Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Piper
The penthouse door closes behind me with a whisper. Silence wraps around me instantly, and I drop my bag.
I'm home.
The sound of me kicking off my new mountain boots echoes through twelve hundred square feet of architecturally designed perfection.
Marble floors gleaming under recessed lighting.
Abstract art that probably has meaning I'm supposed to understand.
Floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing Chicago's skyline like it's a prize I won but never wanted.
I move across the room to the open-plan kitchen, and, as always, a bottle of sparkling water waits in the fridge. It's chilled to exactly forty-two degrees because that's what the concierge knows I prefer.
I take a sip, leaning back against the counter, looking down the narrow hallway to see my plush robe hanging on its designated hook, right where I left it.
Everything here is in its place. Everything is perfect.
…everything is empty.
Don't think about him. Don't think about him. Don't think about him.
The command lasts approximately three seconds before I'm cataloguing every place Chase Morrison still lives on my body.
His flannel draped over my carry-on bag.
The new and unused hiking boots I've plonked by the door, looking completely useless in the endless cityscape twinkling in the night sky beneath my towering complex.
The compass bookmark tucked inside the wildflower guide I never thought I'd love when I left this penthouse four days ago.
Four days.
That's all it took for Stone River to crack something open inside me I didn't know was sealed shut.
I pull the flannel to my face and breathe in deep.
Pine trees, Chase's soap and pure, crisp mountain air. The scent punches through my composure and suddenly I'm back at Silver Falls, wrapped in this exact shirt while he poured coffee and looked at me like I was the sunrise instead of just another person watching it.
My phone buzzes.
Chase: Made it home safe?
Me: Define safe?
Chase: Not injured. Not lost. Not climbing any fire escapes.
Me: Then yes. Tragically safe.
Chase: Good. Miss you already.
Three words that shouldn't hit this hard.
I set the phone down before I can type something stupid like I miss you too or come to Chicago or I think I'm in love with you and it's been four days and I'm terrified but already desperate to come back.
Instead, I unzip my suitcase and start to unpack just to distract myself.
Feeling heavy with tired legs, I pull out my designer dresses, the ones I barely wrinkled. I empty my bag of toiletries and make-up that I barely used. And then, just as I'm nearly done, tucked into the side pocket of the suitcase, carefully folded in a neat square is…
The napkin.
The one we signed at Bear Paw Café with our ridiculous weekend-only agreement. There's a smear of purple berry sauce from the pancakes, and my handwriting declaring Weekends Only. No Strings. No Feelings.
I smooth the napkin on my kitchen counter and trace his signature. Then I see the little addition above my name, where he replaced the dots on my i's with love hearts.
My chest feels like it's about to collapse.
I turn back to the suitcase, but right there, tucked beneath where the napkin was, almost hidden… is an empty gummy bear wrapper.
"Oh God," I whisper to myself, smiling.
I press the corner to my lips and breathe in the sugar-sweet scent. This is a love note from a man who carries gummy bears around as first aid kits. And someone knows my shoe size without asking. And made restraint feel like the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for me.
"I'm not good at casual."
"I catch feelings like other people catch colds. Fast and completely."
"I've been terrified since approximately hour two of knowing you."
My throat tightens. I steady my breathing, anchoring myself before I do something monumentally stupid like book a return flight for tomorrow.
Because that's the thing about Chase Morrison that my parents would never understand.
He doesn't hide. He doesn't calculate. He just... feels.
And apparently, so do I now.
The way he looked at me at my door last night… wanting but not taking. Hoping but not demanding. He could've asked to stay. Could've pushed for more than a kiss. In my experience, that's what most men would have done.
Instead, Chase gave me space, and choice, and the quiet certainty that he'd be there when I was ready.
Looking back, it's made me feel more wanted, not less.
But back home, here in Chicago? My parents' world doesn't work that way. In their universe, love is negotiation. Attraction is strategy. Relationships are mergers with favorable terms.
Chase just... wanted me. The real me. The one who climbs fire escapes drunk and can't start a campfire and now, apparently, someone who gets weirdly emotional about an old gummy bear wrapper.
"I really need to get a grip," I say out loud.
