reporters. And if I bring that back to Caldwell Crossing…” My voice cracked, and I shook my head.

“I can’t do that to you. To anyone. It would ruin everything.”

“Okay…” he prompted when I paused too long.

“I wasn’t lying about being an IT consultant at an investment firm in Boston. Nor the routine audits, coding, backend systems—that was my world.” I hesitated.

“It’s the rest. I noticed anomalies in the code he dismissed as me being too anal. Lines that created phantom cash investments to balance funds. If a fund was short by a hundred thousand dollars, the code made it look whole. Counter-instructions reversed the fake deposits later, creating the illusion of stability. It was so subtle that you’d never notice unless you were digging. Hundreds of thousands. Sometimes millions.” I rubbed my temples.

“At first, I thought it was a bug or an error, but the deeper I dug in my own time, the clearer it became that it was deliberate and worse, my work colleague Brad—my friend—was part of it.”

He squeezed my hand, and I leaned against him for support.

“At first, I thought Brad didn’t know what was happening, and I kept my research to myself, given he was so upset that I was digging into things that might get me into trouble. I thought he was looking out for me, but the more I unraveled, the clearer it was—Brad was involved, and it wasn’t just him. Executives were siphoning funds into private accounts. The whole system was rotten like one giant Ponzi scheme. I had to report it. So, I went to the SEC first. Then, the FBI. I couldn’t ignore what I’d found. But it wasn’t just about reporting—I needed protection because what if I was implicated just by being in the systems? I was scared.”

He released my hand and put his arm over my shoulders, tugging me close.

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s when I was connected to Theo Brookes, a whistleblower attorney. He warned me that if I went on with what I was doing, it would get ugly, but he’d guide me through it.”

“And it still got ugly,” Sam said, his tone heavy with understanding.

“The fallout was worse than I imagined,” I admitted.

“The firm imploded, jobs were lost, and the media spun everything into chaos. The people I exposed were looking for someone to blame, and Brad was arrested. It was like I blew up everyone’s lives with one decision.”

He pressed a kiss to my temple.

“You did the right thing,”

“Sometimes I wonder,” I murmured.

“It cost me everything. And even now, it’s not over.” My voice cracked.

“Brad’s lawyer said there was information that could clear my name once and for all, revealing who knew what and when. Brad’s using it as leverage and wants to meet me at the prison tomorrow before he gives my lawyer the passwords for the documentation we need. I agreed to go, but he might be playing me. If I don’t see him and he does that, fuck… if I’m arrested, the media will find out who I am, and I can’t let that follow me to Caldwell Crossing. To you.”

Sam squeezed my hand, his gaze fierce but steady.

“Sweetheart, you need to breathe.”

“I… am… breathing,” I managed to choke out, but my chest was so tight I was seeing spots, my pulse thundering in my ears.

The world felt was as if it were caving in, every thought spiraling out of control.

Sam pulled me close before I could panic further, his hands firm but gentle as he tilted my face up to meet his.

Then his lips were on mine—warm, insistent, grounding.

The kiss silenced the storm in my head.

His hand slid to the back of my neck, anchoring me, and I melted into him.

His lips moved against mine with a tenderness that made me forget everything else—lawyers, trials, Boston—until there was only Sam—his touch, strength, and quiet reassurance.

I clutched his shirt, holding on as if he were my lifeline.

The kiss deepened, heat building between us, and for one perfect moment, the weight of the world disappeared.

There was just Sam, steady and sure, his presence yanking me from the edge.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.

“See?” he whispered, his breath warm against my lips.

“You’re okay.”

I let out a shaky exhale, my chest lighter than it had been all day.

“You have no idea how much I needed that.”

Sam’s lips quirked in a small smile, his thumb brushing my cheek.

“I think I do.”

“Now explain to me why we’re visiting a prison.

“ I’m visiting a prison,” I corrected him.

He huffed a laugh and kissed my forehead.

“It’s cute that you think you’re going alone, and I love you.”

What?

How could he say that, what with everything in my head and—

“Say it,” he murmured.

“Tell me what you’re feeling right now.”

“Less scared and confused now that you’re here.” I nestled my face into the crook of his neck.

“I love you, Ben,” he repeated.

The words spilled out of me.

“I love you, too.”

“Well, that’s good then.”

“Yeah.”

Then he pushed me onto the bed, his arms wrapping around me as he cradled me close.

His breath was warm against my ear, and his voice was steady but tinged with something raw and vulnerable.

“I’m not letting you leave me again,” he murmured, his words firm but teasing enough to make me smile.

“And I don’t mean that in a serial killer stalker kind of way.”

I couldn’t help it—I laughed, the sound bubbling up, breaking the tension.

Sam chuckled too, his forehead resting against mine as our laughter merged into something softer, something that felt like relief.

There was a knock on the door, and I peered through the peephole—housekeeping?

I didn’t recognize the woman, and I opened up.

She handed me a bag.

“Your friends left this, and said they’d call when they got home.”

I placed Sam’s bag inside the door and turned to relay the message, but he was right there.

“They didn’t stay,” I said, and it was more of a question than a statement.

Sam shrugged. “They know I wouldn’t have left; they know me better than I know myself.”

And then, we were kissing again with a tenderness that made my heart ache Between kisses, we laughed again, the sound lighter now, freer.

I clung to him, my fingers digging into his back, desperate to hold onto the certainty he seemed to radiate.

He was solid and grounded—everything I hadn’t felt since I’d left him.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I believed everything might be okay.

I whispered it to make it feel real.

“I think we’re going to be okay.”

Sam pulled back enough to look into my eyes, his own filled with warmth and determination.

“We are,” he said, his voice steady.

“Because we’re doing this together.”