Chapter 36
Morgan
Rory doesn’t come into the bar after visiting her grandma, though she does message the group text with me and my neighbor to tell us she’s home and she’ll take care of Princess tonight.
The bar’s decently busy—the last gasp of leaf peepers.
It’s been a long peak this year, since the forecasted rain held off.
Two years ago, the leaves peaked on a Wednesday and a storm rolled through Friday morning, blowing the red, orange, and yellow leaves through the streets like party confetti.
Next we’ll have a big lull until the temperature drops enough to make snow and the ski season starts.
It’s not just locals though—Kit’s here, too, and he brought a woman in with him.
It takes me a minute to realize who it is—name redacted so I don’t get sued—but she’s wearing enough of a disguise that I only recognize her because I know she’s in town.
No one else would look twice at her and think, “Oh my god, isn’t she famous for—”
Shit. I probably gave too much away.
Anyhoo, they’re sitting with Hunter, and I wonder if Hunter has any clue who he’s talking to.
I worry about Kit, though. The more I watch them the more I think there’s something there, and if there is, it’s bound to be doomed. Why would she even be in Here, New York? It makes no sense.
I shake my head at myself. I do believe that everyone belongs Here, just like our town motto claims, but that might be stretching it too far. I’m lucky to have found Rory.
The night wraps up and I go home. Barty greets me with a soft meow from his loaf on the kitchen island and I get ready for bed as quietly as possible, discovering Princess lying on the comforter with Rory.
Not for long.
Rory rolls over to me and she’s so warm and soft in her sleepiness, and after a few kisses, Princess hops off the bed in a huff while I get on my knees on the floor and drag Rory’s ass to the edge.
With our schedules so different, we might have to get used to sleepy sex. I throw Rory’s legs over my shoulders and I’m not even sure she mutters a coherent word or has opened her eyes before a quiet, shuddering orgasm takes over her body.
I crawl up the bed and pull her toward me.
“Go back to sleep,” I whisper in her ear.
But she doesn’t. She pulls me to her and then reaches across to the nightstand, fumbling for a condom.
She puts it on and I enter her, rocking slow and steady, her leg thrown over my hip.
We’re connected, mouth, chest, hips. Legs tangled. Fingers knotted together.
I don’t do a good job keeping it together, mostly because Rory refuses to let go of my hand so I can play with her clit and give her another orgasm. Mine rolls over me in waves, and I press deep inside her as I come.
Rory rolls off the bed to clean up, and I feel bad that she’s had to wake up enough to clean up. But she was the one that grabbed the condom, and, boy, I am not turning her down.
When she’s done, I clean up too and then get back into bed. Princess is snoring from the floor and Rory’s curled up on her side. I let her sleep, carefully draping an arm over her and vowing to make up for the missing orgasm in the morning.
When I get up in the actual daylight-infused morning, the bed is empty. Princess is curled up by the door looking at me expectantly, waiting to be let out.
I let her out in the backyard and go to the bathroom myself. The house is quiet, Rory’s not home.
I let Princess in and walk through the den back into the kitchen. Then I stop. I retrace my steps, backing up until I can see the corner of the den where Bartholomeow’s litter box should be sitting.
It’s not there.
I take a brisk walk through the house now, more awake than before. “Barty?” I call out. He typically hides in the mornings, more of a night owl cat than a morning cat. But all his stuff is gone.
I text Rory.
My Queen
Where’s Barty?
She doesn’t respond right away so I put my phone down and feed Princess, making breakfast for myself, too.
Soon a car door slams and Rory stomps up to the back door.
I put my spoon down. “Hey.”
“Hey,” she returns, hands in her pockets. Rory bites her lip.
“Where’s Barty?” My heartbeat has picked up, a feeling of dread hitting my gut. My gut is dramatic as hell.
I hope.
“I took him back to Grandma’s. We had a talk yesterday and . . . well.” Her eyes are down on her shoes. “I’m sorry.” She finally looks up at me and her eyes are bright.
“Why?”
She takes her hands out of her pocket and looks down at the ring on her finger. It catches the light, and she runs the finger of her opposite hand over it, around the band before gripping it and pulling it off.
“I never should have said yes to your proposal. It was reckless and stupid, and now Grandma’s found out about our lie and she’s pissed. She’s also . . . she’s moving to Boston.”
Rory holds the ring out toward me. I don’t take it.
She steps forward and sets the ring on the kitchen island between us. My stomach drops as she says, “I’m going with her.”
Her hands go back in her pockets and we both stare at the ring.
I move toward her, but she holds up her hand.
“Don’t. I just . . . I promised her that she had to give it six months, and those six months are nearly up, and now I have to move with her.
And this way”—she gestures toward the ring—“you can do that thing with your friends to buy the ski place.”
“I’d rather have you than this diamond ring. I’d rather have you than the lodge.”
Rory breaks, her eyes flashing with pent-up emotions. It’s not the ideal response, I’ll admit. “Don’t say that!” she shouts at me, throwing her hands to the side. “Grandma is the only family I have. She loves me, albeit in her own way, and I lied to her.”
Rory takes a deep, shuddering breath. “So now I’m going to go pack my things. I don’t know when Grandma’s going to be able to move, but at least my stuff will be all in one place and I don’t have to—” She cuts herself off.
She doesn’t have to what? Be with me?
There’s a honk from the driveway. Shit. It’s Kit coming to pick me up for a cleaning job. I groan out loud, squeezing my eyes shut. When I open them again, Rory’s gone, and I can hear her packing her things up in the guest room.
Princess whines and I look out the window at Kit in the driveway. He waves.
“Gimme two,” I say, holding up two fingers. He nods.
I dart to my room and throw some jeans on. This is a regular cleaning job, not a washboard one, so I shout at Rory, hopping on one leg and then the other. “Let’s talk about this.”
“If you figure out how to teleport to Boston to see me, sure.”
“We can do long distance. It’s like . . . three hours away.”
“You work seven days a week.”
“I’ll quit my job,” I impulsively shout. I grab a clean shirt from the laundry pile and throw it on.
Rory doesn’t respond for a moment, and when I finish pulling my socks on, she’s standing in the doorway. “Then you’ll never get your own bar and you’ll leave your best friend in the lurch. I live wherever Grandma is, and you live here. Face it, our fake engagement was doomed from the start.”