2. Chapter 2
2
Chapter 2
The kitchen is my favorite place to write in the morning. Something about the quiet, the smell of coffee, the way the sunrise turns the bay into liquid gold through the windows. For as long as I can remember, I’ve written at this scratched wooden table.
But this morning, my peaceful routine is interrupted by footsteps on the stairs.
Jack appears in the doorway, dressed in running gear - all black, probably designer, definitely not warm enough for a Massachusetts February. His hair is perfectly disheveled, cheeks flushed from the cold. Tall, broad, unshaven. A traitorous thought flashes through my mind: this is what he must look like after sex…
He stops short when he sees me.
“Morning,” I manage, very aware that I’m in my oldest sweater, hair piled in a messy bun, probably with pillow creases on my face, knowing my luck.
He nods, his guard firmly back in place. Jaw clenched, eyes cold. No trace of the man who danced with me last night.
“There’s fresh coffee,” I offer, because apparently, I can’t help turning into a blabber box around this man. “Mugs are in the cabinet above the sink.”
He hesitates for a moment, eyes flicking between the pot of coffee and my face, then moves to the cabinet. I try to focus on my laptop screen instead of how he makes my mother’s kitchen feel smaller.
“Working on the concrete wall?” Jack rumbles.
I glance up, surprised he’s initiating conversation. “More like staring at a blank page and questioning all my life choices.”
He pours his coffee, his mouth twitching with amusement. “That bad?”
“Worse.”
Without answering, Jack turns to leave.
“Wait-” The word escapes before I can stop it. He pauses, cup halfway to his lips. “I just… thank you. For being so nice to my parents last night. For the dance and everything. You didn’t have to do that.”
He nods. “They’re good people.” Then he’s gone, taking his coffee and his walls with him.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Outside, the sun continues its slow rise over the bay, painting the water in shades of pink and gold. Somewhere upstairs, a door closes.
My cursor blinks on the empty page.
“Focus,” I tell myself firmly. “No more thinking about Jack Ellis’s ass in his running pants, ugh.”
Just then, the kitchen door swings open again, and I nearly jump out of my skin, but it’s just my mother.
“Was that Jack I heard?” She’s already pulling out pans for breakfast, moving with her usual pre-dawn energy.
“He was getting coffee.”
She hums. “And?”
“And nothing, Ma. He barely said two words.” I stare at my laptop screen like it might suddenly write my book for me. “And, I’m working.”
“On your empty document?” She peers over my shoulder. “Very minimalist.”
I playfully nudge her. “I’m thinking.”
“About blue-eyed movie stars?”
“About my story,” I lie. “Don’t you have breakfast to make?”
She laughs, but mercifully turns to her pans. The familiar sounds of her morning routine fill the kitchen - the click of the stove, the clink of bowls, the soft melody she always hums while cooking. Usually it’s the perfect background for writing.
Usually I’m not distracted by footsteps overhead, wondering if he’s up there looking at the bay, if he’s remembering whatever brought him here as a kid, if he’s naked in the shower - all that tall, bulky pile of muscles covered in soap, hot water making his tanned skin glisten…
I almost fall off my chair when my phone buzzes. It’s a text from my agent.
Where are my chapters, babe? Don’t make me come up there.
I groan and let my head fall on the table. My mother swats my shoulder with a dish towel. “No sleeping on my clean table.”
“I’m not sleeping, I’m despairing. There’s a difference.” I lift my head to show her my most pathetic expression. “What if I never write again? What if my last book was it? What if-”
The kitchen door swings open again, and this time it’s my father, already dressed for his morning walk on the beach. “Who’s not writing again?”
“Your daughter,” my mother supplies helpfully. “She’s too busy thinking about-”
“Breakfast!” I interrupt loudly. “I’m too busy thinking about breakfast. Is that coffee ready?”
My father looks between us, clearly sensing he’s missing something. “Right. Well, I’m heading out for my walk if anyone wants to join…”
“Yes!” I’m already closing my laptop. Fresh air. That’s what I need. Clear my head, reset my brain, definitely not think about certain guests and their running gear. “Let me grab my coat.”
