Chapter 8
Julie
I ’m elbow-deep in pastry dough when Sophie breezes through the front door of Seaside Sweets like she owns the place. The bell jingles overhead, and her heels click across the tile with dramatic flair. She’s dressed in wine-country casual.
"Julie, please tell me you didn’t forget what tonight is," she says, leaning against the counter and snagging a mini fruit tart without asking.
"If by 'forget' you mean 'I know it’s game night and I’m trying to find a way to fake the flu,' then no, I didn’t forget."
Sophie rolls her eyes and pops the tart into her mouth. "Monopoly, babe. Don’t bail. Joselyn already threatened to flip the board if she lands on Free Parking and it’s empty again. We need your optimism, and your baked goods," she adds with a wink.
"What time?" I ask, already mentally cataloging what I can whip up after closing.
"Seven. At the winery barn. And bring a date."
I blink. "A date? Why do I need a date?"
She shrugs, casual as you please. "Why not? Everyone else is coupled up. Joselyn’s bringing Brennen, Emma’s dragging Miles away from his wine cellar, and I think Candace might bring Ryan if he gets back from the city in time. I’m not saying it has to be romantic... but come on, live a little."
I laugh, rolling my eyes. "Where exactly am I supposed to find a date in the next ten hours? Should I hold open interviews at the espresso bar?"
"Only if you want to put me in charge of screening candidates. I have a very thorough questionnaire." She grins and heads toward the door. "Think about it. I expect muffins and a man tonight. In that order."
She disappears with a swish of her skirt, and I stare after her, shaking my head.
A date. Yeah, right, but the thought lingers as I move through the rest of the morning rush.
It lingers right up until the bell over the door chimes again, and in walks Marcus. Dressed in jeans and a dark gray T-shirt that fits a little too well. Not in uniform today.
My heart does a little dance that I pretend not to notice.
"Are you off today or undercover?" I ask, trying to sound casual as I wipe my hands on my apron.
He nods, stepping up to the counter. "Off but I still wanted my usual."
Still wanted to see me. That’s what he doesn’t say, hopefully, but it’s written in the way his gaze lingers on me, a flicker softer than usual.
"Raspberry danish and black coffee, right?" I ask, reaching for the pastry before he can answer.
"Do you remember everyone’s order or just mine?"
"It’s not exactly an unpredictable order," I tease.
He huffs a sound that might be a laugh, and I feel absurdly victorious.
I pour his coffee and slide it across the counter with the pastry. "Hey, random question... What are you doing tonight?" I ask before I can second guess myself.
Marcus raises an eyebrow, suspicion flickering in those serious blue eyes. "Why?"
"There’s a game night at the winery barn. Monopoly. It’s pretty laid-back… except for Ryan. Lots of yelling, a few temper tantrums, and some wine. And, uh, Sophie told me to bring a date. Not that you have to be a date," I add quickly. "You could just sit there looking intimidating. That sort of thing."
He stares at me for a beat, and I immediately regret saying anything.
Then he says, "What time do I pick you up?"
I blink, my heart stuttering. "Seriously?"
"If you’re asking, I assume you want me there."
"I do," I say before I lose my courage.
His jaw ticks once. "Then I’ll be there."
I smile, warm and wide. "Seven. There’ll be muffins."
He picks up his coffee and danish. "Guess I’ll see you then."
As he walks out, the bell jingling softly in his wake, I press a hand to my chest and try to calm the ridiculous fluttering beneath my ribs.
Marcus King is coming to game night… With me.
* * *
It’s nearly closing time, and the scent of warm cinnamon and brown sugar still lingers in the air. I’ve wiped down the counter twice, restocked the napkins, and finished labeling tomorrow’s pastry selections, but there’s still a buzz in my chest that has nothing to do with the sugar. It’s game night at the winery tonight—Monopoly, according to Sophie—and I may have invited Marcus.
May have. Definitely did.
I still can’t believe he said yes.
The bell above the door chimes and I glance up, expecting a last-minute coffee drinker or someone desperate for a cookie fix before dinner. Instead, it’s Desirae Russell, owner of Coastal Couture, the local bridal boutique and dressmaker extraordinaire.
She’s as poised as ever, dressed in a flowing plum wrap dress that makes her look like she stepped out of a high-fashion spread, not Main Street Pelican Point. Her long black hair is immaculate, and she smiles warmly as she steps inside.
