Chapter 7
Eden
I ease the front door closed, wincing at the faintest click of the latch. The house creaks beneath my feet as I creep past Mom’s bedroom.
The hum of her white noise machine seeps through the closed door, masking any other sounds. I can’t tell if Robert is in there with her, and I’m not sure which option is worse.
My skin tingles where Jack’s hands traced paths across my body.
The memory of his mouth on my neck, the solid press of him against me, sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. I pause at the top of the stairs, my free hand unconsciously touching my lips where I can still taste him.
Guilt crashes over me like a wave. Here I am, sneaking in like a teenager, my face raw with beard burn and Jack’s scent clinging to my skin.
If Mom or Robert saw me now, looking thoroughly debauched, what would they think? How could I possibly explain this?
It can’t happen again. It won’t happen again. Just one more week, I tell myself, but the words ring hollow even in my own mind.
My childhood bedroom door squeaks as I push it open, a familiar sound that now feels like an accusation.
I sink onto my childhood bed, the sheets smelling of Mom’s favorite lavender detergent. Somehow, that familiar scent makes everything worse.
She trusts me to support her through this wedding, while I’m secretly falling for the one person I absolutely can’t have.
How can I interfere in their marriage when I’m sneaking around, having sex with my soon-to-be stepbrother?
The hypocrisy of it all threatens to suffocate me. I’m plotting to stop the wedding while betraying Mom’s trust in the worst possible way. What a mess I’ve made. What a terrible daughter I’ve become.
I press my face into the cool pillow, but it doesn’t help. I can still taste him, hear his ragged breathing…
I didn’t wash off Jack’s scent. It’s my secret, and I’m keeping it. The adrenaline still coursing through me needs an outlet.
Rolling off the bed, I pace back and forth across the floorboards. Adrenaline hums through my veins, reminiscent of late-night exam cramming sessions.
Five steps to the window, pivot, seven steps back, avoiding the squeaky spots out of habit.
My eyes land on the photo album on my dresser. I pull it out, flipping to a page with Mom and me at my college graduation.
Her smile radiates pure joy - a smile I don’t remember seeing often with Dad. But it’s the same smile she wears around Robert now. The realization sits uncomfortably in my chest.
Jack’s words from our conversation about the wedding echo in my mind. How awkward it was, discussing something so loaded and difficult. We’re on opposite sides, yet in the same boat.
“Oh Christ,” I mutter, a new worry surfacing. “I haven’t spoken to Dad. Is it too late to send him a message?”
But what would I even say? I don’t want to answer his questions. It’s all so awkward, such a mess. “Forget it,” I decide, pushing the thought away.
Feeling trapped, I rummage through my overnight bag until I find my sketchbook and pencils.
A flurry of snow hits the window, drawing my attention. I grab my sketchbook and settle into the window seat, cocooning myself in a soft blanket and extra pillows.
Wrapped in my favorite fluffy PJs, I feel snug and warm, surrounded by pencils, charcoals, and my thoughts.
The cat, sensing my distress, jumps up to curl beside me. My fingers trail through its soft fur as I open the sketchbook.
For months, my designs have felt hollow - safe, commercial pieces that sell but say nothing. The creative spark that used to drive me has been buried under spreadsheets and profit margins.
The blank page stares up at me. My pencil hovers, then flies across the paper. Rough lines become flowing fabric, structured bodices soften into romantic silhouettes.
A fitted bodice melts into a draped skirt. Architectural seaming adds edge to feminine details.
More ideas crowd in. My hand can barely keep up as I flip to a fresh page, then another. Dresses, jackets, flowing pants that would make any woman feel powerful.
Each design feels more authentically me than anything I’ve created in months.
As I sketch, the tension in my shoulders begins to ease. Here, in this familiar space with pencil in hand, I can almost forget the complications waiting for me come morning. Almost.
My phone buzzes. Jack’s name lights up the screen.
I pause, graphite smudged across my fingers. The clock reads 2:37 AM.
Jack: Still awake?
Me: Need to wind down. You?
Jack: Working on some plans for the bar. What’s keeping you up?
My fingers hover over the sketchbook. These designs feel raw, personal - like pieces of my soul spilled onto paper. I’ve never shown anyone my initial sketches before.
Me: Working on some designs for my fashion line.
Jack: At 3 AM?
Me: Rough ideas. The best ideas come at night.
Jack: Can I see?
I snap a photo of the dress design spread across my lap, hesitate, then hit send before I can second-guess myself.
His response comes instantly.
Damn. That’s incredible.
Me: You’re just saying that.
Jack: I own a bar. No reason to BS about fashion.
I smile, running my fingers over the pencil lines.
Jack: You light up when you talk about creating things. Send me another pic?
A flutter starts in my stomach.
Me: What kind of pic?
The typing bubbles appear and disappear twice before his response comes through.
Jack: Dealer’s choice. But I wouldn’t say no to one with the artist in frame.
Me: Trying to get selfies out of me at 3 AM? Smooth.
Jack: Appreciating talent. And the talented.
Me: Careful. Someone might think you’re flirting.
Jack: Would that be so terrible?
I bite my lip, heat crawling up my neck as I remember his mouth there hours ago.
Me: Probably. Given the circumstances.
Jack: Probably. Still waiting for that pic though.
Me: What kind of pic did you have in mind?
Jack: Surprise me.
I snap a quick photo of another design, this one showing a fitted jacket with architectural details.
There. That’s all you’re getting tonight.
Jack: The jacket’s gorgeous. But I was hoping for something else.
Heat blooms in my chest.
Me: In your dreams.
Jack: Can’t blame a guy for trying. My dreams lately have been pretty interesting.
My fingers trace the collar of my silk pajama top. My thumb hovers over the camera.
