Chapter Five #2
"Oh, come now." Adrienne's laugh was brittle. "The sabbatical, the move to this quaint little town, and now—" she gestured toward me, "—the girlfriend young enough to be your daughter. It's textbook, darling. I’ll pray for you to get over this unbecoming spell quickly."
Heat flooded my face. Obviously we'd known about our age difference from the beginning but hearing it framed so cruelly made something inside me shrink.
"That's enough, Adrienne." Rhett's tone left no room for argument. "My life choices are no longer your concern."
"They are when they affect our children." She stepped closer. "Eliza called me, concerned about your... state of mind."
"Eliza speaks to me directly when she has concerns."
"Does she?" Adrienne's perfectly shaped eyebrow arched. "Perhaps you've been too distracted to notice her discomfort with your new... situation out here."
I felt Rhett wavering beside me, doubt clouding his features. This was clearly a practiced dynamic between them—her insinuations, his guilt. Before I could think better of it, I slipped my arm through his.
"Ms. Whitney," I said, keeping my voice level, "I understand you're concerned for your children. That's admirable. But they're adults, and so is Rhett. Maybe trust that they can navigate their relationship without interference?"
Her eyes widened slightly, clearly not expecting pushback from me. "My dear, I've known my husband—excuse me, my ex-husband—for over 25 years. This rebellion of his never last. He always returns to what he knows. Small-town life and... short-term flings are merely temporary distractions."
"Then you have nothing to worry about," I replied with a sweetness that didn't reach my eyes. "If I'm just a distraction, I'm sure he'll tire of me quickly."
"Adrienne," Rhett interrupted, his voice steady now. "I appreciate your concern, misplaced as it is. But I'm exactly where I want to be, with exactly who I want to be with."
His words steadied me, even as I reminded myself this was just part of our fake relationship arrangement.
"If you'll excuse us," he continued, "we have an event to run."
Adrienne's lips tightened and nostrils flared. "We need to catch up before the gala, Rhett. Privately.”
"I'm afraid I don’t have the time," Rhett replied, guiding me away with a hand at the small of my back. I could feel Adrienne's gaze boring into our backs as we walked toward the entrance.
"I'm sorry about that," he said quietly once we were out of earshot.
"Don't be. She was awful to you."
"She's always been strategic."
"That's a diplomatic way of saying 'manipulative.'" I glanced back to see her still watching us, phone pressed to her ear. "I have a feeling this isn't over."
"It never is with Adrienne." He dragged a hand through his hair. "I should warn you, she'll probably dig into your background, looking for leverage."
"She won't find much. I'm pretty boring beyond my colorful sweater collection."
That earned me a small smile, but his eyes remained troubled. "I didn't know Eliza had concerns."
"Hey." I touched his arm. "If your daughter had serious concerns, wouldn't she talk to you directly?"
"Usually." He sighed. "At least I hope she would."
I squeezed his hand. "Talk to her yourself if you're worried."
He inclined his head, then seemed to make a decision. "Want to get out of here?"
I glanced around at the event in full swing. Volunteers staffed every station, the mayor was handling the welcome booth, and donation jars were already half full. "Everything's running smoothly. We could slip away for a bit."
"I have a better idea. Let's leave entirely."
"What? I can't just abandon the event."
"You've done all the hard work. Everyone knows what to do." He took my hands in his. "After that encounter with Adrienne, neither of us will enjoy staying."
He had a point. The prospect of watching for Adrienne's reappearance would drain any pleasure from the evening. "Where would we go?"
"My house. It's quiet, private." He paused. "We could order takeout, recover from this unpleasantness."
The invitation hung between us, weighted with possibility after last night's interrupted moment. Part of me knew I should decline—maintain the boundaries we'd just reaffirmed. But a stronger part wanted to see where he lived, to be alone with him without pretense or performance.
"Chinese food?" I suggested, making my decision.
Relief and something darker flickered across his face. "I know a place that delivers."
Thirty minutes later, we pulled up to a small cottage overlooking the harbor.
Stone chimney, weathered shingles, a porch wrapping around the waterside—classic Cape Cod architecture made intimate by its modest size.
Inside, the furnishings were minimal—a leather couch showing signs of rental wear, a coffee table with medical journals stacked neatly to one side, bookshelves with medical texts interspersed with a few paperback thrillers.