“Neneh,” my mother calls as I head for the stairs. “Don’t forget, we need to go to town later. Valentine’s decorations, remember?”
I pause mid-step. “Ma, that’s not for another week.”
“Exactly. We need to get the good ones before they sell out.” She gives me a look that means resistance is futile. “After your walk?”
“Fine,” I sigh. “But nothing too…” I wave my hands vaguely.
“Too what?”
“Too Valentiney.”
My father’s laugh follows me up the stairs. “Good luck with that, kid.”
* * *
The morning air hits like a slap when we step outside, but it’s exactly what I need. The beach is empty this early, and this cold. It’s just us, the seagulls, and the endless ocean.
We walk in comfortable silence, our footprints marking the sand. It’s our routine when I’m home - these quiet morning walks, no pressure to talk.
I’m about to suggest heading back when I spot a figure ahead at the water’s edge. Even from this distance, there’s no mistaking that height, that stance. Jack stands with his hands in his pockets, staring out at the sea.
“Maybe we should turn around,” I murmur.
He must hear us, because he turns our way. For a moment, we all just stand there, caught in the moment - until my father calls out a cheerful “Good morning!”
Jack nods in response to my father’s greeting, and for a second I hope he might keep walking in the opposite direction. Instead, he waits as we approach. Up close, I can see his cheeks are red from the cold, his hair windswept. He’s still in his running gear, a light jacket doing little against the February chill. The wind molds the thin layer to his body, tracing every hard line, each defined muscle. And my eyes can’t help but hungrily take it all in. Thick thighs, flat stomach, powerful pecs, strong shoulders. The cold is no match for the heat fizzling between my thighs…
“Beautiful morning for a walk,” my father says, thankfully oblivious to the cloud of lust I’m drowning in. “Though a bit cold for running.”
“I like the cold,” Jack replies with a smile. His eyes meet mine briefly before sliding back to my father.
A particularly strong gust of wind hits us, and I pull my coat tighter. “Well, we should probably head back-”
“Actually,” my father cuts in, “I promised your mother I’d check on the dock. The posts were looking wobbly yesterday.” He’s already backing away. “You two enjoy your walk.”
“Papa-” But he’s already turning, waving over his shoulder as he heads toward the docks in the distance.
Leaving me alone with Jack Ellis on an empty beach.
For a moment, we walk in silence. The waves crash against the shore, seagulls overhead, and I try desperately to think of something to say.
He beats me to it.
“They changed the lighthouse,” he says suddenly, nodding toward the structure. “It used to be white.”
“Yeah, about ten years ago.” I study his profile. “You really did come here as a kid.”
Something soft crosses his face. “My sister and I used to race down this beach. She always won.” Then, as if catching himself sharing too much, his jaw tightens. “It was a long time ago.”
We’re almost back to the inn when he speaks again. “The town’s smaller than I remember.”
“Funny how that happens.” I risk a small smile. “Though we did get a second coffee shop last year.”
His lips twitch and I take that as a win.
My mother’s waiting on the porch, surrounded by boxes. Her face lights up when she sees us.
“Oh good! Jack, we could use some help reaching the high spots. Unless you have plans this morning?”
I expect him to refuse. To retreat to his room or find another escape. Instead, he looks at the boxes, then at my mother’s hopeful face, and something in him seems to soften.
“I can help.”
Inside, my mother has transformed the lobby into what looks like a Valentine’s Day bomb site. Paper hearts, ribbons, and fairy lights cover every surface.
“I thought we agreed on nothing too Valentiney,” I whisper as she hands Jack a string of lights.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She beams up at him. “Those would look lovely along the ceiling beam, don’t you think?”
He looks up, considering. Without a word, he reaches up - and of course he can reach the ceiling beam without a ladder, because apparently being unfairly tall is just another thing he has going for him.
I try not to stare at the strip of skin exposed as his shirt rides up. Try being the operative word. His running pants mold to his firm ass just as deliciously as they did earlier in the kitchen. And that patch of golden skin? Totally lickable.
“Here.” Jack glances down at me, startling me out of my ogling. “Can you hold the other end?”
