3. Prue
CHAPTER THREE
PRUE
B zzzzz
My phone vibrates against my desk, and I nearly drop the fabric sample I've been staring at for the last fifteen minutes without really seeing it. I glance around our open-plan office before sneaking a peek at the screen.
Fox: Still thinking about you on my kitchen counter. It's hard to focus on drywall when all I can see is you coming apart.*
Heat floods my cheeks. It's been three days since I left Cedar Bay and Fox's cabin, with its spectacular views and even more incredible owner.
Three days of trying to convince myself that what happened was just a vacation fling—the kind of hot, no-strings encounter that stays where it belongs: in the past.
Except Fox didn't get that memo.
Bzzzzz
Fox: Too much?
I bite my lip, fingers hovering over the screen.
Me: I'm at WORK. Some of us have professional responsibilities.
His response is immediate.
Fox: So do I. I'm currently holding up a ceiling beam while texting you. Multi-tasking.
I snort, then quickly disguise it as a cough when my business partner Rory glances over at me from her drafting table.
Me: That sounds unsafe. Please don't die because you were sexting me.
Fox: Worth it.
"Whoever's making you smile like that must be something special."
I jump, nearly dropping my phone as Rory materializes beside my desk. She's wearing her designer glasses today, the ones that make her look like an intimidating gallery curator instead of the sweet, slightly chaotic person I know her to be.
"Jesus, Rory. Wear a bell."
She perches on the edge of my desk, completely unapologetic. "So? Who is he? Or she? Or they?"
"Nobody," I say automatically, sliding my phone face-down onto my desk calendar. "Just my sister sending me dog photos."
Rory's perfectly shaped eyebrow arches in disbelief. "Cilla's dogs make you blush like that? Interesting."
"I'm not blushing," I protest, even as the heat intensifies in my cheeks. "It's hot in here."
"It's sixty-eight degrees, exactly like it always is." She leans forward, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Come on, Prue. You've been floating around the office all week with this dreamy look on your face. Something happened in Cedar Bay."
"Nothing happened in Cedar Bay," I lie, shuffling some papers on my desk to look busy. "I visited my sister, helped her settle in, met her new boyfriend, came home. End of story."
Bzzzzz
My phone vibrates again, and Rory's eyes light up like Christmas morning.
"That's your sister again, I suppose?"
I snatch the phone away before she can see the screen. "Don't you have the Hendersons' living room to finish?"
"Already done." She crosses her arms, settling in more comfortably on my desk. "I'm not leaving until you spill. Who. Is. He?"
I sigh, knowing Rory well enough to recognize when she's dug in her heels. She once spent three hours arguing over the exact shade of teal for a client's kitchen backsplash in a supplier's warehouse. The woman is relentless.
"Fine. His name is Fox."
"Fox?" She blinks. "Like, that's his actual name?"
"Yes, and before you say anything, I've already made all the jokes."
"I doubt that." She grins. "So, Fox, what?"
"Carmichael. He's a friend of Rowan's—that's Cilla's boyfriend."
"And?"
"And what?"
She rolls her eyes. "And did you sleep with him? Because that's the vibe I'm getting from your very distracted state and how you're clutching your phone like it contains nuclear launch codes."
I hesitate, weighing my options. Rory is my best friend and business partner. We've been through everything together, from the early days of our fledgling design firm to heartbreaks and family drama. If I can't tell her, who can I tell?
"Yes," I admit finally. "I slept with Fox. It was supposed to be a one-night thing, but then morning happened, and kitchen counters happened."
Her eyes widen. "Kitchen counters? Prudence Griffin, you wild thing! I thought you swore off men after The Dickhead Who Shall Not Be Named."
"I did. I have." I run a hand through my hair, frustrated. "This was just a momentary lapse in judgment."
"A sexy lapse," she points out.
"The sexiest," I confess, unable to stop the smile that spreads across my face. "God, Rory, he was... I don't even have words. And now he won't stop texting me."
"The horror," she deadpans. "A hot guy who wants to keep in touch after sex. How will you survive?"
I glare at her. "You know it's not that simple. I live here. Fox lives there. I'm not looking for a relationship, especially not a long-distance one with a guy I barely know."
"So get to know him better." She shrugs like it's the most obvious solution in the world. "What's he like, anyway? Besides the obvious skills with kitchen counters."
I think about Fox—his quiet intensity, his eyes crinkle when he smiles, and his gentle hands despite their roughness.
