22. Elodie
TWENTY-TWO
ELODIE
With a groan, I awoke to the sound of a woodpecker hammering outside my window. Only it wasn’t outside; it was much, much closer—the hammering was coming from inside my skull.
I cracked one eye open, only to immediately regret it. The bedroom was too bright, the air too still. My tongue felt like sandpaper, my stomach a fragile, treacherous thing, as if one wrong move would send me over the edge.
I groaned, pressing my palms against my face. “I am never drinking again.”
The silence in the cottage expanded.
“Okay, maybe that’s a lie, but I am never drinking that much again.”
A wave of nausea rippled over me as I squeezed my eyes tight. My mouth was still dry and sticky and tasted faintly of tequila and a reckless night. Stark morning sunlight filtered through the gauzy white curtains in my bedroom.
Normally, waking to the warm sun on my face had me stretching my toes, yearning to bake in the warm light, but today that was not the case .
I was cold, but sticky. My dry lips smacked together.
Why did I think that bingo and three too many shots of tequila were a good idea?
I assumed drowning my sorrows over the burned-out shell of the barn was a good idea, but I had failed to remember how brutal a tequila hangover could be.
I planted my face into the pillow, breathing slowly and willing the contents of my empty stomach to stay down. I sucked in a long, slow breath.
Warm cedar. Musk. Him.
My breath hitched.
The scent wasn’t just in my pillow—it was clinging to me, woven into the very fibers of my sheets like he had been here, wrapped around me, real and solid and impossible to forget.
A hazy flash of memory surfaced—strong arms lifting me, the solid press of muscle against my side, warmth cocooning me in the dark.
My stomach flipped.
Hazy images of the line between Cal’s dark eyebrows deepening flashed in my mind. I filtered through my foggy memory of the night before.
Cal showing up to the Lantern, dusty and looking fine as hell after his softball game. The way those baseball pants clung to his ass was downright criminal. It had taken effort to pretend I hadn’t noticed the way his biceps peeked out from under the hem of his shirtsleeves.
More so, it was a concerted effort to not constantly look in his direction, but all night I could feel his attention on me.
After Kit was done working her magic behind the bar, we had really doubled down on our night out, and somewhere after the third or fourth shot of Electric Cooter, things started getting fuzzy .
Kit grabbing me and kissing me right on the mouth as she laughed and said goodbye.
Stumbling out of the Lantern with two new friends in tow, feeling like I was too damn hot in the outfit I had picked out—the one I had chosen with the sole purpose of driving Cal Blackwood up a wall, if by chance I ran into him.
But who was I kidding? Of course I was going to run into him. The postgame beers at the Lantern had always been a tradition for the Star Harbor Phantoms.
I let out a shaky exhale, trying desperately to breathe as my stomach tightened again. Cal ... why did I vaguely remember being carried in his arms? Or the way his body, hard and warm and protective, felt wrapped around me?
I cracked one eye open and saw the small glass of water and neatly arranged pills on my bedside table—items drunk Elodie definitely hadn’t had the wherewithal to set out.
I exhaled, rolling to my back. “Shit.”
I patted my body, fingers skimming down my torso like a forensic investigator trying to piece together the evidence of my own crime.
“Still dressed. No mysterious bruises. No wedding ring. This is a good start.”
I continued to pat down my body, gently exploring, and let out a sigh of relief when I realized I was still fully clothed in last night’s outfit.
At least we hadn’t had sex.
But I felt it, deep in my bones, that Cal wasn’t the type of man who would take advantage of a woman in my precarious situation. I squeezed my eyes closed again, pressing my fingertips into my eye sockets.
Thank goodness it was Cal who wrangled me and brought me home .
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Now I would have to add Gentle Caretaking into the column of things I didn’t hate about Callum Blackwood.
It was concerning how rapidly that column was outpacing the other column affectionately titled Reasons Callum Blackwood Is a Dick .
It was also worth noting that his dick—and the masterful use of it—did not fall neatly into that column either.
I grabbed the Tylenol on the bedside table and carefully sipped just enough water to get the pills down.
The morning sun was too bright, a clear indication that I’d likely overslept.
I sat up and the room spun. I blinked away the dizziness in search of something— anything —to put in my stomach so I might claw my way through this miserable day.
His scent clung to the air like a ghost. Besides the Tylenol and glass of water, there was no other evidence of him.
Maybe I had dreamed it up—a whimsical, horny fantasy that included a tender side to Cal. I pushed the sweaty curls away from my face, laughing at the thought as I padded toward the kitchen.
As I looked up, I stopped.
In the center of the table was a white paper bag, and in front of it, a scrap of paper with blocky masculine handwriting scrawled on it.
Way to tie one on, Darling. Sugar and carbs ought to help. — Cal
I could almost hear the teasing rumble of his voice, that gravelly amusement edged with something softer.
I unrolled the top of the paper bag and found several homemade-looking pastries inside.
My stomach grumbled like a petulant child stomping its feet and demanding to be fed immediately.
I reached in and pulled out a pastry from the top.
It was round with a flaky, buttery crust. The center was filled with what looked like raspberry jam, and slivered almonds were sprinkled on the top.
Despite knowing I should probably take it easy, I took a generous bite, moaning at how the buttery crust melted inside my mouth.
The crust crumbled at the edges but dissolved on my tongue, rich with butter and just a whisper of vanilla.
The raspberry jam was thick, sticky sweet, with a tang that made my taste buds sing.
