CHAPTER thirty-five #4
I spring up in a flash and scurry into the bathroom because I didn't want to look like a human tomato in front of the one person who definitely doesn't need the ego boost.
CHAPTER TWENTY-nine
CAROLINE
Iwake up to the god-awful blaring right by my ear — my alarm's ringtone, shrieking like a banshee with a megaphone. It's basically screaming "get your ass up, jog time!" at 5:30 a.m.
I groan, smacking around blindly for my phone like a drunk raccoon raiding garbage until I finally hit dismiss.
Blessed silence.
I sigh, long and dramatic. I'm still so damn sleepy. My eyelids feel like they've been super-glued shut, and prying them open is about as easy as trying to lift dumbbells with spaghetti arms.
This is what you get for staying up late, genius, I scold myself, flopping deeper into the pillow.
I try to remember what time I actually fell asleep... except I can't.
My brain backtracks, fuzzy and slow, until it lands on the one detail that snaps my eyes open faster than a double shot of espresso.
Zach.
I shift on the mattress, slow and reluctant, sneaking a peek toward Sam's side of the room. The last I remember, Zach was over there — sitting by her bed while we talked.
Well... he talked.
About his game. About me watching said game.
About how he'd personally chauffeur me to Naples afterward and back again if I agreed.
He was ridiculous. But... also stubborn. I still don't get why he's so determined to have me there.
I push myself upright, hair a full bird's nest disaster, scanning the room. No Zach. Figures. He must've slipped out once I knocked out.
I flop back down and face-plant into my pillow, groaning loud. Because that's when it hits me—I actually agreed to watch his game on Saturday.
Begrudgingly, sure... but still agreed.
Why the hell did I say yes?!
For the life of me, I can't remember. I run through the possibilities like I'm cross-examining myself in court.
...maybe because he caught me half-asleep and used my drowsiness against me? Sneaky bastard.
...or maybe because he just kept pushing and I was too tired to argue back?
---or maybe it was the way he looked at me when he said he missed seeing me cheer for him? With those damn eyes. Straight-up Puss in Boots mode. You know—the wide, tragic, cartoon-cat stare no sane human can resist.
And I folded like a cheap lawn chair.
...Or maybe you said yes because you actually miss watching him play hockey, idiot, my brain snipes. Simple as that. Quit being Miss In-Denial and own it, Caroline.
I groan louder into the pillow. Ugh. Traitor brain.
I mean, I could just pretend I don't remember saying yes. Play the amnesia card. Right? That's an option.
Except no. That's pathetic.
I said I would go, so that's that. Whatever. End of story.
Like I said—own it, Caroline, my brain's smug little voice chimes in, way too pleased with itself.
My gaze drifts back to Sam's bed — and she's still there, bundled under the duvet.
I scramble out of my own bed and hurry over, pressing a hand to her forehead before I can stop myself.
Cool. No fever. Relief leaks out of me in a whisper. "Oh thank God."
I straighten carefully, moving like a thief in my own room as I tiptoe toward the closet — not wanting to wake her up. I pull out my running gear, changing as quietly as possible, tugging on my sneakers.
The storm's passed, but I can still smell it through the cracked window—the damp, heavy scent of wet earth, like the whole world just had a long cry.
I grab my water bottle off the desk, reaching for the scrunchie I left there last night—only to pause.
There's something sitting on top of my laptop. A folded piece of paper.
My stomach does a weird little flip as I reach for it, already recognizing the handwriting before I even unfold it. Bold, a little messy, like he never learned the concept of writing inside the lines.
I smooth it open, eyes skimming across his scrawl:
Had to head out early for team's morning workout. Thanks for the talk last night. And... for drying my shirt. I owe you one.
And then, at the bottom, in all caps like he couldn't help himself:
P.S. I'M TAKING THIS UGLY JERSEY WITH ME. DON'T WORRY, I'LL BURN IT. NO MAN NAMED CLINTON IS EVER ALLOWED THIS CLOSE TO YOUR CLOSET AGAIN.
I snort so hard I nearly choke.
God, only Zach could turn petty jealousy into a postscript.
By the time I loop back toward the dorm, my lungs are on fire, sweat slicks down my back, and my legs feel like noodles. But in that good way—like I actually worked for it.
Endorphins, hello.
I slow to a jog, then a walk, tugging my scrunchie tighter as my Apple Watch buzzes.
It's Dad, calling.
I tap the green icon, air still heaving in and out of my chest. "Hey, Dad."
His voice fills my ear instantly through my AirPods. "Hey, sweetie. Good morning."
I smile despite the sweat dripping into my eyes. "Morning. What's up?"
