Chapter Thirteen
Hayden
It’s Not Over
Daughtry
For the first twenty minutes, we talk about absolutely nothing important.
And somehow it feels more intimate than the dinner did.
Maybe because there’s no tension hanging over this conversation.
No loaded questions. No careful circling around the past trying to decide which parts are safe to touch.
It’s just easy. I’d forgotten how dangerous easy could be with Vanessa.
“You still hate oat milk?” She says it around the rim of her coffee cup, one brow lifting slightly as she watches me take another drink.
“It tastes like sadness.”
A laugh escapes her instantly, warm enough that several people glance up from nearby tables before going back to their laptops. “There he is.”
I lean back slightly in my chair. “Who?”
“The Hayden I remember.”
Something in my chest shifts quietly at that.
Because I’m not entirely sure I’ve really done more than exist these last few years.
Outside the window, leaves scrape across the sidewalk beneath another gust of wind, the gray October sky pressing lower over the city while the café buzzes around us with low conversations and the hiss of steaming milk behind the counter.
Vanessa tucks one leg beneath herself in the chair, fingers wrapped loosely around her cup while she talks about a restoration project at the museum involving a nineteenth-century landscape painting damaged during storage transit.
Most people would make that sound boring.
Vanessa somehow makes it sound fascinating.
“The problem is that whoever tried restoring it in the eighties used the wrong varnish.” She shakes her head slightly. “So now the entire top layer is yellowing unevenly.”
“You always did like fixing things.”
The words leave before I can stop them. Her expression stills slightly. Not uncomfortable. Just aware. I clear my throat and lean forward enough to rest my forearms against the table. “How long does something like that take?”
“A few months.” Her mouth curves faintly again. “Longer if wealthy donors keep breathing down my neck asking when it’ll be displayed.”
“You hate the donors.”
“I hate people who suddenly become art experts because they own stock portfolios.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “And, there she is,” I throw back at her.
Her eyes narrow immediately. “Rude.”
“You walked right into that.”
The smile she gives me then is softer than the teasing deserves. And for one dangerous second, I forget how to breathe properly again.
Jesus. It’s not even just that she’s beautiful.
She is. Painfully so. But it’s more than that.
It’s the familiarity. The way she still tilts her head slightly when listening closely.
The way she taps one finger absently against the side of her cup while thinking.
The way her eyes brighten before she laughs, like the emotion reaches them first. My body remembers all of it before my mind catches up.
“You’re staring.”
I blink once. “Probably because you’re distracting.”
“Still smooth, I see.”
“I was never smooth.”
“No.” Her mouth curves around the word. “You were just intense.”
Fair. More than fair. I glance down into my coffee for a second before looking back up at her. “Do you miss it? Me?”
The question surprises both of us. I see it in the slight shift of her expression. But she doesn’t look away. “Sometimes.”
Honest. God, she was always honest with me. The noise of the café fades slightly around us after that. Not awkward. Just quieter.
“I missed Chicago,” she says after a moment, glancing toward the window. “When I first moved back from Boston, I forgot how much I loved fall here.”
“Were you in Boston long?” I hadn’t realized she had moved there.
“About four years.”
I nod once slowly. “I didn’t know that.”
“I worked at the museum there.” A small smile touches her mouth. “There’s probably a lot you don’t know anymore.”
The words should bother me. Instead, they settle somewhere deeper. Because she’s right. And maybe for the first time in my life, I don’t feel the need to correct that. I study her over the rim of my cup instead. “
“You still buy too many books?”
Her smile grows wider as she huffs out a laugh. “You’re one to talk.”
“Yes, but I actually read mine.”
“That is such bullshit.” She tries to defend over her laughter.
“It’s true.”
“What about that eight-hundred-page biography about jazz history you bought and then used it as a laptop stand.”
“In my defense, it was structurally supportive.”
She laughs harder this time, shaking her head as she reaches automatically across the table toward me. Her fingers brush the back of my hand. Its a tiny thing. Barely contact at all. But neither of us pulls away. The laughter softens between us when her fingertips remain against mine.
Then my hand turns instinctively beneath hers. No thought. No decision. Just muscle memory and something far more dangerous than that. Her fingers slide between mine naturally. Like they still belong there. The entire café seems to disappear for half a second.
I look down at our hands. Then back up at her.
Vanessa’s gaze drops briefly too, and I catch the smallest change in her breathing before she looks at me again.
Aware. Not retreating. Not running. Just, there.
And Christ, this feels more intimate than kissing her did.
Because I don’t remember deciding to hold her hand. I just know I don’t want to let go.
Neither of us moves first. Our hands stay tangled together across the small table while conversation buzzes around us and October wind rattles against the windows beside us.
Vanessa glances down at our fingers once more before looking back up at me, something quieter settling into her expression now. Not guarded, not entirely. But softer than before. I shift my thumb against the inside of her hand without thinking. Her breath catches almost imperceptibly. Fuck.
“There’s a bookstore next door,” I hear myself say.
One corner of her mouth lifts. “Is that your attempt at a smooth transition?”
“I already told you I’m not smooth.”
“No,” she agrees with a soft shake of her head. “You really aren’t.” But she doesn’t let go of my hand. That feels important.
Outside, the cold hits sharper after the warmth of the café, wind tugging loose strands of hair across Vanessa’s face the second we step onto the sidewalk. Instinct takes over before thought does, and I reach out, sliding the strands gently behind her ear.
Her eyes dart up to mine. The touch lingers half a second too long. Not enough to turn into something else, but enough that we both feel it anyway.
