Chapter 23 Coco
TWENTY-THREE
Coco
The room is quiet. Even the birds outside have gone still. It’s the kind that presses in until it almost hums.
This silence always seems to follow a holiday night in this city. I heard people out late, voices drifting down the street long after midnight. That was before drunk Ridge showed up at my door, before the doorbell camera lit up at an hour no one respectable should be awake.
God, I hope my father didn’t have anyone keeping an eye on me.
Ridge’s body is warm beside mine. His arm lies heavy over my waist, anchoring me there, his breathing slow and even against my back.
We both said several times that it was better if he didn’t come here. Smarter. Safer. And still, seeing him standing on my doorstep made something in my chest loosen in a way I hadn’t realized was wound that tight.
Morning light slips in through the curtains, soft and pale, like the world hasn’t decided to start yet. Everything feels suspended. Held.
I don’t want it to end.
I watch him while he sleeps. The hard lines of his face are gone, the tension he carries everywhere else eased for once. His breathing is slow and even, his mouth relaxed in a way I almost don’t recognize.
It’s intimate in a way that touching him while he’s awake never quite is.
I brush my fingers over his forehead, pushing his hair back gently. He doesn’t stir. I want to memorize this version of him, the quiet and the stillness, the fragile calm sitting between us.
His words from last night rise up anyway, uninvited.
I love you.
He said it simply with no buildup or hesitation. Like it was obvious. Like I should have known.
My chest tightens at the thought of it, at how easily it still unravels me.
I’ve replayed that moment a dozen times already, searching for the catch, for the part where I misunderstood. Surely there’s a place where it stops being real.
Because loving him has always felt dangerous. Saying it out loud even more so.
And then the doubt creeps in and snatches it all away before I can truly bask in it. Maybe it was the alcohol.
I’m still turning it over in my head, trying to figure out how to ask without breaking whatever this is, when his breathing shifts. His eyes open, sharp even in sleep’s aftermath.
For a second, he looks disoriented, scanning the room. Then his gaze lands on me, and something in his expression eases.
“Morning,” I say quietly.
The urge to climb on top of him is immediate and distracting. He passed out before I could do much about that last night, and my body has not accepted the delay gracefully.
“Morning,” he murmurs. His voice is rough, unguarded. He stretches slightly, the muscles beneath my hand shifting. “You’ve been up long?”
“A little while.” I sit up and tuck my legs beneath me. “Thinking. Enjoying having you in my bed.”
His brow creases, but he doesn’t interrupt. He just watches me, steady and patient, like he knows something is coming and isn’t trying to stop it.
“Last night,” I say, staring at my hands as they twist the sheet. “What you said… did you mean it?”
The words leave my mouth, and immediately, I know it was a mistake.
There’s a pause long enough that my stomach tightens. When I look up, he’s sitting against the headboard now, expression carefully neutral.
“I don’t say things I don’t mean, Coco,” he says. “Drunk or not.”
The weight of it settles slowly. Ridge doesn’t waste words. I knew that. I just needed to know he wasn’t going to take it back.
“Ridge—”
He shakes his head once. “Don’t. I’m not asking for anything in return. No promises. No speeches.”
I rest my hand on his chest, the steady rhythm beneath my palm grounding me. “I’m glad you said it,” I whisper.
I don’t say anything else. Not yet. I want him to know when I do, that it isn’t a response, or because I have to reciprocate
He watches me for a second longer than necessary, his hand still covering mine, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles across my knuckles.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
I nod.
“If none of this was a factor,” he continues quietly. “Your father. Me. The mess around us. If you weren’t being boxed in or managed or boxed in. What’s the one thing you’ve always wanted to do but never let yourself want out loud?”
The question catches me off guard. Not because it’s invasive, but because no one ever asks me things like that. They ask what I’m doing, who I’m seeing, what my father thinks. They don’t ask what I want when no one is looking.
I hesitate, heat creeping up my neck because saying it out loud is almost indulgent.
“It’s stupid,” I say.
“Try me.”
I glance down at our hands, then back at him. “I always wanted to learn about wine. I don’t mean casually, but properly.” A small breath escapes me.
“That’s cool. I didn’t even know that was a thing. Why don’t you?”
“It just doesn’t really fit. I mean, for one, the sommelier program I really want to do is in California. Sonoma. I like to go online and dream about it, but it’s not realistic.”
“Why not? You should do it.”
