Sweet Cherry Cove: The Complete Series

Alba

Ikeep telling myself that this is fine, that I won’t let myself get hurt, that hooking up with Dalton Meadows is no big deal—but let’s face it, I am neck-deep in denial. The truth hits me as soon as Dalton kisses my mouth for the first time today (and second time ever).

It’s nothing like last night’s farewell peck. This time, he’s not careful or polite. He kisses me hard and merciless, and as our tongues slide together, chests heaving, both breathing hard, the heat surges between us like a solar flare.

Holy shit.

I always knew we’d burn hotter than lava.

Something twists low in my belly, and my toes curl behind his back. Soft, desperate sounds fill the cave, and it takes way too long to realize they’re coming from me.

Every time he breaks away, even for a split second, I whimper for him to come back. Story of my life.

“Alba. Sugar.” Dalton kisses like he’s starving, and I’m as sweet as my nickname. Greedy hands roam over my chilled body, gripping my curves and squeezing them. Mapping his territory.

The rock star holds me like he owns me. Like I’ve always been his, and he’s finally come to collect. Like he’s never felt anything better than my jiggly bits.

“I can feel your calluses.” I nip his bottom lip, laughing and giddy. “From playing guitar. I can feel every single one.”

Fingertips trail up my ribs, those hard-earned rough patches tickling my skin. Dalton’s eyes are scorching hot. “You like that, huh?”

“Oh, yeah.” Understatement of the century. My body might burst, I like kissing and touching this man so much. My crush is here at last, and he’s so strong and funny and clever and into me. Finally, he’s into me. What took him so long?

We could’ve been doing this all along. Could’ve fumbled through all our firsts a long time ago, but Dalton left me behind.

The reminder sours my mood and I pull away, leaning back in his arms.

The rock is cool and smooth at my back. This plunge pool was electrifying, it was so cold when we first got in—but I’m getting used to it. Either that, or we’re heating up the water with our clinch. We’re calming down now, though, staring at each other like we’re complete strangers.

“What changed?” I demand, icy mist drifting from the waterfall and clinging to my cheeks. “It’s been eight years, Dalton, and you know I loved you long before that. So what changed?”

The rock star blinks at me. His throat works. “You loved me?”

“Past tense,” I say quickly, even though my chest twists at the lie.

Whatever. When I go home to my small, lonely, very average life, I need to take some dignity with me, for god’s sake. Dalton can’t know that I’ve been waiting, wondering, hoping all this time. He can’t know how badly these kisses will break me once they’re gone.

“But I’ve had eight years of nothing but letters, Dalton. Eight years of hearing your music on the radio, and wondering if any of those songs were about me. And then that wedding invitation, and that kiss last night, and—and this.” I shrug violently, water sloshing. “What the hell? What is happening here? I don’t understand.”

My head hurts.

And if Dalton Meadows just wanted a fling, he could have one with a snap of his fingers. Except he wouldn’t, would he? Because Dalton has been saving himself, and proposing, and holy shit I think some of this might actually be real—

“Breathe.” Dalton props me more firmly against the rock, then cups my cheek. “Breathe, Alba. You’re right, okay? You’re right. I’ve fucked this up. I fucked all of it up.”

That’s not what I was saying! Though I don’t disagree.

I purse my lips and exhale slowly.

“Why did you go?” God, I hate how tiny my voice is. How pathetic I sound. “If you wanted me back then, why did you ever go?”

Dalton sighs, shoulders slumping. Again, he looks like a stranger. Like the grown man I barely know, world-weary and tired, with the teenage boy I loved buried deep inside. “I wanted to earn you. That’s why.”

My legs are numb as I force myself to climb down the delicious man-tree I climbed. My ears are ringing, and this is all so much, so fast. I can’t make sense of it. Can’t make sense of him.

All I know is my heart is bleeding. I’ve hit my limit for today. I’m cooked.

“And you couldn’t have earned me from up close? You couldn’t have called once in a while?” My legs wobble as I walk to the side of the pool, and I wish I could storm around dramatically, but it’s hard in shoulder-high water. This is a slow-motion getaway.

