Chapter 35
T he next week passed in a blur. I got the letter reversing the zoning board’s rejection, along with an actual apology.
It was one sentence long and lukewarm to say the least, but it was printed there in writing, tucked into official letterhead like it mattered.
Victory was mine, legally and technically, and I should have been walking on air. And I was—sort of.
Then there was Fitz. Fucking Fitz. Literal fucking, and figurative fucking, and whatever kind of metaphysical fucking happens when a man lodges himself so completely inside your head that you start hearing his voice in the goddamn grocery store.
He touched me like I was inevitable, kissed me like he already knew the ending, talked about the future like it had a neat little checkbox with my name on it. His wife. His partner. His everything.
But when I sat still long enough—long enough to let the euphoria settle and the real thoughts crawl out from under it—I realized I couldn’t actually picture it.
I couldn’t picture us beyond this, beyond summer vacation.
It was like someone had dumped a thousand puzzle pieces onto the kitchen table without showing me the cover of the box.
Maybe the pieces fit, maybe they didn’t, but I didn’t even know what the picture was supposed to look like when it was done.
And the more I tried to imagine it, the more panicked I felt, fumbling for edge pieces that might not even exist.
So I didn’t imagine it. I didn’t think about August, or where Fitz would be in an impossibly short week or two.
I didn’t think about me being in Bellwater Cove and Fitz and Jack and Jazz packing up and going back to their real lives, far away from Lemondrop Lane.
I didn’t let myself. I buried the questions under everything else—under mornings spent tangled in his sheets, under the lazy drawl of his voice calling me Winslow across the kitchen, under the warm press of his body against mine every night like he could stitch the moment into permanence.
I refused to think past this summer. Hell, I refused to think past this week.
Time was a slippery paradox. I was so damn excited for it to skip ahead to Labor Day, to the bakery opening, to everything I had worked so hard for finally starting.
But at the same time, I wanted to slam on the brakes and stay here forever, stuck in this messy, beautiful, borrowed season.
Because once summer ended, Fitz ended too—at least, the version of him I had right now.
The one who woke me up with kisses and whispered promises and looked at me like I was every goddamn miracle he’d ever prayed for.
I didn’t know how I’d ever be able to let that go.
W e got into it one night, over something so stupid it barely qualified as a fight. Fitz was checking his texts while I was cleaning up the kitchen, humming to myself, half drunk on champagne and sugar. I barely noticed until I heard the chime, saw the way he frowned slightly at the screen.
“Everything okay?” I asked, not really worried.
“Yeah,” he said easily. “Just a reminder. Dentist appointment next Thursday.”
It was so benign. So normal. But it was a piece of real life slipping into the fantasy bubble we’d built this summer.
My brain caught on it, snagged like a sweater on a nail.
Next Thursday. He had a dentist appointment.
In D.C. Which meant he would be back in D.C.
Back to his real life. His real job. His real penthouse apartment, with his real expensive dry cleaning and real conference calls and real. ..everything.
Without me.
I stared at him, feeling the bottom drop out of my stomach, feeling every stupid fantasy I hadn’t let myself look at too closely crumble into dust in my hands.
He must have seen it, the way my face fell, because he set his phone down and crossed the kitchen to me, hands out like he was approaching a wounded animal. “Charlie?—”
“You’re leaving,” I said, before I could stop myself.
He frowned. “I’m not leaving right this second.”
“But you are leaving soon,” I said, hating how brittle my voice sounded. “Next week.”
“That was always the plan, wasn’t it?” he said gently, like he was trying to remind me without hurting me. “Heading back at the end of July…I can’t stay on vacation forever.”
I nodded, arms crossed tight over my chest like I could hold myself together by sheer will. “Right,” I said.
He reached for me, but I stepped back, needing air, needing space, needing something that wasn’t the slow, inevitable unraveling of everything we hadn’t dared name out loud.
And the worst part? The part I couldn’t even admit out loud?
It wasn’t that he was leaving; it was that I didn’t know if he was coming back.
Yes, technically, I knew he would come back for the bakery opening on Labor Day weekend.
I didn’t mean it in a physical sense. I meant the real thing—the real, breathing Fitz who spent all night wrapped around me, who whispered promises into my hair, who touched me like he was making vows I hadn’t even heard yet.