No personal touches beyond a single framed photo of his children and mother on the mantel.
"It's a rental," he explained, noticing my assessment. "Didn't see the point in decorating."
"It's nice. Great view." I walked to the windows facing the water, watching boats bobbing gently in the moonlight. "Peaceful."
He moved to stand beside me, not touching but close enough that I could feel his warmth. "I come here sometimes, just to look at the water. Helps me think."
"About what?"
"The future. What comes next."
I turned to face him. "Have you figured it out yet?"
"Not entirely." His eyes met mine. "But I'm starting to see possibilities I hadn't considered before."
The space between us hummed with expectation. I should have stepped back, changed the subject, maintained the line we'd nearly crossed last night. Instead, I found myself asking, "What kind of possibilities?"
His gaze dropped to my mouth. "The kind that make me reconsider everything I thought I wanted."
Before I could respond, the doorbell chimed. "That's the delivery," he said, the moment suspended. "I'll be right back."
While he went to the door, I slipped off my coat and boots, trying to calm my racing heart. This was dangerous territory. We'd already agreed our kiss was a mistake, yet here I was, alone in his cottage, wanting nothing more than to pick up where we'd left off.
He returned with paper bags fragrant with garlic and spice. We arranged containers on the coffee table—kung pao chicken, vegetable lo mein, steamed dumplings—and settled on the couch, closer than necessary.
"So," I said, breaking open my chopsticks, "tell me something I don't know about you."
"Like what?"
"Anything. Something not in your professional bio."
He considered, twirling noodles. "I wanted to be a pilot before I decided on medicine."
"Really? What changed your mind?"
"My father started having heart problems." His expression softened with memory. "I spent a lot of time in hospitals, watching doctors work. Seeing them diagnose the issue, implement solutions—it resonated with how my mind works. I wanted that ability to repair what was broken."
"Is that why you chose cardiothoracic surgery?"
He dipped his head in agreement. "The heart is fascinating—this complex, essential machine that keeps everything else functioning. When it fails, nothing else matters."
"That's wonderful," I said, genuinely moved. "Most people fall into their careers. You found a calling."
"What about you?" He turned the question back to me. "Did you always want to plan events and run marketing campaigns?"
"God, no." I laughed. "I wanted to be an artist. I majored in graphic design, but the job market was awful when I graduated. Started doing social media for friends' small businesses, and it just... grew from there."
"Do you still create art?"
"Sometimes. Mostly digital now." I speared a piece of chicken. "My family thinks my career is a phase—that eventually I'll 'get serious' and join my father's law firm or get an MBA."
"But you love what you do."
"I do." I met his gaze. "It matters to me, bringing people together to support worthy causes they care about, helping small businesses find their audience. It might not be saving lives, but it feels meaningful."
"It is meaningful." His fingers brushed against mine on the couch between us. "You’re doing good work, Piper.”
Something shifted in the air, the casual conversation deepening into territory that felt both frightening and inevitable. His thumb traced circles on my palm, sending shivers up my arm.
"Rhett..." I began, not entirely sure what I wanted to say.
"I know we agreed to keep things simple," he said quietly. "And I meant it. But I can't stop thinking about last night."
"Neither can I."
His free hand came up to cup my cheek. "Tell me to stop, and I will."
I leaned into his touch. "I don't want you to stop."
This time there was no hesitation. His mouth found mine with certainty, the kiss immediately deeper, more urgent than the night before. I shifted closer, my hands sliding around his neck as his arms wrapped around me, pulling me against him.
Unlike our kiss in Town Hall, this had no audience, no interruptions, no reason to hold back. I moved to straddle his lap, his hands supporting my hips as I pressed against him. The low sound he made when I rocked forward ignited a molten ache between my thighs.
"Bedroom?" he asked, his voice rough against my throat.
"Yes."
He stood, lifting me with him, and I wrapped my legs around his waist as he carried me down the short hallway.
The bedroom matched the rest of the cottage in its simplicity—navy bedding with no decorative pillows, bedside table with a lamp and paperback, dresser with nothing on top.
He laid me gently on the bed, coming down beside me, his weight supported on one arm as he looked at me with an intensity that made my heart race.
"You're sure?" he asked, his fingers tracing the curve of my jaw with such tenderness it almost undid me.