“You always did that.”
“What?”
“Take care of things before anyone asks you to.”
The observation lands somewhere directly beneath my ribs. I don’t know what to say to that. So instead, I open the bookstore door and let her walk in first.
Warm air scented with paper and cedar wraps around us as we step inside, the store quieter here than the café next door.
Soft classical music filters through hidden speakers somewhere overhead, while narrow aisles stretch between towering shelves lined with everything from art history to philosophy to worn paperback fiction.
Vanessa lets out a soft exhale beside me. “Okay. I love this place already.”
I glance toward her, my brow lifting. “You’ve never been here?”
“No.” She steps further inside, her gaze drifting over the shelves with visible appreciation. “I knew it would be dangerous.”
“For my wallet?” I chuckle and give her hand a light squeeze.
“For my apartment storage situation.” She covers her mouth as a soft giggle escapes.
We wander without direction after that. And somehow that’s the best part. No destination. Just moving through the aisles together while conversation slips easily from one topic to another.
At one point, Vanessa pulls a massive photography book from a shelf and nearly drops it due to its size and weight. “Oooof! This thing is heavy!”
I take it from her before she can struggle further. “Give me that before you hurt yourself.”
“Always have to be the hero, huh, Hayden?”
“Only when I am.” I slide the book back into its original home on the shelf.
A grin tugs at my mouth as she narrows her eyes at me. “There’s the ego.”
“You like the ego.”
“Debatable.”
“You kissed me back.”
“That’s not a question.”
“No, it’s definitely not.”
Her gaze stays locked on me as she follows me farther down the aisle. And Christ, it’s intense, but in the best way. I realize I missed this. Not just wanting her, but being with her.
The realization changes the shape of the moment. Because somewhere between coffee and bookstores and accidentally holding her hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, this stopped feeling like nostalgia. It feels present and real. Dangerously real.
Vanessa pauses near the back corner of the store a few minutes later, fingers trailing along a shelf labeled ART HISTORY. Of course. I lean one shoulder against the shelf opposite her. A small smile tugs from me as I recall one sinful moment in the aisles of the library at Northwestern.
“Thinking about anything in particular?” Of course, I have to see if she remembers.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Her cheeks shade the lightest hue of pink as she bites onto her bottom lip.
“It’s one of my better memories. It’s unfortunate you don’t remember.” I goad with a chuckle.
“It’s called protecting my heart.”
“It’s safe with me, I promise.”
She arches a brow in my direction as she slides a book free from the shelf and points it toward me threateningly. “Don’t make me promises you can’t keep.”
“I don’t.”
Her eyes meet mine, the look in them full of question, hope, confusion. The same thing I’m sure reflected in mine. She gives a small shake of her head, a smile breaking free. “You’re dangerous.”
The aisle suddenly feels narrower than it did a minute ago. Or maybe it’s just her. She turns toward another shelf, and when she does, her shoulder brushes against my chest in the confined space between rows. Neither of us moves away. The air shifts. Not in a dramatic way. But we’re both aware.
Vanessa glances up at me, still half-smiling. “Getting kicked out of the Northwestern Library was one of our finer moments.”
My mouth curves into a wicked smile. “It was entirely your fault.”
“You were distracting.”
“You climbed into my lap in the middle of the art history section.” I chuff in defense.
“You started it.”
“I was reading.”
“That’s an extremely generous interpretation of events.”
I laugh quietly under my breath, and the sound seems to catch both of us off guard. Because it’s easy again. Too easy. Vanessa’s gaze lingers on my mouth for one dangerous second too long. Then mine drops to hers. And suddenly neither of us is smiling anymore.
I step closer, slowly enough that she has every opportunity to pull away. She doesn’t. My hand glides up the side of her neck, fingers disappearing into the soft hair at the nape of her neck, my gaze locked on hers the entire time. Always eye contact. Always her choice.
Vanessa’s breathing shifts first. Then she leans in. Barely. But it’s permission and that’s all it takes. I tug her closer and press my lips to hers. I kiss her slowly this time. No tension breaking. No desperation. Just familiarity.
Her mouth parts beneath mine, one hand sliding up my chest like she remembers exactly where she belongs there, and something inside me goes dangerously still at the feeling.
Christ. I remember this too well. The taste of coffee on her lips. The quiet sound she makes when I deepen the kiss, my tongue sliding against hers. The way she melts into me without hesitation halfway through it.
My forehead rests against hers when we finally separate, both of us breathing harder than we should be for a Sunday afternoon in a bookstore. Vanessa’s eyes stay closed for one extra second before she opens them.
And there it is again. That look. Like she forgot to be careful for a minute. “I think we already covered that this was never part of our problem.”
“Does it need to be one now?” I push my luck because damn, her mouth on mine is something I want to feel again.
“I’m not afraid of this part.” Her fingers curl against the front of my sweater before she steps back just enough to force space between us again. “It’s everything that comes after.”
And that brushes up against an old ache.
It’s not a rejection, but it feels worse, because I know it’s the truth.
Vanessa holds my gaze another second, her expression softer now, cautious in a way that didn’t exist ten minutes ago.
Like she feels it too. How easy this still is between us and how dangerous that makes it.
Then she reaches up, smooths her thumb once along the stubble lining my jaw, and steps around me toward the end of the aisle.
“Come on, Sloane.” A glance over her shoulder, a small smile lifting her cheeks. “Buy me a book.”
And hell if that look somehow feels more intimate than the kiss did.