Chapter 49
RESET
RORIE
I pop my next round of pain meds, chasing it with lukewarm water and a grimace. Not because I need the full dose right this second, but because my thigh is throbbing and my pride is in shreds and I’m tired of pretending that I’m not bothered by that.
Four hours. Like clockwork.
The dull ache says: still human. Still healing.
The sharp one says: he’s still out there.
And then, Nolan is there, standing in the open space that connects our rooms.
No storm in his expression. Only soft eyes, a twitch in his jaw, and a thin hoodie stretched across his built chest because the universe is really leaning into the whole torture Rorie theme tonight.
“You okay?” His voice is rough around the edges like maybe he’s not.
My mouth opens, but I hesitate. I want to tell him I’m fine.
That I’m great. That I’m not actively reliving every second of that ATV crash and the way he didn’t say a word when Thatcher shut him up like a puppet on strings.
And how he doesn’t stand up for himself, or for what’s right when it matters.
I nod. “I’m fine.”
His eyes narrow. He doesn’t buy it. But he doesn’t push it either.
Instead, he steps into my room.
And for the first time in hours, I feel my breathing level out. Maybe this painkiller won’t have to do all the heavy lifting tonight.
“I brought dinner. Thought we could eat outside? I figured the view might be a decent distraction from today.”
The air between us fills with tension-laced silence. His gaze drops to my leg for the briefest second before snapping back up.
I shift on the bed. “Uh, yeah–sure.”
He steps back, revealing a cart covered in silver covered dishes, entrees, desserts, a mini fondue pot situation. And a waffle maker?
I stare at it, then at him.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he says, suddenly sheepish. “So I got everything.”
“This is…” I fight the lump in my throat. “…a lot.”
He gives a small smile. “You can’t say I don’t commit.”
A laugh slips out, surprising even me. “On a ridiculous level.”
He glances toward the glass doors leading to the patio. “But the weather’s perfect. And I figured we could use a reset.”
Reset. The word sends a flurry of emotions surging through me, every single one of them nostalgic.
He wheels the cart out to the veranda and I follow, careful not to wince when my leg twinges. Two oversized lounge chairs face the ocean, draped in shadows and the twinkle of string lights.
The breeze carries a blend of sea salt and rosemary, probably from whatever dish he ordered that looks far too pretty to eat.
Without a word, Nolan moves to adjust one of the chairs. He reaches for a cushion, plumps it with surprising care, then turns back to me.
“Sit,” he orders gently. “Let me help.”
Before I can protest, his hands are already at my side, steady and sure, guiding me down like I’m something fragile. Like he knows I hate being fragile but won’t let that stop him.
Once I’m seated, he crouches beside me, checking the angle of my leg, adjusting the throw blanket he grabbed from inside. It’s too hot outside for that right now, but I don’t tell him that.
“You didn’t have to—”
His honey-glazed gaze finds mine. “I want to, Rorie.”
And when I’m settled, leg propped up just right, blanket tucked around me, starts lifting lids and revealing a feast of foods.
When he lifts another lid off of a serving bowl, he hands me a memory.
Tomato soup. Grilled cheese. My mother humming in the kitchen, the press of her palm against my hair.
Days when I couldn’t say what was wrong, and she didn’t ask, she just fed me this.
He sees me eyeing the soup and says, “Someone really special to me told me it’s really good for comfort.”
Blinking back the tears, I swallow the ache in my chest. “This,” I say softly, “is perfect.”
Nolan doesn’t gloat. He smiles, nods his head. “Good.”
After he’s filled our plates with Mac n’ Cheese, fries, and some other delectable foods, he drops into the chair beside mine with a sigh. He stares out at the waves like he’s been waiting all night to get here.
Neither of us speaks.
But somehow, it says everything.
We settle in. He pours himself a glass of wine. But when he starts to pour me one, I stop him with a hand on his wrist.
“Painkillers.”
He nods, no questions, no judgment. Just sets the bottle down. For a few minutes, we eat, letting the silence do the talking.
“So, are you going to make me one of those famous waffles of yours?”I ask, dipping my grilled cheese into my soup.
“Maybe for dessert.”
Nolan has a handful of fries sitting on his plate. Without thinking, I snatch one, popping it into my mouth before he can protest.
He winks. “Tastes better, am I right?”
The corners of my mouth twitch as I shrug, playing it cool even as heat builds between us.
“Okay, so what now?” I ask, nudging my plate aside.
Nolan leans back in his chair, studying me like he’s mapping out some private strategy. “Now I ask you intrusive questions, and you pretend not to be scared.”
A breeze stirs the napkins on the table, carrying the scent of sea salt and all the things fried and sweet.
I glance at him, caught somewhere between amusement and nerves. “Define ‘intrusive.’”
“Relax.” His grin is all easy trouble. “It’ll be a mildly invasive but well-intentioned interrogation.”
I arch a brow. “Is this the kind of interrogation that makes me overshare? Because, friendly reminder, we do have rules.”