"You’re cutting it close," I tease, reaching for the nearly empty pastry tray.
"I like to live on the edge," she replies with a wink. "And I heard a rumor that your blueberry scones are back. I need one if I’m going to survive this afternoon’s fitting marathon."
"You’re in luck," I say, sliding a plate across the counter. "Last one. You want coffee with it?"
"Yes, please. Half-caf if you have it. My hands are already shaking from the three espressos I inhaled earlier today."
As I pour her drink, an idea begins to form. Something I’ve been meaning to figure out for days but haven’t had the time—or emotional energy—to face.
"Desirae," I say, placing her coffee on the counter and swallowing back the lump rising in my throat, "I know this is super last-minute, and I totally understand if you're too busy, but... I need something to wear to Mrs. Waverly’s funeral."
She stills, her expression softening. "Of course you do."
I fidget with the edge of my apron. "It’s just... I want to honor her. I want something that’s simple, respectful. But still... nice. She always said dressing well was a form of respect."
Desirae smiles, the corners of her eyes creasing. "She wasn’t wrong. That woman had a better wardrobe at eighty than most twenty-year-olds."
I laugh softly. "She really did."
"I have just the thing," Desirae says. "It’s in my studio right now. Black, soft crepe, elegant neckline. Classy, but not flashy with beautiful flowers. And it has pockets."
My eyes widen. "Pockets?"
"Obviously. We’re not savages."
I feel the weight ease from my shoulders a little, and I smile gratefully. "Thank you. Really. That means a lot."
She pats my hand gently. "I’ll drop it by in the next day or two. You just focus on taking care of yourself, okay?"
"Trying," I say with a small sigh. "Some days are easier than others."
Desirae nods knowingly. "Grief is like a wave. Just when you think you’re steady, it crashes all over again."
My cellphone rings and my excitement at the name on the display must be apparent. It’s Marcus.
Desirae eyes me with a twinkle. "And speaking of unexpected sweetness..." she murmurs under her breath.
"Don’t you start, too," I whisper back, cheeks heating as I swipe the green bar.
She grins, grabs her scone and coffee, and heads for the door. "Bye, darling. You’re glowing."
“Hi there,” I answer my phone as I wave off Desirae.
"Busy day?"
"Not too bad. It’s almost closing time." That low heat stirs between us again even over the phone. It’s not overwhelming, but enough to make me feel alive.
"Are you canceling on me or are you still coming tonight?" I ask casually, pretending my heart isn’t trying to beat out of my chest.
He laughs. "I’m definitely not canceling tonight. I called for your address. I could look it up on my work computer, but that would be creepy/stalkerish, so I chose to call the bakery number instead."
I grin even though he can’t see me. "You’re right. That would be creepy. I live at 523 Pelican Way.”
“Got it. I’ll pick you up at seven, we can walk from there.”
“Great. And don’t expect me to go easy on you during Monopoly. I plan to win."
"I figured," he says, laughter in his voice. "Should I bring bail money?"
"You’ll need it when I keep sending you to jail."
He chuckles, “I’ll see you soon.”
I’m already counting the minutes until then.
* * *
Since its inception a couple months ago, game night at the winery has been equal parts tradition, chaos, and unfiltered trash talk, and tonight is no exception.
The Celtic Knot Winery barn has been transformed into its usual game night setup—a long wooden table, folding chairs of various comfort levels, and a ridiculous number of snacks that Candace insists are all gluten-free and organic, but I’m ninety percent sure Sophie smuggled in a tub of nacho cheese.
The scent of pepperoni rolls and Sauvignon Blanc floats in the air, and everyone’s already here when Marcus and I arrive.
Ryan’s already pacing behind the banker’s seat, rolling his shoulders like he’s about to enter a UFC ring. “Tonight’s the night I dominate the board,” he declares, cracking his knuckles. “No mercy.”
Emma sips her wine with the air of someone who’s been through this routine before. “That’s what you said last time. You’ve lost every game we’ve played. Last time, you lost to Joselyn.”
“Beginner’s luck,” Ryan fires back.
Sophie laughs and tosses a pillow at him. “You realize you’re a literal billionaire, and yet, Monopoly is the hill you’re gonna die on?”
Marcus is quiet beside me, arms crossed, leaning back in his chair like he’s evaluating a threat assessment rather than a board game. He hasn’t said much since we walked in, but he’s here with me—which in itself feels like a minor miracle. And he hasn't fled yet… yet.
