Sweet Cherry Cove: The Complete Series

Faith

The sound of Stephen’s car engine drifts through my open window, and I roll out of bed with a squawk. It slaps me in the face: Stephen is leaving. What the hell am I doing, hiding out instead of saying goodbye to my brother?

He’ll be gone for three months. His job is dangerous.

What is wrong with me?

“Shit.” Yanking my yellow cotton robe off the bedpost, I shove my arms through the sleeves as I run out of my bedroom and down the hall. “Shit, shit, shit.”

My bare feet clatter down the stairs, then slap against cold tiles. I spill out into the street, gasping for air.

The rusted red lump of Stephen’s car disappears around a corner. That’s it: my parting look at my brother. One blink and he’s gone.

“No,” I breathe. And I wait, pulse racing, but he doesn’t come back. Didn’t forget anything, even though he always, always forgets something dumb.

Fresh misery swamps me, cold and clammy, and I sway back against our front door. I’m lightheaded.

How many bad decisions can I make in twenty four hours? Now my brother is gone, and I won’t see him for three months. That’s the memory I left him with: a tantrum.

“Faith.”

The low voice makes me jump, my shoulders banging against the door. Andre Silva stands on the sidewalk in front of his house, watching me. Always watching me with those steady brown eyes. His gaze leaves a warm, tingly trail wherever it touches my body.

Those jeans and that red t-shirt are yesterday’s clothes. Dark shadows cling beneath his eyes, and hey, my normally unruffled neighbor looks as kicked around by life as I feel.

Did he stay up to wave Stephen off? Gratitude floods me, washing away some of the bitterness from last night. At least my brother had someone.

“Um. Hi.”

Too late, I remember my skimpy white nightdress and yank the sides of my robe closed. Andre’s chest rises and falls as I knot the yellow tie.

Snippets of last night slam into my fuzzy morning brain: Stephen reading my letter aloud; Andre’s calm expression in the glow of my phone; the ringing laughter and the mutters in the crowd of ‘Dear Hattie’.

Sitting on these stone steps with my bruised heart cradled in my palms, hoping this man would take it from me. Hoping that someway, somehow, there could be a happy ending to my nightmare.

Then Andre’s non-answer. The cold slap of reality.

Yeah. Last night sucked.

And I want to be cool about this, want to brush it all off as though it’s no big deal, but as I stand out here in the fresh morning air… I can’t. It hurts too much.

“Faith,” Andre says as I turn to go inside. “Wait a second. Please.”

I’d ignore him if he didn’t sound as wrecked as I feel—but the chef’s voice is pure gravel. His steps are quiet against the sidewalk, and then he’s climbing the steps behind me.

Andre’s always been light on his feet. For such a tall, muscled man, you’d expect loud footsteps and bumped elbows, but he’s like a panther. Limber and lithe.

“Come here.” Strong hands turn me by the shoulders, and then I’m melting into my neighbor’s chest. “That’s it,” he says, rubbing my back as I sniffle into his t-shirt. “Good girl.”

The whole time I’ve known him, Andre has always given the best hugs. Each individual cuddle we’ve shared stands out so brightly in my mind, the memories crystal clear. We’ve always slotted so perfectly against each other—like we were made to measure.

The good girl thing is new. I bite my lip, cheeks flushing warm, and hide my reaction against the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m getting snot on your clothes.”

Andre chuckles, still rubbing circles on my back. “I don’t care.”

He really doesn’t. If anything, he seems relieved that we’re talking at all. And I don’t want to ruin this, don’t want to trample all over Andre’s peace offering right after letting my brother down, so I wrap my arms around his waist and hold on tighter.

“I’m such an idiot.”

“You are not,” Andre says. But I have proof, your honor!

“Are you kidding me? Writing that letter to Dear Hattie, then waiting out here for you last night? Lying in bed in a huff instead of saying goodbye to my brother? I’ve been a non-stop ass.”

The regret tastes sour. I swallow hard, grimacing against Andre’s collarbone, and he gusts out a long sigh then rests his chin on my head.

He smells so good, even in yesterday’s clothes. Like soap and spice and something woodsy. Every time he moves his head, his stubble crackles against my hair.

I want to stay here forever. He’s so warm, so solid, so safe.

“Stephen understands.” Andre pinches a lock of my hair and runs the whole length of it between finger and thumb, ironing out the waves then watching them spring back. I watch his experiment out of the corner of my eye, heart rattling against my ribs. “He was worried about you. Not mad.”

See, it’s stuff like this cuddle that made me think I had a shot. But I don’t, do I?

Sniffing hard, I step out of his embrace. No more chasing daydreams for me.