I clear my throat. “Sure.”
We work in surprisingly comfortable silence, weaving lights through the old wooden beams. Every so often our hands brush, sending little sparks of electricity up my arm. And those must be completely one-sided, because Jack’s face remains perfectly stern.
“Perfect!” My mother claps her hands. “Now, the garland…”
“Ma,” I start to protest, but Jack’s already reaching for another box.
“It’s fine,” he says quietly. Just to me. “I don’t mind.”
My heart. Could this man be more perfect?
“The trick is,” my mother says, pulling out yards of garland, “to make it look effortless. Like Cupid himself swooped in and sprinkled hearts and flowers everywhere.”
“Right,” I mutter, untangling a particularly stubborn strand of lights.
Jack moves around us with unexpected grace for someone his size, reaching high spots, steadying the ladder when my mother insists on adjusting something. Every now and then, I catch him watching me with an unreadable expression.
“The Martins will love this,” my mother sighs happily. “You know they got engaged right there.” She points to a spot by the window. “Now about dinner,” she adds with suspicious casualness, “we’re having that thieboudienne Neneh mentioned last night…”
I nearly drop the heart I’m holding. “Mom, I don’t think-”
“What? I’m just saying, if Jack would like to join us again…”
I risk a glance at him, expecting to find the walls back up. Instead, he’s looking at the garland in his hands, the ghost of something that might be a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. And my heart completely melts for this man, who must be going through his own shit, but sets it aside to help my crazy mom overly decorate her modest inn for Valentine’s.
“Thank you,” Jack finally replies. “I’d like that.”
I’m about to say something - most likely something embarrassing - when the front door chimes.
“Good morning!” A couple walks in, bundled against the cold. “We have a reservation under Martin?”
My mother practically glows. “Ah, the happy couple! Welcome back!”
As she rushes to check them in, I notice Jack taking a step back, then another. The easy atmosphere from moments ago evaporates as his public mask slides back into place.
“I should…” He gestures vaguely upstairs.
“Right. Of course.” I try to ignore the disappointment settling in my stomach. “Thanks for helping.”
He nods once, already turning away. But at the stairs, he pauses. “Seven again? For dinner?”
My heart does a ridiculous flip. And I just nod, smiling at him.
I watch him take the stairs two at a time, all long legs and quiet grace. When I turn back, the Martins are staring at me with obvious curiosity.
Great. Just what we need - guests recognizing him. Though maybe they’re just wondering why I’m standing here holding a glittery paper heart and grinning like an idiot.
I clear my throat and get back to work, definitely not counting the hours until dinner.
* * *
With the Martins settled in and Jack retreated upstairs, my mother drags me to town for even more decorations - apparently the lobby’s transformation into Valentine’s wonderland isn’t quite complete.
“First, the general store,” she announces as we navigate the icy sidewalks. “Then the bakery. And don’t think I didn’t notice how you kept looking at Jack while we were decorating.”
“I wasn’t-”
“Neneh.” She links her arm through mine. “The man spent an hour hanging paper hearts just because I asked. A movie star, hanging paper hearts!”
“He was just being polite.”
“He was being charming. And those eyes, My God! Like something out of a-”
“If you say romance novel, I’m leaving you here.”
She laughs, pulling me toward the storefront. The window display is an explosion of red and pink, which means my mother’s about to go into full overdrive.
I glance up at the cloudy sky. Maybe it’ll snow again. Maybe we’ll get snowed in and Jack will have to stay longer and-
“Oh, My God! Neneh, look at this!” my mother yells.
I groan. It’s going to be a long afternoon.
The bell above the door chimes as we enter, and I’m immediately assaulted by the scent of roses and the vision of what seems like every Valentine’s item ever manufactured.
As my mom dives into serious decoration hunting, I wander the aisles, trailing my fingers over displays of cards and chocolates. A rack of romance novels catches my eye - specifically, one with a brooding hero who bears a suspicious resemblance to…
“Don’t even think about it,” I mutter to myself.
“Neneh!” Mrs. Calloway, one of my mother’s friends, calls. “Is that handsome man still at the inn?”
I freeze. “What?”