"He's... different," I say slowly. "Grumpy, but in a charming way? He builds things—houses, furniture. He's got these calluses on his hands that should not be as sexy as they are. And he makes delicious pancakes."
"Ah yes, the pancake test. Very important." Rory nods sagely, then breaks into a grin. "He sounds perfect for you."
"He's not perfect for me because there is no 'for me,'" I insist. "I'm focusing on the business, remember? The five-year plan? Expansion into commercial spaces? None of that includes getting distracted by a hot carpenter who lives three hours away."
Bzzzzz
My phone vibrates again, and despite my protests, I can't help checking it.
Fox: What are you wearing?
Me: Seriously? That's the best you can do?
Fox: Just wanted to make sure you're properly dressed for Seattle weather. I care about your well-being.
I snort, then look up to find Rory watching me with knowing eyes.
"Yeah, you're totally not into him," she says, sliding off my desk. "Keep telling yourself that, Griffin."
"Don't you have work to do?" I ask pointedly.
"I do, and so do you." She taps the fabric samples I've been neglecting. "The Morgans are coming in at three to finalize their selections, and you haven't even narrowed these down yet. So maybe stop sexting your not-boyfriend long enough to do your job?"
She's right, of course. I've been distracted all week, replaying memories of Fox like my favorite movie scenes. The way he looked at me across the bonfire that first night. How he kissed me against his truck door. The feel of his beard against my inner thighs.
"Fine," I say, picking up the samples again. "I'll focus."
"Good." Rory starts walking back to her desk, then pauses. "But Prue?"
"Hmm?"
"For what it's worth, I haven't seen you this happy in a long time. Maybe don't be so quick to dismiss whatever this is."
I watch her go, her words echoing in my head. Am I happy? The flutter in my stomach when Fox texts certainly feels positive. But being happy is dangerous. Happy leads to expectations, and expectations lead to disappointment.
I've been down that road before. I won't make the same mistake twice.
My phone buzzes again.
Fox: For the record, I miss more than just the sex. I miss talking to you. Even your smartass comments about my coffee.
I stare at the screen, something warm and dangerous unfurling in my chest. Before I can overthink it, I type back:
Me: Your coffee was terrible. I live in Seattle. My coffee standards are high.
Fox: See? That right there. That's what I miss.
Me: I have to work now. Client meeting at 3.
Fox: Go be brilliant. Talk later?
I hesitate, then reply:
Me: Maybe.
It's not a yes. But it's not a no either. And for now, that's all I'm willing to give.
I set my phone down, determined to focus on the fabric swatches for the Morgans' living room redesign. They're particular clients—old money with new ideas—and they've been clear about wanting something "traditional but with an edge, " whatever that means.
After fifteen minutes of actual concentration, I've narrowed it down to three options: a herringbone tweed in muted blue, a textured cream linen, and a subtle geometric pattern that reads as neutral from a distance but reveals complexity up close.
Like people. Simple at first glance, complicated when you get too close.
Kind of like Fox.
Damn it. There he is again, slipping into my thoughts when I least expect it. I grab my coffee mug—empty, of course—and head to our office kitchenette for a refill. Maybe caffeine will help me focus on something besides callused hands and kitchen counters.
"The Morgans called," Rory announces as I pass her desk. "They're running thirty minutes late."
"Great," I mutter, pouring the dark roast that costs too much but tastes like heaven. "More time to overthink fabric."
"More time to tell me about Fox," she counters, swiveling to face me.
I roll my eyes. "There's nothing more to tell."
"Liar. You slept with him, he's texting you, and you're smiling at your phone like it holds the secrets of the universe. There's plenty more to tell."
I take a long sip of coffee, buying time. "It's complicated."
"Of course it is. All the good stuff is." She leans forward. "So what's the real issue here? The distance or your commitment phobia?"
"I do not have commitment phobia," I protest automatically.
"Please. You haven't dated anyone seriously since Alan the Asshat three years ago. You've perfected the three-date maximum rule. You schedule 'work emergencies' when guys get too interested."
"That's not a phobia, that's self-preservation."
"Potato, po-tah-to." She waves dismissively. "The point is, something about this Fox guy has gotten under your skin, and instead of enjoying it, you're already planning your escape route."
I hate how well she knows me.
"Look," I say, leaning against the counter, "even if I were interested—which I'm not saying I am—what's the point? He lives in Cedar Bay. I live here. My life is here. The business is here."
"Cedar Bay is, what, three hours away? People have managed longer distances."
"People like who?"