Andre looks wan as he smiles down at me, the morning breeze ruffling his dark hair. There are faint lines around his eyes—lines I never noticed before. If anything, they make him more handsome.

“You’ll be okay, Faith. Now, will you meet me for a run?”

Yes. No.

I gnaw on my bottom lip, staring over his shoulder out to sea. It’s rougher out there than yesterday, and I always love running when it’s windy. It’s so energizing. Like a bolt of electricity to my system.

Andre looks so tired as he waits patiently for my answer. He should really take a nap before work, not go running with me, but hey. I’m not about to lecture anybody else on their bad decisions.

“Okay. But—yesterday never happened.”

His mouth twists into a sad smile. “Deal.”

* * *

Andre runs most mornings, his dark hair tied back as he bounds along the coast path. Whenever Stephen’s home, he hollers after our neighbor, yelling: “Run, man bun, run!” and cackling as Andre flips him off.

I run most days too, but I’m a plodder. Slow and steady. Andre pounds out ten miles before breakfast, easily, but I need three months to train for a simple 10k. Every step is an effort for me.

It’s fine. I don’t mind that I’m not about to win any medals—that’s not the point of my runs. I go out for the wind in my hair, the salt stinging my cheeks, the sweaty warmth of my muscles and the buzz in my bones and the spring in my step that lasts the whole day afterward.

I need that spring today. Need it desperately.

“Don’t go expecting Usain Bolt,” I warn as I hop down our front steps. Andre grins from the sidewalk, finally changed into dark shorts and a white t-shirt.

“Oh, is he coming?”

“Nope. You’re about to learn the meaning of slow.”

We set out side by side, Andre breathing normally, me huffing and puffing right away. It must feel like walking to him, but he doesn’t complain once. He seems happy enough trudging along at my pace, squinting out at the ocean waves. His t-shirt flaps against his chest, outlining his muscles.

The sidewalk runs down our street to the town square, then along the promenade, before it turns to rocky coast path and winds up into the cliffs. I go even slower on the climb, teeth gritted against a stitch in my side, but for the first time in hours, my mind is blissfully blank.

Until Andre says, “You asked me what I thought of your letter.”

Oh my god.

My sneakers slam harder into the packed dirt, like I’m stomping on my beautiful neighbor’s stupid feet. Without meaning to, I put on a burst of speed. “What happened to our deal? If you brought me out here to reject me again, I swear to god, Andre—”

“On this cliff path? With those rocks below?” He nudges my side, teasing, but it’s not funny. I glare out at the blue sky, willing away tears.

Does he really need to hammer it home? I get it, okay?

It was stupid. The whole thing was stupid. He’s a smart and talented chef and a walking slice of human perfection and I’m… fine. I get by. You know: I try to be a nice person, and I’m not horrible to look at, and I draw well enough to get paid for it but ultimately I am average in all ways. It was always a reach.

“I’m in a sports bra, you ass. I’m emotionally vulnerable. This isn’t fair.”

“I’m not rejecting you, Faith.”

Thatshuts me up. I chew over his words as we climb higher and higher above the town, the long grass beside the path swishing in the wind. I don’t speak again. Don’t trust myself.

Out in the distance, a mile or so further along the cliffs, the traveling circus have set up their big top tent. It’s stripey and bright, surrounded by smaller tents and trailers, and at the sight of it, something pinches in my chest.

Longing.

Longing to be somewhere far, far away.

I could go. It shouldn’t always be Stephen leaving me behind. I could run away from this mess and start over somewhere fresh, somewhere I’ve never humiliated myself or fallen in unrequited love with my neighbor.

Sounds pretty nice.

“We could go if you like,” Andre says, following my gaze to the far-off tent.

I stumble, one sneaker scuffing the rocky ground. “What? Forever?”

Andre’s head jerks around to stare at me. The rest of his body keeps jogging with perfect form, because of course it does. “For one night, to see the show. What are you talking about? Where would you go forever?”

I shake my head, acting like I’m too winded to reply. Hey, I don’t have to pretend very hard. This coast path is steep as hell, and I am no athlete.

“Faith,” Andre says. He’s not buying it.

I shrug.

“Faith. What did you mean by that?”

If I had more oxygen, I’d blow out a big, exasperated sigh. As it is, I only manage a tiny puff, then fling an arm at the bright cluster of tents in the distance.

“They take people on.” My words are choppy, forced out between breaths. “You can join up with them for a while and travel around—Stephen was talking about it, trying to figure out an angle for a film. Apparently you don’t even need to juggle or whatever, so long as you work hard and help out somehow.”

I wet my lips, each pounding step rattling my shin bones, and stare at the big stripey tent.

I’d work hard. No problem.

“Forever,” Andre says, and his voice is hard. He’s pissed off, though god knows why. “You’re going to run away with the circus forever.”