I shake my head. “For one, it’s crazy expensive. Not to mention, it’s three months I would have to live on the vineyard. It’s impractical. I know that.”
He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t smile or dismiss it.
“It was just something I thought about,” I add, already retreating. “Not something I’d actually do.”
He nods once, like he’s storing the information, not weighing it. His thumb stills against my hand.
“Thank you for telling me,” he says simply. “I like knowing more about you.”
“We need to get you out of here before someone sees you,” I say, changing the subject. “But not before I give you a proper good morning.”
My hand slides lower, curling around him.
His gaze locks onto mine, intensity snapping into place. “I’m not sneaking around anymore, Coco,” he says. “I’m not hiding like I’ve got something to be ashamed of.”
I still.
“Your father won’t like it,” he continues, his voice firm and deliberate. “I don’t care what he thinks or what he likes. You’re not a kid. You’re a grown woman. If this is what you want, then we do it out in the open. No more hiding.”
My pulse races.
“Ridge, you know how dangerous that could be. My father—” I stop, swallow. “It’s too soon.”
His jaw tightens. “I’m not afraid of him. I’m tired of looking over my shoulder, sneaking around like a teenager. This can’t stay hidden forever if we’re really going to do this. You know that.”
He’s right. I hate that he’s right.
“I’ll figure it out,” I say quietly. “I’ll talk to him when the time is right.”
“The right time doesn’t wait forever.” His voice softens slightly, but the resolve stays. “If you want this, if you want me, then you have to stand up for it.”
The weight of it presses down, smothering the heat that had been building. I still want him. That doesn’t disappear. But something colder slides in beside it.
He’s asking me to choose.
Once I tell my father, there’s no undoing it. No stepping back into the version of my life that existed before Ridge.
It’s him.
Or my father.
Rosie’s Roost sits just off Magazine Street, tucked far enough away that it still feels like ours.
The door sticks for a second when I push it open. Warm air rolls out to meet me, carrying the smell of coffee and something sweet underneath it. The brick walls are close and familiar, the windows narrow enough that the outside world feels kept at a distance.
This morning, the place hums. Conversations overlap. Cups clink against saucers. The espresso machine hisses and sputters behind the counter, relentless and alive. It should be enough to pull me back into myself.
It isn’t.
I sit across from Delphine at our usual corner table, both hands wrapped around a mug I haven’t touched. The ceramic is hot against my palms, steady and solid, grounding in a way I need more than I want. My thoughts don’t slow to match the room.
“So,” Delphine says, studying me over the rim of her cup. “What’s going on? You’ve got that look.”
I lean back in my chair and let out a breath. “It’s Ridge.”
Her brows lift, interest sharpening. She leans forward, elbows on the table. “What about him?”
“He told me he loved me last night. Or very early this morning.”
Her eyebrows shoot up, mouth falling open. “Coco. That’s huge. Let me guess. Another clandestine love-fest in the bunker ends with a declaration of undying devotion?”
“Shh,” I hiss, eyes darting around the café. “No one is supposed to know about that.”
She snorts. “I promise you, if anyone overhears us, they’re not going to assume underground lairs and tortured romance. Why are you so jumpy? I thought you’d be floating.”
“I am,” I say quickly. “I’m thrilled. But it came with something else. One big thing.”
Her mouth curves. “Please tell me it’s not a lifetime vow of sexual servitude.”
“Stop.” I glare at her. “I’m serious.”
She sobers immediately. “Okay. What is it?”
“He didn’t call it an ultimatum,” I say, lowering my voice, “but it felt like one. He says he’s not going to sneak around with me anymore. He said if we’re going to do this, it will have to be in the open.”
Delphine’s expression tightens. She doesn’t rush to fill the silence, and I appreciate that more than I can say.
“It’s only been three weeks since everything,” I continue, glancing around even though no one is paying us any attention. “Three weeks, Del. That’s it.”
“If we’re being precise,” she says gently, “you’ve only been back home barely two weeks.”
“I know,” I snap, then soften. “I know. And somehow, in that time, I’ve fallen in love with him. Don’t ask me how. Or why. But I have. And I don’t know how to explain that to my father. I don’t know how to make him see Ridge as anything other than the man who took his daughter.”
Delphine tilts her head. “You think more time would help?”
“I do. If Ridge would just give it space to let things settle, I think my father might come around eventually. But Ridge doesn’t see it that way. He shut it down completely.”