Another long sigh gusts behind me. “It took longer than I thought it would, and I didn’t want to bother you until I was ready. I wanted you to live your life, Alba.” Strong hands grip my waist, and Dalton boosts me from the pool.

I hurry to my clothes in silence, showering water droplets onto the sand. I’m too choked up to speak. None of this makes any sense, and it all sucks.

It’s extra cruel, somehow, to get a taste of this life now. The romantic dates; the sleepy seaside town; the hungry, restless way Dalton watches me. The promises. The casual references to forever, as if that’s something we could truly have.

I’d be the biggest idiot in the world to fall for this. I don’t know how exactly, but this is a trap. The panic pressing against my chest tells me so.

Because I’ve been down this road with Dalton before—handed him my whole heart on a platter, then walked around for eight years with an empty chest, wondering why I was so hollow. Made myself into a ghost, willingly. I can’t do that again.

“I’m going back to the hotel,” I say, tugging my sundress over my head. My bikini is gonna leave damp patches, but I don’t care. Dignity is no longer my main goal: it’s pure survival.

“Okay,” Dalton says. He sounds robotic, and I don’t look over as he gets dressed.

“And then I’m booking the next flight home.” The words bounce around the cave, and when they come back to me, they sound warped. All wrong.

This pause lasts forever, but when Dalton finally walks up to my side, his face is smooth. He gestures to the mouth of the cave, to the golden sunshine and to reality waiting for us out there. “If that’s what you want.”

It’s not what I want.

But it’s what I need.

Right?

* * *

In the hours we’ve been gone, the town square has come to life. It’s sunny and bright, the morning air smells like salt and citrus, and the scene before us looks like a postcard.

Locals sit at outdoor cafe tables, sipping coffee and laughing. Some have plates of breakfast food, and dogs on leashes wind between people’s legs, hoping for dropped scraps. Seagulls peck at the cobblestones, bickering together in small flocks, and music floats from an open window.

My foul mood is jarring in comparison. I feel like the stain in this perfect picture—the fly in the delicious soup.

But I’m not the only one who’s out of place. A man in a puffer jacket leans against the statue plinth in the center of the square, bundled up despite the warm morning. The cobblestones around him are littered with cigarette stubs, and he’s smoking another.

He straightens when he sees us walk off the beach.

“Dalton,” I say slowly. It’s the first time I’ve spoken since the cave.

My best friend sighs. “I know. I see him.”

The man looks hungry as he stares at Dalton, but he glances at me too, assessing. He unzips his puffer jacket slowly as we get closer.

“We should walk apart.” Dalton sounds so tired—like he wants to sleep beneath the earth for millennia. “If he gets a photo of both of us, everyone in the world will know we’re linked.”

“Would that be so bad?”

That guy’s paparazzi? Sure enough, he draws an ugly black camera from inside his jacket, fumbling it up to his eye.

When I glance down at my sundress, the damp bikini patches have dried. Thank god.

“Move away, Alba.”

“No.” On impulse, I grab Dalton’s hand. The camera clicks over and over, the man grinning with sickly satisfaction, and I hate making his day, but this feels important somehow. I can’t let Dalton face this alone.

“This your girlfriend?” the man calls. A seagull hops near his foot, and he kicks out with a scuffed boot. The bird flaps away, unhurt but squawking.

God, I hate this guy. And all he’s done is stare at us, take some pictures, and ask Dalton a question—but I feel so freaking violated. My best friend has lived with this and worse for eight years. Alone.

“Now you’ve done it,” Dalton says, but he doesn’t sound mad. He’s bemused, tugging me faster toward the Daybreak Inn. “They’ll figure out who you are, Alba. They’ll hound you for this.”

Shivers coast down my arms, but I raise my chin. “Fine.”

“You say that now, but they can be real assholes. Is your apartment secure? Would you let me hire a bodyguard? Only until the press lose interest—”

I squeeze Dalton’s hand, and he clams up. We squeeze through the hotel door together. “I said it’s fine.”

The redheaded receptionist waves as we enter, a delicate glue brush in her hand, her ship-in-a-bottle spread over the counter. Dalton goes to warn her about the paparazzi outside, and I stare down at my suddenly free hand. My palm is tingly.

