Sweet Cherry Cove: The Complete Series

Alba

Dalton is so different than the teenage boy who left me to seek his fortune. He was always tall, but he used to be stretched out and gangly. Now his shoulders are broad, and his jaw is strong. He looks strong all over, really. Strong and solemn in those designer jeans and plain white t-shirt.

His haircut is better. And there’s a hardness behind his eyes that was never there before—like the world has disappointed him already, over and over, and whatever is coming, he’s seen it all before.

But beneath the polish and the cynicism… he’s still my Dalton. He still gives me the juiciest half of the burger, and leaves me the best fries. He still dabs the corner of his mouth with a napkin exactly the way I remember.

I can’t believe we’re both here. Together for the first time in eight years.

I was so sure he’d forgotten all about me, letters or no. Figured that after a while he was writing to an imaginary pen pal, not a real life girl.

And that wedding invitation… I can’t make sense of it. Dalton doesn’t seem like he’s going through a nervous breakdown—he’s stone cold sober, and even though this diner serves beer, he ordered a chocolate milkshake. There’s no reality TV crew either. So what gives?

God, I’d exchange a kidney if it meant I could read all those unopened letters in my closet right now. Maybe the answer is in there, but I never read it.

The thought of Dalton’s letters stuffed in that box, shoved out of sight and out of mind, makes my stomach lurch. Too much fast food? Or guilt?

I’ve been bitter for so long, focusing on how Dalton let me down and left me behind. But maybe I let him down too. Maybe I owed him more than I gave.

I mean… I ghosted his mail. Just stopped opening it, without even telling him so. Let it pile up in my closet for years, with never so much as a ‘Return to sender’.

I just… couldn’t face it. I’m a mean little coward.

But also—Dalton left me. He never texted or called, and it’s not like my number changed. And it hurt so freaking badly, longing for him like that and seeing all those gossip blogs trying to figure out which starlet he was really dating. Each new rumor scorched my insides to ash. How could I tell him that? We were always best friends, that’s all. I had no claim.

“You’re strangling that napkin.” Dalton’s voice makes me jump, and I glance down at my hands. Yep, I’m twisting this paper napkin into a tiny rope. “What’s on your mind, Hernandez?”

The sunset outside is pink and orange. Suddenly, I need fresh air or I’ll scream.

Hopping down from my stool, I rummage in my backpack for my wallet.

“I’ve got it,” Dalton says, waving me off. “I’m fabulously rich, remember? You could’ve spent it all if you played your cards right today.”

He’s joking, but I’m not in the mood. I force out a laugh anyway, but it sounds strangled and fake. Then I’m barging my way out of the diner, the hum of conversation suddenly deafening, pressing on my ear drums, until I spill out into the fresh, salty air.

Beach. Ocean. I point myself that way, and stagger blindly on. Stone cobbles turn to sand beneath my feet, with the occasional crunch of dried seaweed. The air is cooler near the water.

I feel Dalton before I hear him join me. Just like old times. My heart gives a little lurch, beating extra hard for him, and when I glance over he’s there, keeping stride.

His handsome face is tight with concern. “Now who’s having a breakdown?” he says.

It’s not funny, and I shouldn’t laugh. But suddenly I’m gripping my own waist, wheezing with laughter, and he’s chuckling too. Our steps slow, and we turn parallel to the ocean and stroll.

This beach stretches on for what seems like miles of pale sand. I can see why Dalton likes it here. He always hated feeling hemmed in. Is that why he didn’t want me?

“You look good.” He’s frowning at the ocean, voice taut. The white, feathery blobs of seabirds float out there, chattering on the gentle swell. “As beautiful as I remember.”

Heat flares up my neck. “Dalton…”

He never used to say things like that. He was a teenage guy, after all. My old bestie used to say things like ‘Cool shirt’ and ‘Bet I can dangle off that basketball hoop’ and ‘When we’re older I’m gonna drive a motorbike and put you in the sidecar’.

