Chapter 15
Stephanie stepped out into the warm night air and the bar door swung shut behind them, slicing off the steady beat of the music still drifting from inside Lola’s.
Casey walked beside her, hands in her pockets, moving with her usual easy confidence. Stephanie matched her pace. The rum had loosened her thoughts without affecting her balance.
Her mind kept returning to the bar. The way Casey had slid an arm around her waist when Ash appeared. The easy claim of it. The pretend story had been born of panic, yet Casey’s hand had stayed in hers all the way back to the stools.
Stephanie had felt every detail of that contact. The warmth of Casey’s palm. The way their fingers had settled together without awkwardness. Being near Casey felt uncomplicated in a way nothing had for years.
She stole another glance at her, unable to stop herself.
Casey’s halter top left those strong, tanned shoulders completely bare, the faint gleam of salt-kissed skin catching the last of the streetlight as they walked.
The sight settled low in Stephanie’s stomach, sending unfamiliar ripples through her.
She looked away just as quickly, fixing her eyes on the cracked sidewalk ahead, but it was too late.
Her chest had gone tight again, that same low, insistent squeeze she had felt back at the bar when Casey had said, half laughing, that she might be exactly her type.
The words had settled under her ribs then and refused to leave, warm and dangerous and far too welcome.
The rum was not helping. It had softened the edges of everything except this sharp awareness of the woman beside her. The faint brush of their arms every few steps. The quiet rhythm of Casey’s breathing that somehow matched her own. Stephanie’s pulse beat too hard against her throat.
Twenty years with Gary and her body had never responded like this.
She had convinced herself that kind of restless heat belonged only in films or in other people’s lives.
Now it hummed through her veins in the warm Key West night, stubborn and undeniable, all of it pointing toward Casey.
Toward Casey, who had a rule about unavailable women.
Toward Casey, who believed Stephanie was straight.
Everyone believed that. Stephanie had believed it too, until tonight.
They would be home soon. The cottages were already visible up ahead, yellow porch lights glowing like small beacons.
Hers and Casey’s, side by side, separated only by a low fence and the shared murmur of that courtyard pool.
The memory returned, as it had all evening.
That first night she had stood at the upstairs window with cool wine still sharp on her tongue, looking down into the lit blue water.
The kiss she had watched without meaning to, without looking away fast enough.
Her steps slowed without her meaning them to.
Each one dragged a little more against the worn pavement, as though her body had decided the night could stretch longer if they simply refused to arrive.
Casey matched the new pace effortlessly.
Her bare shoulder brushed the edge of Stephanie’s once, then not again.
The silence between them felt comfortable in a way that unsettled her more than any awkward small talk could have. Stephanie’s head swam gently, not from the drinks she had nursed at Lola’s but from the persistent buzz of awareness that had settled under her skin hours ago and refused to leave.
Her sandal caught on a loose brick. The stumble came without warning.
Before she could steady herself Casey’s arm was around her waist again, pulling her upright.
The contact hit exactly as it had in the bar.
Heat spread through the thin fabric of her blouse, rushing across her ribs and lower, stealing the air from her lungs.
She felt the press of Casey’s side against hers, the solid strength of that arm.
It went everywhere at once. Her knees softened in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol.
Casey held her there a moment longer than necessary, checking. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” The word came out smaller than Stephanie wanted.
Casey’s hand lingered at her hip, then eased away. The absence felt colder than it should have. Stephanie kept walking, heart beating hard against her ribs. The realization settled deeper now, undeniable.
This was real.
This was happening to her.
She was forty-six years old and the woman who had once felt invisible inside her own marriage was walking home beside someone who made every familiar rule feel suddenly borrowed from another life.
The thought should have frightened her more. Instead it sat warm in her stomach, humming beneath the rum and the night air and the quiet sound of their footsteps on the old pavement. She didn’t know what she was going to do with any of it. She only knew she didn’t want this walk to end.