Did I just do that? Did I just publicly claim a rock star? Like it’s no big deal? Like it’s fine? Even though I’m about to fly out of his life forever?

Nice job, Alba.

“Come on.” When I glance up, Dalton is waiting, stone-faced. His square jaw is taut, his shoulders tense. “Lindsay won’t let him in, but that jackass will follow you if you step foot outside again today. Good thing you’re leaving, right?”

“…Right.”

Ouch. Should that sting so much? Lindsay shoots me a sympathetic smile as we pass her counter, but I don’t deserve her pity. I’m the one who waved a white flag here—I’m the one who freaked out in that plunge pool and declared I was leaving forever.

You know, for someone who loathed being left behind so much, I sure do it to Dalton a lot too.

First ghosting his letters. Then threatening to leave yesterday, and again today. No wonder we’re climbing the hotel stairs in thick silence, Dalton’s hands shoved in his pockets where I can’t reach for them again. He must be sick of me flip-flopping.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly as I unlock room thirteen.

“What?” Dalton frowns, leaning one shoulder against the wall. It’s so shockingly familiar: even as a teenager, Dalton wouldn’t stand upright if there was a good surface to lounge against. It’s instinct to him, and I used to tease the crap out of him for it, reaching up to ruffle his blond hair. “Why are you sorry? I’m the one who’s caused you nothing but trouble.”

“That’s not true.” The door creaks open, and I step inside. Dalton doesn’t follow.

My heart splits open down the middle. “Please,” I whisper, turning the key over and over in my hands, stranded in the middle of the woven rug.

Still frowning, Dalton follows me inside and shuts the door behind him.

“Do you want help packing?” He scans the room for my backpack and finds it slumped on the chaise lounge. It’ll take all of thirty seconds to stuff it full again.

“No.”

I don’t want to pack. You know why? Because I don’t want to leave.

I want to erase the last few hours and do this morning over again—and I want to be braver this time. No lashing out at the first pinch of fear.

I love Sweet Cherry Cove. And I love Dalton Meadows.

I’ve always loved Dalton Meadows. Always will.

We’ve both made mistakes—but we’re both here, too, sucked back into each other’s orbit like it’s fate. If I walk away from this chance, I’ll regret it to my grave. I’m sure of that.

“Alba?” Dalton prompts.

Oh yeah. I should say these things out loud. “Will you stay a while longer?” I blurt instead. Coward, coward, coward.

Dalton peers at me like he’s checking for stroke symptoms, but then he strolls to a squashy armchair in the corner of the room. “Sure.”

I don’t notice the guitar case near his feet until he flips it open. He was playing when I got here yesterday, right? The case is old leather, scratched and worn, the inside lining covered in ancient, peeling stickers.

“Oh my god.” Seeing that case, suddenly I’m sixteen again, sitting cross-legged on Dalton’s bed and flipping through a magazine, pretending to read while he writes a new song. Blushing whenever the lyrics are about love, and hoping against hope that I’m his muse. “You still have the same case?”

“And the same guitar.” Dalton settles into the armchair, cradling the instrument like a lover. His fingers trail over the strings, and I shiver. “Good memories, right?”

“Yeah.” My voice is scratchy. “The best.”

And as the soft pluck of strings fills the room, it’s like a dam has broken inside me. Guess I can speak when it’s not into tense silence. And everything rushes out in a garbled mess: how much I loved him back then, how hard it was when he left, how heartbroken I felt. How over time, each letter felt more and more like a jibe. An extra kick from the universe: see what you had? See what you lost?

“You didn’t lose me.” Dalton keeps playing, but he looks wrecked. His chest heaves under his t-shirt, and his throat bobs as he swallows. “I’ve always been yours, Alba. Always. Even when I was a boneheaded idiot and left.”

And he confesses too, in the safety of the music. About how badly he wanted me, even back when we were gawky teenagers. About how unworthy he felt, and how he’d only ever known conditional love, and how he set off to make his fortune and win the day. Guess it made sense at the time. Our brains weren’t even fully formed back then.

