8. Prue
CHAPTER EIGHT
PRUE
" A nd that's why the Henderson kitchen should have an island instead of a peninsula," I finish, placing the concept board on my desk with a flourish. "More counter space, better flow, and it'll make the space feel twice as big."
Rory leans against the doorframe of my office, arms crossed, eyebrow raised in that way that tells me she's not buying what I'm selling. Not the kitchen design—that's flawless—but the casual way I've been avoiding any mention of my upcoming weekend plans.
"Great. Fantastic. The Hendersons will love it," she says, tapping her foot. "Now, can we talk about the fact that you're leaving for Cedar Bay in three hours and haven't packed a single thing?"
I busy myself organizing colored swatches that are already perfectly organized. "I'm a light packer."
"You're a nervous wreck," Rory counters, pushing off the doorframe to perch on the edge of my desk. "This is the third time you've reorganized those swatches today."
"I'm being thorough."
"You're stalling."
I sigh, finally looking up at my best friend and business partner, Rory McLean. She's known me since design school, so she can read me like an open book with extra-large font and illustrations.
"Fine. Yes. I'm nervous." I slump back in my chair. "This is a mistake. Going up there, meeting his friends, seeing his hometown, it's too much, too fast."
"It's been two weeks since your sister's wedding, and you've talked to him every day since."
"Exactly!" I throw my hands up. "Two weeks! That's nothing! And I'm already driving three hours to spend the weekend with him? Who does that?"
"Someone who's falling hard and fast for a hot construction worker with, and I quote, 'hands that should be illegal in at least forty states'?" Rory's grin is insufferable.
"I hate that I told you that." I drop my head into my hands. "God, what am I doing, Rory? I don't do this. I don't fall for guys this quickly. I don't rearrange my schedule to drive to tiny coastal towns. I don't..."
"Care this much?" she finishes gently.
"Yeah." The word comes out smaller than I intended.
Rory's expression softens. She reaches over to squeeze my shoulder. "Look, I get it. After what happened with Alan, you built walls higher than some of the buildings we've designed. But maybe—just maybe—this Fox guy is worth lowering the drawbridge for."
"Or maybe I'll drive up there and realize we have nothing in common outside of incredible chemistry and mutual attraction to each other's siblings." I twist my watch around my wrist, a nervous habit. "Maybe I'm setting myself up for another heartbreak."
"Or maybe you're setting yourself up for something amazing.
" Rory stands, hands on hips. "Prue Griffin, you are the bravest person I know when it comes to everything except your own heart.
You'll take on impossible clients and deadlines, but the minute someone makes you feel something real, you look for the exit. "
"That's not?—"
"It is," she cuts me off. "And you know it.
Now, you have two choices: call Fox and make up some excuse about work, then spend the weekend reorganizing your perfectly organized office while wondering what might have been, or pack your bag, get in your car, and find out if there's something real here. "
I stare at her, trying to formulate a rebuttal that doesn't sound pathetic even to my ears. "What if I get there and realize I want to end things?"
"Then you end things like the grown-ass woman you are." Rory shrugs. "But what if you get there and realize you don't want to?"
The question hangs between us. I think about Fox's voice on the phone last night, the way he described the sunset over the bay that I'd be able to see from his deck. The quiet anticipation in his tone when he told me he'd made dinner reservations at the only decent restaurant in town.
"I'm scared," I admit, the words barely audible.
Rory's face softens. "I know. That's how I know it matters."
She's right, damn her. I push away from my desk, decision made. "Fine. But if this blows up in my face, you're buying the ice cream and wine for the post-mortem."
"Deal. And if it doesn't, I expect a detailed report on whether his bedroom ceiling is as nice as he promised."
I throw a fabric swatch at her, laughing some of the tension off my shoulders. "You're terrible."
"I'm supportive," she corrects, dodging the swatch. "Now go home and pack. And Prue?"
"Yeah?"
"Go with an open mind, okay? Not everyone is going to hurt you like Daniel did."