“Not forever forever.” If he can tease, so can I. I nudge his toned side as we jog along the cliff path, the waves crashing against rocks below. The ground has leveled out, and we’re high up on the grassy cliffs. “Come on, I’d make a great clown. Picture the wig and you’ll see it too.”

No laugh. Not even a twitch.

“You can’t just run away.” Andre scowls straight ahead, his strides getting longer. I push my aching body to keep up. “It was one bad night, Faith. One single bad night.”

Um?

Bull. Shit.

“Try four years, Andre.” Suddenly, it’s not hard to keep up, because I’m powered along by a rush of rage and despair. This will be the fastest time I’ve run in ages. “Four years, not one bad night. Don’t you get that it hurts, loving someone who doesn’t want you back? Don’t you see how pathetic I feel?”

And my eyes are blurry, and there’s a lump in my throat, so I do what I always do. I keep running, and wish with all my soul that somehow I could leave this all behind.

“You’re wrong.”

“Excuse me?”

It would be bad if I pushed him off the cliff. Very bad.

“That’s not our situation. You don’t love someone who doesn’t want you back.”

Finally, my steps slow to a walk.

As soon as I stop running, my muscles seize up and ache like a bitch, but I barely notice. I’m too busy grabbing my neighbor’s t-shirt and yanking him to a stop. “Explain.”

My knuckles brush against the toned swell of his chest through his shirt. Andre’s not breathing hard, but the wind has tugged strands of his dark hair loose.

He raises his arms, then lets them smack against his sides. “You’re so young, Faith.”

Ugh. As if I can help that fact. “I’m twenty three. An adult, thank you. And for the record, last night aged me by about a decade.”

“Still,” Andre says, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You’re still so young. Too young for me.”

But there’s something about his clenched jaw, his tense shoulders, and that hot gaze boring into me, willing me to understand…

Oh. Oh.

“You want me,” I say stupidly. In my defense, I am bright red and sweaty from running, and I’m wearing bike shorts and a frayed blue tank top. This makes zero sense.

“Of course I want you.” He sounds pissy again. Like it’s so obvious. “But like I said, I’m too old for you. If you still feel this way in a few years—”

“A few years?”

“Then we can talk about it,” Andre says. Mister Reasonable over here.

“A few years!”

“Yes,” he says, eyebrows lowered. So stubborn.

And maybe I should be mad, or sad, or howling at the skies, but all I can think is: there’s hope. There’s really hope, and I’m not insane to feel this way. I’m not alone in this crush.

Suddenly, I’m not aching anymore. My body feels light, buoyant, like a gust of wind could lift me up to play in the clouds.

Biting my lip, I step closer to my neighbor.

My gorgeous older neighbor, who wants me. Damn.

“Faith,” Andre warns, but he doesn’t step back. His gaze has sharpened, and there’s a hungry cast to his face. His hands flex by his sides. How did I not notice this before? The careful way he moves around me; the way his eyes track wherever I go. The possessive way he always warns off other men with a scowl…

Oh, this is gonna be fun.

“What if I don’t want to wait?” I ask sweetly.

A muscle leaps in Andre’s jaw. His nostrils flare as he breathes in, and there’s a long pause before he answers. “Try.”

Another step closer, until there’s barely an inch between our chests. He makes a rumbly warning noise, and god, I love it so much. Wish I could set it as my ring tone. “What if I try my very, very hardest and it’s not enough? What if I still can’t wait?”

Heat flares behind Andre’s eyes, and before I realize he’s moved, two hands grip my waist. They grip me hard. And this man may act all cool and collected, he may seem like the picture of restraint, but I’ve finally realized: Andre Silva is burning up for me. He’s got it as bad as I do.

Maybe even worse.

“Behave,” he scolds me, kneading my waist, my ribs, my hips. It’s like his hands have a mind of their own—like they didn’t get the memo about staying aloof. And all they’re feeling is my sweaty, gross workout clothes, but Andre’s finally breathing harder for the first time on this run.

It’s a powerful feeling, having this effect on my neighbor. I’ve felt so helpless for so long, and now here I am on these windswept cliffs, and suddenly I know down to my soul: I could bring Andre Silva to his knees. He’s mine.

“Maybe I will.” I smile, so giddy with this rush of newfound confidence. “Maybe I will behave. Is that what you really want, Andre? To spend years living next door, sleeping in a different bed, knowing that every night I touch myself and think of you? Knowing that and never doing anything about it? Is that what you want?”

He blinks, stunned. I pat his bristly cheek. “Food for thought.”

When I turn and start running, there’s a long pause before his feet thud against the rocky path behind me.

I beam for the whole run home.