"You tell me—did you just finish running?" There's a little lilt of pride in his tone, like he already knows the answer.
"Yep," I say between breaths, chuckling. "Just got back. How about you?"
"Oh, you know, getting ready for work. Be heading out soon." His voice is warm, casual, the same tone he's used my whole life when mornings were his busiest.
My dad's an architect—the architect, really.
CEO of Pennington Architecture and Design.
His company's name is plastered on half the skyline in Florida and creeping into Georgia, Alabama, the Carolinas.
High-rises, resorts, big corporate towers—if it's tall and shiny, there's a good chance Dad's firm had a hand in it.
"And mom? How is she doing?"
"Your mom's doing great, sweetie."
Relief settles in my chest. "Yeah? That's good to hear. How's she feeling this week?"
"Better. A lot better. Doctor said her checkup looked solid." He says. "Although she's getting impatient about wanting her cast off. Says she's tired of clunking around the house like a pirate with a peg leg."
I burst out laughing. "Oh my God, Dad."
He chuckles too. "What? That's what she said. I told her to use it as a weapon, wave it around when the neighbors drop by."
"Poor Mom." I shake my head, still smiling. "Tell her there's only a week left, just a few more days. She can handle that."
"Mm, you tell your mother that," he teases. "She doesn't listen to me anymore."
"Like she ever did," I shoot back, and we both laugh again.
He clears his throat after, tone easy. "So, how's school? Everything going okay over there?"
I glance up at the dorm building coming into view. "Busy, but good. Classes are piling up. Capstone rehearsals are basically running my life. But, you know, nothing new."
"You always did like keeping yourself buried under projects," he says, amused. "Guess you get that from me."
"Probably." I grin, even though he can't see it. "How's work for you?"
"Oh, hectic," he admits, though he sounds proud about it. "We're finishing designs for that new oceanfront resort in Miami. The client wants the grand lobby to look like a glass cathedral—don't even ask. Half my team thinks it's impossible, which means I'm going to prove it's not."
I laugh. "Sounds like you."
"Yeah, well, keeps me young. Anyway, I should let you go, sweetie," Dad says after a beat. "I've gotta head into the office. Just wanted to check in... and because I miss my little princess."
That makes me smile, my heart swelling.
"I miss you too," I whisper, smiling at the sidewalk like an idiot. "Both of you. I'll see you this weekend."
"Alright, sweetie. I love you."
"Love you too, Dad."
The call ends, and I'm still smiling as I slow down near the dorm.
Few minutes later, I step off the elevator and my eyes land on a very familiar figure waiting by my door.
Zach.
Casually leaning against the wall. Hands shoved in his pockets, ankles crossed, looking unfairly good for this early in the morning.
What is he doing here? Wasn't he supposed to be at team workouts?
I keep walking, suddenly all too aware that I'm dripping sweat like a human sprinkler.
Perfect. Just perfect.
My legs feel heavy, not from the run, but from the fact that he's here. I fuss with the loose strands that fell out of my ponytail, looping them behind my ears.
"Zach?" My voice comes out more breathless than I want.
His head whirls toward me, and then that grin spreads across his face—the kind that lights him up like the sun just clocked in for work.
"Hey, beautiful."
Beautiful. While I'm red-faced, sweaty, and smelling like gym socks. Sure.
"What are you doing here? Did you come to check on Sam?"
"Yes," he says smoothly. Then adds, "And no."
I arch a brow as I keep walking closer. "Okay...?"
"I wanted to ask you to eat—" His words trip, cut off halfway when I'm finally within reach.
The grin fades as his eyes drag over me, slow and unhurried, like he's memorizing every drop of sweat clinging to my skin.
His mouth parts, and he just... stares. The kind of stare that steals the air from my lungs.
My throat tightens as his gaze traces my cheek, my jaw, down the line of my neck. The tiny beads of sweat sliding over my collarbone feel suddenly scandalous under the weight of his stare.
I want to swipe them away, but I can't move—pinned by the electric tension buzzing between us.
Then one rogue drop betrays me, slipping lower, following the slope of my chest until it disappears beneath the neckline of my sports bra.
Zach swallows. Hard.
His Adam's apple bobs, and his gaze drag back up to mine—slow as molasses, heated and unguarded.
And just like that, the hallway feels too small, the morning too charged, and me? Way too sweaty for this kind of eye contact.
I should move. Say something. Anything. Instead, I just stand there like an idiot, every nerve in my body wired to the way his eyes are glued on me.
And then—God help me—his gaze drops to my mouth.
It's scorching. Like being touched without a single finger laid on me.