“Do you play often?” I ask, nudging him with my elbow.
He gives me a side-eye. “Monopoly? Last time I played, I was ten and it ended in a shouting match over fake rent and a mysteriously missing dog token.”
“Oh, the dog always disappears,” I say with mock solemnity. “It’s cursed. Like the Hope Diamond of Monopoly.”
He almost—almost—smiles. It’s subtle, but the corner of his mouth twitches.
The game begins and it doesn’t take long for it to spiral into chaos.
Miles hoards the railroads like it’s his job. Brennen buys every utility and then gleefully charges us extortionate rates. Sophie pretends not to care until she builds three houses on Virginia Avenue and casually bankrupts Alex with a sweet kiss and zero remorse.
“Babe,” he groans.
“Don’t hate the play-ah , hate the game,” she chirps, collecting all his properties.
Joselyn and Candace team up unofficially, managing trades like Wall Street sharks. Candace even has a spreadsheet open on her phone. I think she’s doing ROI calculations.
Meanwhile, Marcus and I quietly accumulate properties. Well, I try to play smart. He… somehow lands on free parking three times in a row, wins every community chest, and hasn’t paid rent once.
“You’re cheating,” Ryan mutters, squinting at Marcus.
“I’m lucky,” Marcus says, deadpan, not intimidated in the least.
“That’s worse.”
But the real show? Emma. She’s calm. Focused. Silent. Until she drops the bomb.
“Well, look at that,” she says sweetly, fanning her play money. “I now own Boardwalk, Park Place, and all the yellows. Ryan, my dearest big brother, looks like you’ve landed on one of my properties.”
Ryan stares at the board. Then at his stack of crumpled bills. Then back at Emma. “How much?” he grinds out.
Emma grins. “With hotels? That’ll be… all of it. Your cash, your properties, your pride.”
The room holds its collective breath.
Ryan, with dramatic flair only he could pull off, slams both hands down on the table. The Monopoly board goes flying—pieces, cards, dice, and play money soaring through the air like confetti at a loser’s parade.
“NO!” he shouts. “I will not be bankrupted by my little sister!”
Everyone explodes in laughter.
“You already are,” Miles cackles, falling back in his chair beaming proudly at his wife.
“I own a ton of companies!” Ryan bellows, pointing at the ceiling. “I negotiate billion-dollar deals quarterly!”
“And you lost to a girl with a wine stain on her shirt,” Emma says smugly, sipping her cabernet as she tries to brush the wine stain off her pink tank top.
“Best. Night. Ever,” Sophie says, snapping a picture of the chaos on her phone. “This is going on the winery’s Insta.”
Even Marcus chuckles. A real, actual laugh. Low and quiet, but there. It makes my heart flutter.
The game ends—well, implodes is more accurate—but nobody’s mad. It’s as if tonight was just a prop to watch Ryan unravel and it worked. Through all of it, no one brought up the attempted rubbery and I’m so thankful for that.
We start packing up, and I gather the dice and game pieces scattered across the floor. Marcus kneels beside me, plucking a tiny green house from beneath the table.
“Somehow, I feel like this is exactly what Monopoly was intended to be,” I say, placing Chance cards back in the box.
“A cautionary tale about picking on your family members?”
“Exactly.”
He stands, grabs the extra trays of snacks and unopened bottles of sparkling water from the side table. “Where does this go?”
“You don’t have to carry that?—”
“I know.” He shrugs. “Still offering.”
I nod and lead the way out into the main winery building, the cool breeze skimming across my skin and making me hyper-aware of Marcus walking next to me. His shoulder brushes mine as we load everything inside.
He doesn’t edge away.
“Thanks for coming tonight,” I say, closing the door to the barn gently.
He nods, his eyes catching mine. “It wasn’t as bad as I expected.”
“Oh, high praise,” I tease, laughing softly.
A breath of silence stretches between us. And something shifts.
He leans against the doorframe, arms folded, eyes on mine. “You’re… easy to be around.”
The words are simple, but they punch straight through my chest. For someone like Marcus—quiet, closed off—that’s practically a love letter.
I step closer. “And you’re… complicated. But I like that.”
The air between us charges, electric and intimate. I’m suddenly aware of the space—small, close, breathless.
He doesn’t kiss me, but he takes my hand, sending chills through my entire body. “Let me walk you home.” He pulls me along and I’m silently dancing in my head.