It would be so easy to undo a few buttons and give him a peek at what he’s missing. I settle back against the window seat cushions, a wicked smile playing at my lips.
After what we did at the bar, a suggestive photo almost seems tame.
Jack: Still thinking?
Me: Maybe I’m considering options. Though you’ve already seen quite a bit tonight.
I bite my lip, picturing his reaction.
Jack: Don’t remind me. Trying to be good here.
My pencil moves across the fresh page, capturing the strong line of Jack’s jaw, the way his forearms flex as he pours drinks. The steady confidence in his stance behind the bar.
I pause long enough to type out a message.
Me: Thought you could handle a little teasing.
Jack: There’s teasing and there’s torture.
I laugh, turning to my sketchbook where I add shading to the sketch, deepening the shadows beneath his rolled sleeves.
Jack: So about that picture…
Me: Patience.
I smudge the shadows behind him, suggesting the warm glow of those Edison bulbs he pretends to hate.
Jack: Evil woman.
My pencil captures the slight curl at the corner of his mouth when he tries not to smile. The quiet strength in his hands. Jack’s essence emerges from the page - strong, grounded, unexpectedly gentle. Everything I didn’t expect to find in this small town.
Me: Here’s your picture.
I snap a photo of the drawing and send it.
The typing bubbles appear immediately.
Jack: This is incredible, Eden. The way you captured...
Several seconds pass and another message.
Jack: Thank you.
Something warm unfurls in my chest.
Me: Don’t let it go to your head.
Jack: It’s perfect. Although I don’t think my nose is that big.
Me: Artist’s interpretation. Deal with it.
Jack: Gotta say, your hands are pretty talented. Still thinking about how they felt in my hair earlier.
The low burn in my belly intensifies. My fingers tingle with the memory of gripping his hair while he pressed me against the storage room wall.
I can almost hear his voice, low and rough, whispering in my ear.
Me: Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you actually like me.
Jack: Maybe I do. That a problem?
The wall I keep around my heart is crumbling, brick by brick, replaced by something warm and dangerous.
Me: It would be terrible.
Jack: Terrible for both of us. But mostly for me, because I’m the one who has to keep pretending I don’t want to kiss you again.
My fingers hover over the phone. Everything in me wants to tell him I feel the same way.
That what happened tonight at the bar wasn’t simply physical attraction. I glance at my reflection in the window.
My cheeks are flushed, my eyes bright. I look alive, more alive than I’ve felt in months. And it’s all because of him.
Me: We’re going to be family.
Jack: Step-family.
The bubbles appear and disappear.
Jack: You’re killing me, Eden. Every time I see you, every time you text me, you’re all I think about.
Me: Are you always this forward?
Jack: Only with women who draw me looking like a Greek god with a big nose.
A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. I clamp my hand over my mouth, glancing at Mom’s door. But the white noise machine drones on.
Me: You’re terrible.
Jack: You love it.
The playful back-and-forth, the underlying heat, even the way he reads my mind - all feels so right. It’s as if we’ve known each other for years instead of days.
Me: Maybe I just love torturing you.
Jack: Mission accomplished.
I shouldn’t be flirting like this. Jack’s going to be family soon. I press my forehead against the cool window glass.
Me: We shouldn’t be talking about this.
Jack: Already crossed that line. Here we are, texting at 3 AM.
Me: Because we’re both idiots apparently.
Jack: Speak for yourself. I’m making excellent life choices. Like trying to convince a beautiful woman to come to the county fair with me.
I almost drop my phone, my heart doing a stupid little flip at the word “beautiful.”
Coming from Jack, that single word hits different. Maybe because I’ve seen how carefully he chooses his words, how he means what he says.
Jack: Come to the fair with me tomorrow.
I tap my phone against my chin, fighting the smile tugging at my lips.
Me: Let me guess - cotton candy, rigged carnival games, and sketchy rides that probably haven’t passed inspection since 1987?
Jack: Don’t forget the prize-winning pigs.
I roll my eyes, but my fingers are already typing.
Me: Be still my beating heart. Nothing says romance like the smell of livestock.
Jack: Who said anything about romance? Getting the bar’s Christmas tree from my buddy Nico. He runs the tree lot there.
Me: Sure. The tree. Nothing to do with your future stepmom suggesting you show me around?
Jack: Caught that, did you?
I send an eye-rolling emoji.
This man. Honestly.
Me: And you need me there while you’re picking up a tree because...?
Jack: Someone’s gotta hold the ladder while I tie it to my truck.
I trace my finger over the sketch of Jack’s profile. The mental image of his muscles straining under that flannel shirt is distracting.
The typing bubbles appear immediately.
Jack: Is that yes?
I press my forehead against the cool window, staring at the sketches scattered across the window seat.
Soon, I’ll be returning to deadlines, client meetings, and commercial compromises.
This can’t last. In two weeks, I’ll be back in the city. He’ll be my stepbrother.
Jack: I promise the Ferris wheel probably won’t collapse.
Me: Probably?
Jack: Like 85% sure. Maybe 82% after last year’s incident.
A laugh bursts out before I can stop it - loud and unguarded. I clamp my hand over my mouth. Mom’s white noise machine continues its steady rhythm.
I press my forehead against the cool window glass.
“Jack,” I type, then pause.
What can I say? That I want him too? That I can’t stop thinking about him? That I wish things were different?
Before I can finish my thought, there’s a new message.
Jack: I know it’s probably a bad idea. But I can’t help it, Eden. I want you.
A smile tugs at my lips.
Me: Good night, Jack.
Jack: Sweet dreams, Princess. See you tomorrow.
I stare at the words, unable to look away. He wants me. Jack wants me.
And God help me, I want him too.