“Tall? Dark hair? Movie star good looks? Mary saw him on her morning walk.”
“Oh, um…” I shoot my mother a panicked look.
“Just a guest,” my mother says smoothly. “Very private person. You know how city folks are, wanting peace and quiet.”
But Mrs. Calloway’s eyes are gleaming with interest. Shit, by dinner, everyone in Starlight Bay will know Jack Ellis is here.
“Ma,” I whisper as we hurry out of the store with our bags. “This is bad. If word gets out-”
“It’ll be fine,” she replies, but she’s walking faster, too.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes. It’s my childhood friend Amara: GIRL. You have JACK ELLIS at your inn??? THE Jack Ellis???
I show the message to my mother, who has the decency to look concerned.
“We should warn him,” I say. “Before he walks into town for coffee or something, and gets ambushed.”
She nods. “You tell him. I’ll have your dad talk to the townsfolk.”
The walk back to the inn feels endless. Each person we pass seems to stare a little too long and is that group outside the coffee shop pointing at us?
By the time we reach the inn, my stomach is in knots. Jack came here for privacy, for peace. Instead, he’s about to find himself the main attraction in Starlight Bay’s biggest gossip storm since… well, since the second coffee shop opened.
We find Jack in the kitchen. He’s at the counter, sleeves rolled up, helping my father chop vegetables for tonight’s dinner. Looking completely at ease. Relaxed. And, un-fucking-believably hot in dark jeans and a gray Henley, that makes his eyes pop.
My steps falter at the sight. Even my mother stops short beside me. Like, what is happening? Hot guy cooking in my parents’ kitchen with my dad! Did I just walk into one of my fantasies?
“Ah, you’re back!” my father says cheerfully, like having a Hollywood star help with dinner prep is completely normal. “Jack knows his way around a knife.”
Right, Jack. Small town, gossip. Jack looks up, and something in my face must give away my anxiety because his expression shifts immediately.
“What’s wrong?”
How did he even…? The man has known me for less than twenty-four hours and he can read me this easily? Could have given many of my exes some pointers.
“We… may have a situation,” I say carefully. “Someone saw you on your morning walk, and in a town this size…”
Understanding crosses his features. His hands, still on the cutting board.
“The whole town knows I’m here?”
“Not yet, but…” I twist my fingers together. “Soon. I’m so sorry. We can try to contain it, or if you want to leave-”
“Neneh,” he interrupts softly. Then, surprisingly, the corner of his mouth lifts. “It’s fine.”
“It is?”
He shrugs, turning back to his chopping. “Can’t hide forever.”
My parents exchange a look I can’t quite read, then my mother moves forward to inspect Jack’s vegetable-cutting technique.
“Perfect,” she declares.
I linger in the doorway, watching him work. His hands are sure on the knife, movements precise. There’s something almost hypnotic about it - this glimpse of him doing something so ordinary. Still hot as fuck, but domestic, normal. Like real life.
“You can help, too, you know,” my father says, breaking my trance. “Instead of just staring.”
My mouth falls open. “Father! I’m not-”
“Here.” Jack slides a cutting board to me.
I hang my coat, go wash my hands at the sink and that’s how I find myself cooking dinner with Jack Ellis, our elbows occasionally brushing as we work side by side. Every brush, each waft of his scent, sending my heart into overdrive. But that’s fine, I’m fine.
“You cook often?” I ask, trying to break the spell.
“I do, actually.”
I try not to focus on how close he is, or how his voice has gone soft again, or how-
“Oww!” The knife scrapes my finger.
“Here, let me see.” He reaches for my hand, examining the cut. “Good. It’s not deep. Where do you keep-”
“Band-aids are in that drawer,” my mother supplies, looking far too pleased about the whole situation.
Jack’s fingers are gentle as he cleans my small cut then wraps the band-aid around my finger, and for a moment I forget to breathe.
* * *
The dining room feels different tonight. Maybe it’s the Valentine’s decorations casting soft shadows on the walls, or maybe it’s how Jack seems less tense after spending the afternoon in our kitchen. He sits across from me again, and I can’t help being hyperaware of his presence - the breadth of his shoulders, the way his hands dwarf the silverware, how his voice seems to resonate in my chest every time he speaks.