I sink onto my pristine white sofa, the one I'm terrified to actually sit on most days, and let myself feel it. The terrifying realization that I left a piece of myself on a mountain in the middle of nowhere, and now, I don't know how to function without it.
Four days. I was there for four days.
My phone lights up again.
Chase: Wearing the flannel yet?
Me: Maybe.
Chase: Liar. You're definitely wearing it.
Me: Fine. Yes. But only because it smells like you. (winking emoji)
Chase: Keep it. Looks better on you anyway. (blowing kiss emoji)
I curl into the sofa, flannel wrapped tight, and stare at the skyline that suddenly feels like a beautiful cage.
All this glass and steel and money, and none of it makes me feel half as safe as a beat-up truck and a man who carries gummy bears in his pocket.
The wildflower guide now sits proudly on my counter, the gorgeous compass bookmark peeking out. I rise from the sofa to refill my water, then flip it open to a random page.
I shake my head as I find Chase's handwriting in the margin: Page 47 - these were blooming at the meadow. Remember?
Purple lupine. Delicate and wild.
Just like me in Stone River.
Then, out of nowhere, my penthouse door flies open with zero warning. I shriek and launch the wildflower guide across the room like a frisbee, nearly decapitating a very expensive orchid display.
My mother stands frozen in the doorway, Chanel purse dangling, eyebrows climbing toward her perfectly highlighted hair.
"Darling! You're home!" She breezes across the room, nose high as she air-kisses both my cheeks. "You look... rested."
Translation: You look different and I don't approve.
God. She's swept in like a well-funded hurricane, all power suit and fake smiles, a garment bag swinging from her perfectly manicured hand like the sword of death.
"Hi, Mom."
She hangs the garment bag on my coat rack with the care and attention usually reserved for religious artifacts. "I brought your dress for the Children's Hospital Gala. Valentino. Absolutely stunning. You'll make quite the impression."
"About that—"
"And did you get my message? I've arranged lunch at The Peninsula.
Noon. Maxwell Pemberton will be joining us.
" She glides to my kitchen, heels clicking on marble like a countdown timer for my demise.
"Delightful fellow, his family is in shipping.
Your father states he has an excellent portfolio, and should be a perfect match. "
I swallow a laugh that tastes like rebellion. I'm not a merger. I'm a woman.
But I try on the old 'perfect daughter' role anyway: posture straight, chin up, smile that fits like shoes in the wrong size. After the weekend I've just had, suddenly, it pinches something vital.
"Lunch, yes. I can do that. Escort… no."
Mom's blink is a gunshot in the quiet.
"I'm sorry?"
"I'll have lunch. Catch up with you. But I'm not interested in Maxwell Pemberton. Or his excellent… portfolio."
She sets her purse on my counter, right next to the wildflower guide. Her gaze lands on it like a hawk spotting prey.
"What's this?"
"A book."
“I can see that, dear.” She leafs through it, all business, and, thankfully, misses Chase’s handwriting in the borders. “Wildflowers? Since when do you care about… nature?”
"Since I visited Brooke."
"Ah yes. Your little mountain sabbatical." She sets the book down, dismissive. "How is Dr. Shields? I heard down the vine that's she's intent on playing pioneer woman?"
"She's happy, Mom."
"Happy." She tastes the word like it's spoiled. "Happiness is wonderful, darling. But it doesn't build legacies or secure futures. Speaking of which—"
Her eyes track to the hiking boots by the door. Then the flannel draped over my sofa. Then back to me.
I watch her catalogue every deviation from the Piper Whitman she curated.
"Oh, I understand. Well, I too had my fantasies when I was younger. But never mind, dear." Her smile is warm honey over steel. "This mountain phase will pass. We'll get you back on track now you're home."
Back on track.
Like I'm a train that derailed instead of a woman who finally found her own direction.
"I'm not off track, Mom."
"Of course not." She pulls out her phone, scrolling through what I know is a color-coded schedule of my life for the next month.
"Now, after lunch we have your fitting at Saks, then drinks with the Vanderbilts—Catherine's daughter just got engaged, excellent opportunity there for you to network—and Thursday we're having dinner with the Ashfords. Their son just made partner."
Every word is a brick in the wall she's building around me.