I chewed slowly, savoring, and let my eyes flutter shut in ecstasy.
No man had ever brought me pastries before.
“So freaking good,” I mumbled out loud around the bite of pastry.
For a fleeting moment it didn’t matter that Cal had seen me acting like a reckless woman, because apparently it meant him taking care of me in the form of protective embraces and next-day pastries.
You couldn’t convince me that a hot shower and that raspberry tart couldn’t cure 90 percent of my problems. By the time I limped through that hot shower and another three pastries—apricot, lemon, and cheese Danish that time—I was feeling a thousand times better.
Half the day had already been spent trying to pull up any other memories of the night before, to no avail.
Hot coffee in hand, I stepped out onto the front porch of my cottage and looked in the direction of the Drifted Spirit.
A pair of old men were sitting on the front porch, deep in a game of chess.
Another couple chatted while enjoying the porch swing on the far side of the inn.
Cal’s cat was basking in the sun, curled into a content little ball.
Walking down the steps of the porch were two elderly women with vaguely familiar faces .
Betty?
No, Sheila and Rose, I think—though my recollection was unquestionably fuzzy.
“Yoo-hoo!” one called out, waving her arm above her head. “You still owe me a shot, honey!” she called, her laughter full bellied and shameless.
I tentatively lifted my free hand in greeting when the woman reached down, grabbed the hem of her shirt, and flashed me, her hot-pink bra visible for a millisecond.
I choked on my coffee as the woman and her friend dissolved into a fit of laughter as I stared in shock.
A laugh burst from my chest as a flood of patchwork memories came back to me.
Sheila and Rose had been my bingo accomplices, and Cal had made sure we had all gotten home safely. I lifted my coffee mug in solidarity and shook my head, taking a sip.
The day was definitely salvageable.
I looked out onto the farm and its rolling hills.
Star Harbor Farm was in various states of progress, but our biggest setback had been the fire at the barn.
The barn was meant to be the welcoming showpiece, a grand testament to everything Star Harbor Farm stood for—community, agriculture, and good old family fun.
What stood in its place was the blackened remains of charred wood and heartbreak.
I reached for my phone, capturing a panoramic image of Star Harbor Farm, the burned remains of the barn clearly visible.
People were so enthusiastic to see our progress, and this would continue to be a part of it.
The wind whispered through the skeleton of the barn, rattling the charred beams like bones.
A place that once held so much potential had been reduced to nothing but blackened ruin.
I clenched my fists. This place deserved more than my grief.
It deserved rebuilding.
In my green boots, I trudged across the farm, noting that there was still so much hope and potential in the lush pumpkin vines that grew stronger every single day. I couldn’t let one setback, no matter how devastating it seemed, ruin what we were going for.
Stan was counting on me. The community was counting on me.
In the light of day, the barn was just as bad as it had felt on the night of the fire. Nothing had been salvageable except for a few thick beams that had only minor charring. Those had been placed to the side, but the rest had been hauled away.
With my phone, I captured a few more pictures, attempting to be artful in the way I explained exactly what had happened and where we would go from there. I left out the boys’ involvement, of course, but shared that the tragic accident had claimed the heart of Star Harbor Farm.
When I looked back through the pictures, I had somehow used moody lighting and elegant angles to capture the heartbreak and loss I had felt settle into my bones.
I typed out a heartfelt caption: Sometimes, something has to be taken away for something better to grow in its place.
I wanted it to be true. As I looked around the expanse of the farm, for the first time I wondered whether this feat was too large to pull off. I stared at the rubble so long that my chest hurt.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Stan’s voice floated over my shoulder and I turned, my face twisting in confusion at his comment.
I exhaled, kicking a rock in the general direction of the barn. “I’m not sure we’re looking at the same thing,” I pouted .
Stan sucked in a deep, cleansing breath, his arms accentuating the movement. “Look at this view.” One hand swept out to the sand dune cliff beyond the barn and the glittering waters of Lake Michigan. “Where else in the world can you get a view like this?”
A smile tickled my cheek. I closed my eyes and let the soft breeze wash over me, just as a group of sandhill cranes flew overhead, their dinosaur-like squawking making my smile blossom.
“It’s a beautiful summer day. We all woke up safe in our beds.
Some people in someone else’s bed.” I peeked to find Stan hitting me with a knowing look, and I could feel my cheeks get hot as he feigned ignorance.
“Sure was an early morning for Cal to be walking out of your cottage ...” He raised both his hands.
“But I’ll leave that between the two of you. ”
I let out a nervous laugh. “He was just checking on me.” I glanced up at the old man who had become more of a grandfather than I had ever known. “I let loose a little too hard last night, but he made sure I made it home safe.”
Stan nodded. “That sure sounds like the Cal I know. He likes to pretend the cold exterior is who he is, but every so often you get a glimpse of the man beneath all that. And that ... is another miracle in itself.”
My smile warmed. Stan had such a simple, yet eloquent, way with words.
The world deserved to experience it. They deserved to see the vision of Star Harbor Farm I had sold him come to life.
Feeling sorry for myself or letting something as simple as a totally devastating, almost life-threatening barn fire get in my way seemed downright silly.
I squinted against the sun, feeling more determined than ever. My eyes shifted to Stan. “Think there’s a YouTube video on how to build a barn?”
A hearty chuckle rumbled through him as he threw one arm around my shoulder and pulled me in for a side hug.