Dalton was a goofball, but I loved him. And now he’s a world famous rock star, and I…

I miss that goofball. The man beside me is quiet and serious, his jaw tensed like he’s holding in a world of hurt.

Did I do that? Was… was the wedding thing for real?

No. It can’t have been.

Whatever this was—a misjudged prank, a cry for help—now that we’re here together, I’m glad for it. I didn’t realize how badly I missed him, how thirsty my soul was for Dalton Meadow’s presence, but the longer we walk together, the more I bloom on the inside, imaginary pink petals brushing against my ribs. My pulse is calmer than ever.

“Maybe we could start writing to each other again.” The words are out before I can think them through, but they feel right. I feel good about this. I’ve licked my wounds for long enough, and I’m tired, damn it. I want Dalton back in my life. The colors are grayer without him.

He scratches his jaw, smiling ruefully at the water. The waves are silvery in the last rays of the setting sun. “I never stopped, Alba.”

Woof. Here goes. “I know. But I, um. I stopped reading them. A few years ago.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Dalton doesn’t sound mad about it—he’s resigned. When I glance back, our footsteps trail through the sand, side by side, his feet so much bigger than mine. “No wonder you didn’t want the wedding invite.”

My pulse skitters. He’s still thinking about that? “I’ll start opening them again, though.”

A wider smile this time. “Very generous.”

“And I’ll write back, I promise.”

“Pinky swear?”

It’s another old joke, but we link pinkie fingers and bob hands in the air—and when our arms drop back to our sides, we don’t let go. That tiny patch of contact burns my skin. It’s like he’s touching me everywhere.

God, I still need a shower, and these clothes are gross from the plane. What underwear did I put on this morning? When did I last shave my legs?

No!Bad Alba!

“It hurt too much,” I blurt, and my face is hot enough to cook an egg, but I hold Dalton’s gaze when he frowns at me. He didn’t ask but I need to tell him. “That’s why I stopped reading your letters. It’s not that I didn’t care; I cared too much, okay? You were off being famous and touring the world and dating starlets—”

“What starlets?” Dalton says, nonplussed.

“—and I was the girl you left behind, who got average grades and put on weight and only moved as far as the nearest city—”

“Well, what’s wrong with that?” he demands.

“—and I could never be impressive like you, Dalton. Even if in another universe we did ever…” Nope, I can’t say it. Date. “Well, you know what the press would say. You know what your fans would think. No one would ever believe you picked a girl like me. Someone so ordinary.”

Dalton yanks me to a halt. Hey, when did we start holding hands for real? The foamy waves lick at the edges of our shoes, and a crab scuttles through the surf.

“That is such bullshit, Alba.” The rock star glares down at me, his expression thunderous, and jeez, I’ve never really seen Dalton mad. I’ve seen him pissy and tired and hangry and bored, but never plain angry. It sends shivers up my spine, but not because I’m afraid of him.

Because I’m kinda… excited. He really cares that much? Whew.

“Why do you care what they all think?” he says. “Newsflash: people suck. What are you gonna do—let the worst, judgiest people out there rule your whole life?”

The night air is so warm. Sweat trickles down my spine.

I guess he’d know. Dalton has made his share of headlines, with everything from suspected love affairs and break ups to drug use rumors and rehabs. How much of it is true? Does it even matter? Should it?

Dalton takes my shoulders and shakes me gently. “They’ve told every lie about me they could think of, Alba.” Huh. I guess I knew that deep down, because drugs aren’t Dalton’s style. He used to get buzzed eating strawberry laces in his basement, jangling from the sugar rush. “You think I’d mind them linking us?” he says. “I’d be honored. I’d cut the articles out and hang them on my wall.”

I snort, but I’m off balance. This is all so much to take in, and it’s like one of my late night heartbreak daydreams—the ones I use to lull myself to sleep. The telenovela that plays every night in my brain, where Dalton hunts me down and declares his undying love.

Except this is real, and I can’t make sense of it. The salt air mists my cheeks. “You’d hang them on your tour bus wall?”