Would that man come back? Or would Fitzgerald Prescott Whitmore III return, buttoned-up and distant and safe, the way he used to be before I ever let myself dream he might be mine?
W e decided to go out for dinner on Tuesday, since everyone was packing and cleaning and getting ready to leave Lemondrop Lane in the morning.
Dinner was at The Pelican Club, the town’s most exclusive restaurant, where everything was seventy-five dollars and tasted like it had been laced with nectar and ambrosia.
We sat at a square table tucked under a massive rattan chandelier, plates of seared scallops, delicate salads with a menagerie of flavors—pickled citrus, crushed pistachios, goat cheese mousse, and a champagne vinaigrette—and freshly baked artisanal bread between us.
The ocean was just a faint pulse beyond the glass windows.
Jazz and Jack were in high spirits—wedding countdown mode, clinking their wine glasses together every few minutes like they were practicing for the big day. I managed smiles, even laughter, as I kept my fingers clenched tight around the stem of my wine glass.
Across from me, Fitz looked edible. Sun-kissed, freshly shaven, white linen shirt rolled to his elbows. I caught him looking at me twice already—soft, private looks like he wanted to undo me in the middle of the restaurant— but he said nothing. He did nothing.
Jack downed the last sips of rosé in his glass and then elbowed Fitz in the ribs, grinning like a drunk best man in training.
“So, Fitz,” Jack said, raising his eyebrows pointedly.
“What’s the timeline here, huh? You’ve got, what, two and a half months before the wedding?
Think you can land yourself a date by then?
Or are you going solo and cruising for bridesmaids? ”
Fitz gave a tight chuckle, scratching the back of his neck. “Gotta love a bridesmaid,” he said, sneaking a smirk at me.
“Come on, man,” Jack pressed. “You could be in a full-blown relationship by mid-October. Maybe even pop a ring on some lucky lady’s finger if you’re feeling crazy. The minister’s already booked—you might as well double-dip.”
Jazz laughed brightly, her gold bangles jingling. “Oh my God, if you fall head over heels, we’ll just hand you the bouquet after I toss it. Instant ceremony. Jack and I will even stick around for photos.”
Fitz’s mouth twisted like he wasn’t sure if he should laugh or throw himself into the ocean.
I stabbed a piece of roasted carrot with my fork so hard the tine bent.
Jack didn’t notice. He was too busy piling on.
“I’m serious, man. Sloane who? It’s time to get back on the horse.
Or the—” he waggled his eyebrows and took a long swig of his beer—“you know, the filly .”
Jazz groaned, laughing into her wine glass. “Jesus, Jack. Filly? You dumbass.” She flicked his shoulder playfully.
Jack just grinned, totally unbothered. “Whatever. Fitz needs to get back in the saddle. He’s better in a relationship. Less of an asshole.”
Fitz gave a half-smirk, half-sigh, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “Thanks,” he said dryly. “But we both know I can be a royal asshole even when I’m madly in love. I’m multi-talented like that.”
Jack roared laughing, reaching across the table to clink glasses with him. “At least you’re self-aware, bro.”
I tried to laugh along, tried to act like this was all fine, totally fine, just another night of jokes at Fitz’s expense, but my throat was tight, my cheeks hot.
I could feel Fitz glance at me—quick, sharp, guilty—but he didn’t say anything more.
He didn’t say I already have someone. He didn’t say I’m already head over heels.
And my heart just kept splitting in two, quietly, under the weight of everything he wouldn’t say.
Jazz giggled, clinking her glass against mine in a mock toast. “And you, Charlie. Maybe you’ll meet someone too. Finally find a guy who deserves you.” I smiled weakly, feeling Fitz’s eyes on me, burning holes through my skin. Again, he didn’t say anything. Didn’t reach for me. Didn’t stop it.
Jack leaned forward, grinning like he was the world’s most inappropriate matchmaker. “I think you need a guy who’s wild like you, sis—someone who actually gets your whole ‘chase the dream, make the croissant, dance in the rain’ vibe.”
Jazz laughed. “Just...no more con artists posing as surfer bros, okay? Your taste is questionable at best.”
I barked out a brittle laugh and knocked back a gulp of my wine. Across the table, Fitz shifted in his chair again, jaw ticking. His napkin twisted tighter between his fists. I could practically see the how much longer am I going to have to endure this rising behind his eyes.