“I don’t care about money, Dalton.”

His mouth crooks in a sad smile. “I know.”

“Or fame.”

“I know.”

“Or your awards. Though I am really proud.”

Dalton’s gaze is so fond. “I know, sugar. But I was nothing back then. I had to do something or I figured I’d lose you.”

“You were not nothing!” He was everything, my whole freaking world, and he still is. Not because he’s famous or talented or rich or whatever, but because of the things that haven’t changed.

The stickers on his old case. The way he leans against every wall. How we split our dinners mix and match, and how he lost his mind over my bikini, and the scorching heat between us when we kissed in that plunge pool.

I’m surprised the water didn’t turn to steam. Surprised I had enough brain cells left to overthink.

I’m not overthinking now. Not letting fear drive the car. For once in my freaking life, I’m listening to my gut, and my gut says: Dalton, Dalton, Dalton.

I came here, didn’t I? I RSVP’d.

My sandals thump against the rug as I kick them off. The rock star plays on, watching me with so much love he could be glowing.

He sits up straighter as I approach, but his eyes don’t go wide until I drop to my knees in front of the armchair. “Alba,” he chokes out, but he lets me push his legs wider to make room.

“Keep playing,” I say softly.

Dalton curses, but his fingers dance over the strings. It’s a sweet song, lilting and mellow.

His belt buckle is stiff. These jeans are well made—the fabric is thick and fitted, the stitches neat and secure. My clothes budget could never.

The denim rasps beneath my fingernails as I scratch gently from hip to knee.

“Shit.” Dalton shifts in the armchair, and he’s already slumped back against the cushions, his cheeks pink. I always pictured him like this, you know. I figured he’d be a blusher, and that he’d go all boneless with pleasure. “Are you…?”

“If you want me to.” I tug his zipper down.

He snorts. “If I ever say no to that, go ahead and bury me in the flowerbed. That means I’m done. That means—holy shit, that feels good. Yeah, grip me tighter.”

I adjust my hold, reveling at the heft of him. The heat and hardness and girth.

“Amazing.” His shaft is hot and heavy, the skin sliding like silk beneath my palm as I lump him, and my cheeks ache, I’m smiling so hard. I’m so happy right now, I could float up to the ceiling. “You can play guitar, talk crap and get a blow job all at once. The ultimate multitasker.”

Dalton’s laugh is winded. He slumps an inch lower in the armchair, hips chasing my touch. “Now, I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure blow jobs mean mouths.”

I pinch his leg, then lean forward and lick the tip. It’s salty.

A guitar string twangs. “Alba,” he says.

My cheeks hollow as draw him inside and suckle. My jaw cracks, because Dalton is not a small man, and the heft of him on my tongue, the stuffed-full feeling, his clean, masculine scent—it’s bliss. He’s the best lollipop in the world.

“This is fun,” I rasp when I pull away with a pop. My hand works his length, already shiny with spit. “What took us so long?” I swirl my tongue around the head, teasing.

Dalton tuts, and he stops playing guitar just long enough to nudge my head back down. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, Alba.”

My giggles are muffled by his cock.

And as I kneel, head bobbing, before my lifelong crush, the man who knows me down to my soul… I knew it would be like this. Hot and playful and bossy and sweet. I knew he’d smell freaking amazing, like a pheromone cocktail designed just for me, because I used to sniff his pillow when he wasn’t looking. I knew his low grunts, his twitching hips, and his swollen shaft on my tongue would chase away every ounce of doubt.

This was worth waiting for. He’s worth waiting for.

I waited eight years for a love like this, and I’d wait eight more.

And maybe the rest of the world gets a piece of him too, maybe Dalton has hordes of screaming fans who love him beyond all reason, but no one else gets this.

“A virgin rock star,” I say, sitting back on my heels when I finally need to breathe. He gives a lazy smile, his eyes heavy lidded, and hisses as I squeeze his shaft, wrist twisting.

“We’re a rare breed,” he agrees.

“About to be an endangered species.”

The guitar thumps against the floor, wood echoing alongside his delighted laugh. Dalton takes my elbows. “Get up here.”