“Nope.” Dalton grins. “I bought a house here, up on the cliffs. I’m staying in Sweet Cherry Cove, Alba.”

He is? Since when do rock stars settle down in small towns?

“Oh, wow.” I can barely afford rent for the apartment I share with three other girls, but then, as Dalton pointed out, he is fabulously rich. He could probably buy a fancy penthouse apartment or a mansion or whatever. And he’s settling down here instead, in this small town by the sea? “You’re so grown up.”

His cheek dimples. I resist the urge to poke it. “I know, right? I have reading glasses and everything. There’s a fully equipped first aid kit in my bathroom cabinet, and I have a favored brand of shaving cream, and I’m in bed by midnight every night. This is the real rock star lifestyle, Hernandez.”

“That is so sexy.”

The tips of his ears turn pink.

“Well, it’s ready and waiting for you,” Dalton says, turning away to stroll beside the water, and his tone is airy but his words thump me square in the chest. I stumble after him, face numb.

Does he mean that? What if the wedding invitation wasn’t a joke? What if I turned down the love of my life and called his proposal a sick prank? Gah!

We haven’t seen each other for eight years. We’ve been completely out of contact for three.

It would be insane to even consider this. Wouldn’t it?

* * *

“Home, sweet home.” Dalton pushes my hotel room door wide, and tosses the keys onto the bed. I trudge inside, sprinkling sand on the rug, but he stays behind in the doorway. I turn back, bemused.

He’s so handsome, leaning against the wooden door frame, hands in those jean pockets. His smile is wry.

“You don’t want to…?” I gesture at the bed, then realize what I’ve implied and burst into flames. I meant hang out, like we used to, lying side by side fully clothed in his teenage bedroom, talking about everything and nothing while we listened to whatever new playlist he’d made.

But if Dalton notices my humiliation, he doesn’t tease me for it. He shrugs one shoulder. “You’re beat, Hernandez. If you yawn one more time, your face will get stuck that way—and that would be a crying shame for humanity.”

More flirting? Oof.

Well, this whole evening has been one long blush. What’s one more? I press my lips together and fight a smile.

“Besides.” Dalton’s lopsided grin breaks my heart. I ache. “Maybe I’m hoping that you’ll stay for a few more days. Have you booked a flight back yet?”

Mute, I shake my head.

“Well, then.” Dalton raps the door frame, and he seems lighter than he has all evening. “We can hang out tomorrow. Right?”

“Right.”

Honestly, I’m not one hundred percent sure what I’m agreeing to—whether it’ll mean breakfast in the 50s diner and another walk on the beach, or exchanging vows in a chapel then moving my stuff into his new house. At this point, I might secretly be up for both.

“Then I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning.” Dalton hesitates for one breath, then crosses the suite with quick strides. He cups the sides of my face, pauses long enough for me to nod… then his kiss is over before I really feel it. A feather-light brush of lips, but one that sends a bolt of lightning through my core.

When he lets me go, I stagger back a step, dazed.

We’ve never done that. In my dreams, maybe, but not in person. Not for real. And that wasn’t a friend kiss, right? Friends don’t kiss each other’s mouths.

Is my breath okay? Do I still have pit stains?

Will Dalton ever do that again? Maybe harder next time?

My knees are sweating.

“Sleep tight, sugar.”

It’s his old nickname for me—one so old and well-worn, I don’t even remember where it came from. All I know is it sends my heart haywire, thumping and lurching. I’m barely contained by my body, shocked I don’t burst out of my skin. The last few hours have turned my world upside down and shaken it like a snow globe.

“Night, Dalton,” I manage.

He winks before he shuts the door. Out in the corridor, his footsteps creak and groan all the way back down the stairs.

He’s really leaving… but he’ll come back. The famous rock star and love of my life is coming back tomorrow. Holy shit.

When I sprawl face-first on the bedspread, the breath knocks out of me in a grunt. If only teenage Alba could see us now.