I nod, my throat suddenly tight. "I'll try."
"That's all I'm asking." She moves toward the door, then turns back with a wicked grin. "Oh, and don't forget to pack that black lace thing you bought last month. The one with the?—"
"Goodbye, Rory!" I call loudly, but I'm smiling as I gather my things.
I've got three hours to pack and drive to Cedar Bay. Three hours to determine if I'm making the biggest mistake of my life or taking the first step toward something I've been too afraid to even want.
No pressure.
I manage to make it back to my apartment in record time, though the Seattle traffic does its best to sabotage me. My mind races faster than my car the entire drive. What am I doing? What am I packing? What am I expecting from this weekend?
My apartment greets me with its familiar, comforting order—the carefully curated furniture arrangement, the color-coordinated bookshelves, the precisely angled artwork—everything in its place, everything controlled.
Unlike my emotions right now.
I pull my weekend bag from the closet, toss it on the bed, and then stand there staring at it as if it might bite. This is ridiculous. I'm a grown woman who has successfully designed homes for some of Seattle's most demanding clients. I can pack a bag for a weekend trip.
"Casual but cute," I mutter, yanking open drawers. "Not trying too hard, but not looking like I rolled out of bed."
I select jeans, sweaters, and a casual dress that could work for dinner, then hesitate at my lingerie drawer. The black lace set Rory mentioned seems to mock me from its neat compartment.
"This doesn't mean anything," I tell the empty room as I stuff it into the side pocket of my bag. "I'm just... being prepared."
My phone buzzes with a text, and my heart does that stupid little flutter when I see Fox's name.
Drive safe. Looking forward to showing you around.
Simple. Direct. No flowery promises or overwrought declarations. It's one of the things I like about him—Fox Carmichael says exactly what he means, no more and no less.
I text back:
Just packing now. Should be there around 7:00.
His response comes quickly:
I'll have dinner ready. Nothing fancy.
I find myself smiling at my phone like a teenager. This is the kind of shit that terrifies me—how easily he makes me smile, how much I look forward to his texts, how often I've caught myself daydreaming about those strong hands and that quiet laugh.
"Get it together, Griffin," I mutter, shoving my toiletry bag into my weekender with more force than necessary.
Forty-five minutes later, I'm on the road, my GPS guiding me toward Cedar Bay. The closer I get, the tighter my chest feels. When I hit the coastal highway, my knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
What if this weekend changes everything? What if it doesn't? What if I'm building this up in my head? What if I'm not building it up enough?
I crack the window, letting the salt air clear my head. The ocean appears in glimpses between the trees, steel gray under the cloudy sky. It's beautiful in that moody, Pacific Northwest way that sometimes catches me off guard, even after years of living here.
"Open mind," I remind myself, echoing Rory's advice. "Just go with an open mind."
The GPS announces my exit, and I take a deep breath.
Cedar Bay welcomes me with a weather-beaten sign featuring a carved cedar tree.
It's the kind of small coastal town that shows up in Hallmark movies—quaint storefronts, a main street that probably hosts parades on holidays, and locals who've known each other since birth.
I follow Fox's directions, turning onto a winding road that hugs the coastline. The houses here are a mix of old fishing cottages and newer, more modern homes with spectacular views of the bay.
His house is near the end of the road—a modest but well-maintained craftsman with a wide front porch and large windows facing the water. As promised, I can see the sun beginning its descent and painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink.
I park behind his truck and sit briefly, hands still on the wheel. This is it. It's my last chance to turn around, head back to Seattle, and pretend I suddenly came down with food poisoning.
Then the front door opens, and Fox steps onto the porch. He's wearing jeans and a simple gray henley, his dark hair slightly tousled like he's been running his hands through it. Even from here, I can see the smile transforming his usually serious face.
He doesn't wave or call out. He stands there, waiting, giving me space to make my choice.
And despite all my doubts, despite the voice in my head screaming about self-preservation and caution, I find myself opening the car door and stepping out.
Open mind, open heart—maybe they're not so different after all.