“More?” my mother offers, already reaching for his plate.
“Yes, please. It’s delicious,” he says. His praise is polite but genuine, making my mother beam.
I try not to stare as he takes another bite, but it’s impossible not to notice the movement of his lips, the bob of his strong throat. When he catches me looking, I quickly glance down at my plate, heat creeping up my neck.
After dinner, my father crosses to the record player. My mother’s already smiling. Something soft fills the room - one of those old jazz melodies that makes everything feel a bit magical.
When Jack stands and offers his hand, my heart actually stops.
This time when I slide my fingers into his, he draws me close - much closer than last night. His other hand settles warm and solid on my lower back, and I catch the subtle scent of his cologne mixed with something that’s just… him. Clean, masculine and intoxicating.
“You’re not terrible at this at all,” he murmurs, and I feel his voice rumble through his chest where we’re pressed together.
“Maybe I was exaggerating a bit last night.” I rest my hand on his shoulder, feeling the play of muscles under his sweater.
He chuckles softly, and the sound does ridiculous things to my insides.
I glance up to find him already looking down at me, his blue eyes, dark in the dim light.
I avert my gaze, trying to regain some control, and realize we’re alone. When did my parents slip out? I didn’t even notice.
“Your hands are calloused,” I say without thinking, my fingers brushing against his.
“I sculpt. When I’m not making movies or moonlighting as an assistant decorator.”
I laugh. “Is there anything you can’t do, Mr. Ellis?”
“Plenty.” His thumb traces small circles on my back. Probably unintentionally? Probably.
We’re barely moving now, just swaying together in the soft light. His scent surrounds me, and when he dips his head slightly, I feel his nose brush against my hair.
“Neneh,” he breathes, and something about the way he says my name makes me shiver.
I tilt my face up at the same moment he looks down, and suddenly we’re breathing the same air. His hand slides from my back to my waist, pulling me impossibly closer. Everything narrows to this moment - the warmth of his palm through my sweater, the slight roughness of his calloused fingers linked with mine, the way his eyes drop to my lips.
When he kisses me, it’s achingly delicious. Just the softest brush of his mouth against mine, like he’s asking a question.
I answer by curling my fingers into his sweater, rising on my toes to press closer. His hand releases mine to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheek as he deepens the kiss. Everything about him is overwhelming - the taste of him, the solid warmth of his body against mine, the small sound he makes when I part my lips.
And Jack Ellis kisses like he does everything else - with a focused intensity that makes me forget how to think. His fingers thread through my hair, tilting my head for better access, and I melt against him.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. He rests his forehead against mine, eyes closed like he’s trying to gather himself.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he murmurs, but his hands are still holding me close. Tight.
“Why not?” I whisper.
He opens his eyes, and the heat in them makes my knees weak. “Because now I want to do it again.”
“I don’t see the problem.” I trace my fingers along his jaw, feeling the scratch of his beard.
This time when he kisses me, there’s nothing gentle about it. His mouth claims mine with a hunger that steals my breath, and I respond in kind, running my hands up his chest to his shoulders.
He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down my neck, and I gasp when he finds a particularly sensitive spot. His hands tighten on my waist.
“We should stop,” he rumbles against my skin, but makes no move to pull away.
“Probably,” I agree breathlessly, even as I arch into his touch.
With what seems like immense effort, Jack lifts his head. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, and his hair is mussed where I’ve been running my fingers through it.
“Walk me up?” I ask before I can lose my nerve.
He takes a deep breath, then steps back slightly, though he keeps hold of my hand. “To the stairs.”
The way he says it - firm but regretful - makes me want to kiss him again. Instead, I let him lead me to the staircase, our fingers still linked.
At the bottom step, he brings our joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. His lips are full, warm, soft. And I already miss them on mine.
“Goodnight, Neneh.”
“Goodnight, Jack.”
I’m halfway up when I hear him say softly, “Sweet dreams.”
I fall asleep with a smile on my face, the memory of our kiss still tingling on my lips.