I think about Chase. The way he made restraint feel like care. The exact opposite of this performative 'more, more, more' world my parents push. He didn't try to schedule me, or optimize me, or turn me into better optics.
He just wanted me. Just me.
"Mom." I take a breath. "I appreciate the effort. But I need some space to figure out what I want. And you remember I have a job, right?"
"You want what's best for you, darling. That's what we all want."
"No. You want what looks best. There's a difference."
The water in my fridge may as well freeze solid, because the room goes ice-cold.
Mom closes her phone slowly. "Piper. You're twenty-nine years old. You have a nursing degree you fluff around with, a trust fund you can't access until marriage, and a life that could be extraordinary if you'd just make an effort."
"I am making an effort, just—"
"You are not making an effort, Piper."
"Yes. I am." My voice grows sterner, shocking Mom with some defiance. "Just not the one you and father planned out for me."
"Is this about a man?" Her eyes sharpen. "Please tell me you didn't fall for some mountain... person."
The way she says person like it's a communicable disease.
"In fact, I did meet someone. His name is Chase. And yes, I like him. A lot."
"I'm sure he's very... nice." She picks up her purse, shoulders squared for battle. "But nice doesn't pay for penthouses or fund hospital wings or secure your future. Maxwell Pemberton can offer you—"
"Nothing I want." The room falls in silence as I stand and hold my hand out to the door. "Now if you don't mind, I'm tired. You know… from all my rollicking around I did this weekend."
Mom smooths her suit jacket, composure sliding back into place like armor. "We'll discuss this at lunch. Wear the dress, it's beautiful. And Piper?" She pauses at the door. "Whatever this is, it's not real life. Real life is here. The sooner you remember that, the better."
The door slams shut, and I stand in my beautiful cage, feeling the bars tighten around my own life.
I stare at the garment bag for a full minute, choosing not to unzip it.
Instead, I walk to my bedroom, pull out my laptop, and book a flight. Friday. Four p.m. Returning Sunday night because I still have a job and responsibilities and a life I can't completely abandon.
But I can choose where I spend my weekends.
I can choose him.
After the confirmation comes through, I set my alarm for four-thirty a.m. Tomorrow I'll watch the sunrise from my balcony.
Wearing his flannel.
I'll treasure the morning in a new landscape, prove to myself that Stone River isn't just geography. It's a choice.
My phone remains on the counter, and I pick it up before I can overthink it.
The skyline glitters outside my window, and as I drape Chase's flannel over the railing so the sleeve hangs in frame, I snap a photo.
City lights and mountain comfort. Two worlds that shouldn't fit but somehow do… only when he's involved.
Me: [photo] Missing the mountains. And the mountain man.
Three dots appear immediately.
Chase: That flannel's getting more travel than I do.
Chase: Four more days.
Chase: I'm counting already.
My chest cracks open and something warm spills out.
Me: Me too.
I pour myself a glass of wine. Cheap Pinot Noir in a plastic 'glass' because I'm feeling rebellious, then curl up on my sofa with the wildflower guide.
Then I text Brooke.
Me: I booked a flight for Friday. Mom's already on my case. Please make sure I don't chicken out.
Brooke: If you chicken out, I will physically drag you to the airport myself. Jamie has a helicopter, and I'm not afraid to use it.
Me: That's kidnapping.
Brooke: That's friendship. See you Friday, babe.
I sip my wine and flip through wildflower pages, reading Chase's margin notes. His handwriting is everywhere. Identifying flowers, marking trails, adding little observations that make me smile.
Page 82: Knox says these are poisonous. Don't eat them. (Why would you eat them? I don't know. Knox is weird like that.)
I laugh out loud in my empty, lonely penthouse.
Then I find the red gummy bear I saved. The last one from the packet he gave me at breakfast on our first morning. I've been carrying it around like a talisman, too precious to eat.
I pop it in my mouth and let the sugar dissolve on my tongue.
Outside, Chicago glitters and hums and demands I pay attention to its magnificence. But I'm already thinking about Friday.
I fall asleep on my sofa, wrapped in his flannel, the wildflower guide open on my chest.
And for the first time in years, my beautiful cage feels less like a prison and more like a place I'm visiting.
Until I can go home.