Jack, oblivious, kept going. “You need a guy who’s gonna let you be you. Someone who doesn’t try to make you fit into some box.”
“Yeah,” Jazz agreed, elbowing me lightly. “Someone who wants to build a whole world around you, not clip your wings. ”
I smiled so hard my face hurt. “Sounds dreamy,” I said.
And Fitz—silently fuming behind his polite mask—didn’t say a word.
Didn’t say she already has someone. Didn’t say it’s me.
And that silence said more than anything else could.
I stared down into my wine glass, watching the way the candlelight bent inside it, thinking maybe that was me.
Some distorted reflection, beautiful but impossible to reach.
Across the table, Fitz looked at me like he was dying to say something— anything —and just kept swallowing it down. Because wanting me wasn’t the problem; choosing me out loud was.
The laughter at the table kept bubbling up around me, a cruel, bright soundtrack to the slow implosion happening somewhere deep in my chest. And all I could think was: How long can I live like this? How long before pretending hurt worse than losing him?
W e barely made it through the front door before I was bolting for the stairs, kicking off my shoes with sharp little thuds against the wall. I didn’t even look back to see if he was following.
Of course he was.
“Charlie,” Fitz called behind me, low and urgent. His footsteps thudded across the hall, up the stairs, closer.
I made it to my room and threw the door open harder than necessary, marching inside, ready to slam it shut behind me, but he caught it, slipped through, and closed it softly instead.
I turned on him, my arms crossed, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“You just sat there,” I snapped. “You just sat there while they talked about us finding new people. New futures. Like we’re not already—” My voice cracked and I hated it.
I hated how much I sounded like a girl in love begging for scraps.
Fitz exhaled slowly, raking a hand through his hair. “Charlie, what was I supposed to do? Jack was a bottle of rosé deep and just being silly. It’s not like he actually thinks I’m going to run off to marry some stranger.”
“You were supposed to say something!” I hissed, shoving my hands into my hair. “You were supposed to say ‘actually, I’m already fucking someone, thanks!’ or ‘actually, I’m in love with the girl sitting two feet away!’ or literally anything that sounded like the truth.”
He stepped closer, cautious like he was approaching a wild animal. “You know why I didn’t,” he said evenly.
“Yeah, because of your stupid fucking pact, ” I said, practically spitting the word.
“The one you made when you were a kid swapping stories about getting to second base. Congratulations, Fitz. You’re very loyal to your fifteen-year-old self.
I’m so glad your friendship with my brother matters more than our future. ”
He flinched, and for a second, I thought he was going to yell, or walk away, or shut down the way he used to when he got cornered. But he didn’t. He stepped closer. His voice sharpened.
“Of course I care enough to fight for you,” he said. “Of course I want to fucking claim you. You think I’m doing this because I’m not sure about you? You think I don’t want to stand up in front of Jack and the whole goddamn town and say ‘this girl is mine’?”
I opened my mouth but nothing came out.
He pushed his hand through his hair again, pacing, trying to get the words out before they strangled him.
“I am Jack’s best man, Charlie. And you’re his little sister.
We are standing in the middle of their wedding countdown.
I can’t blow it up right now. I can’t start a war between us when he’s counting on me to stand up there next to him. And you shouldn’t want that either.”
I blinked at him, chest heaving, emotions so tangled I didn’t know whether I wanted to kiss him or punch him. “So what then?” I said, voice shaking. “We just hide until October?”
“We lay low,” he said. “We stay quiet, we don’t start a civil war, and then—after Jack and Jazz are married? After they’ve had their moment? We go public. We deal with whatever fallout there is. Together.”
I hated that it made sense. I hated that he was being calm and rational while my heart was a goddamn wildfire.
He crossed the room to me, slowly, his hands clutching my arms, his forehead dropping to mine. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered. “You hear me, Winslow? I’m not backing out. I’m just asking to wait for the right time.”
I closed my eyes. I wanted to believe I was enough to wait for. But even as I nodded—silent, trembling—I felt the first fissure of doubt open inside my chest. Because love was supposed to be brave. Loud. Unstoppable. And I wasn’t sure how long I could survive being his secret.