He chuckles. “Pretty sure we shattered half of those by Day Two.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. “You shattered them.”
He flashes a crooked smile. “I warned you.”
“You did.”
He lifts his foot onto my lounge chair and it brushes against mine, sending a spark up my leg.
“So?” Nolan’s voice drops a little, a dare threaded through the word. “You in?”
The air between us thickens with things we aren’t saying.
I match his grin. “Fine. Hit me.”
“Okay, he says,” “what’s something you never tell anyone?”
I surprise myself with how fast I answer. “I dream about running away sometimes. Not in a dramatic, torch-everything kind of way. Just… disappearing. Starting over.”
His eyes don’t flinch. “Why haven’t you?”
“Because I’d still be me wherever I went. And the thing I’m trying to escape isn’t a place—it’s me.”
Nolan doesn’t say anything for a beat, but his eyes never leave mine. He nods, accepting my response. “Okay. That was a big one. You’re brave.”
I scoff, but it means something that he said it. And I can tell he wants to dig into the previous question more, but instead he goes on to the next.
“Next,” he says. “Pizza or music—you can only keep one.”
I gasp. “Monster.”
“Answer the question,” he deadpans. “This could make or break everything between us.”
“Music. Obviously.”
His mouth falls open in exaggerated shock. “Blasphemy.”
“I can’t live without music,” I say, shrugging. “I’d be soulless.”
“Fair point,” he concedes. “Okay, next one. If you could be famous for something dumb, what would it be?”
I take a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “I want to invent the perfect way to reheat fries.” I swipe another one from his plate. “Still crisp, no sogginess.”
“Queen behavior. I respect it.”
“And you?”
“I’d be the guy who finally proves Bigfoot’s real.”
“You don’t believe in Bigfoot.”
He grins. “No, but I like a challenge.”
And just like that, we’re Textually Frustrated and Carl again, laughing. Easy. Warm. Our plates empty, the night curling around us like a warm blanket.
Then he goes quiet.
“I hit Jackson.”
The words are quiet. He doesn’t look at me right away.
“I lost it,” Nolan says. “He tried to laugh off what happened today. Like it didn’t matter—like nearly getting you killed was just... part of the game.”
He pauses. Not for effect, but because the words stick.
“I couldn’t stand it. So I punched him.”
I say nothing. I wait. Let him fill the silence with the truth.
Nolan scrubs a hand down his face. “He threatened to tell Thatcher. Said I’d be finished. And I told him to go ahead. Told him I was done with him, with all of it.”
My pulse ticks up. He just punched his CEO’s nephew. Risked everything he’s worked for—blood, sweat, and ruthless ambition…because of me.
I don’t want him to do this for me.
I want him to do it because he finally understands he deserves better. Being someone’s puppet isn’t the legacy he was meant to leave behind. Fighting for himself shouldn't require a reason outside of him.
He looks over at me, eyes steady. “I had my assistant pull everything. Emails, security footage, texts from his company phone. Turns out the golden boy’s been spreading more than sales pitches around the office. He’s enough to keep HR busy for a decade.”
“And Thatcher?”
“I haven’t told him yet.” Nolan leans forward, forearms braced on his thighs, eyes fixed on the ground.
I can tell the words are heavier than he expected.
“But I will. All of it. I don’t know what he’ll do—maybe he follows through on the blacklisting threat.
If he does, I lose everything I’ve built.
” He looks up, gaze steady now. “But at least I’ll walk out knowing I didn’t sell my soul for a title.
That I said what needed to be said. And did the damn thing right. ”
My shoulders slump. This version of Nolan—fierce, vulnerable, decisive—isn’t just trying to protect me, he’s choosing to step out of the shadows. To stand for something. To fight for himself.
And for me too.
“I’m sorry, Rorie. For everything. For the accounts, for not realizing it sooner. For being so wrapped up in the climb I didn’t see how high the cost was.”
I reach over, my fingers brushing his.
“I get it,” I say. And I do. More than he knows.
His neck turns so he can look at me. “You do?”
I nod. “Yeah. I really do.”
He doesn’t move. Neither do I. But the air between us shifts.
It’s soft. Open.
His eyes narrow. I clear my throat and when I shift, a sharp pull of pain tears through my leg and I hiss.
Nolan’s expression falls instantly. “You’re hurting. And by the blood seeping through, you need to redress that wound.”
I wave him off. “It’s fine. I’ll take care of it.”
It’s what I always say. What I’ve always done.
Take care of it myself.
No one’s ever really stepped in, not for real. Past boyfriends claimed they cared, but when it came down to it, they let me carry everything. Fight the fights. Bandage the wounds. Be the strong one. And I invited that. I wore independence like armor and dared anyone to challenge it.
But Nolan doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t back off.
And it’s doing things to me.
“Rorie,” he says. Just my name. Firm. Commanding.
Something in me wavers.
He understands me. Not just the part I show the world, but the part I keep buried. The tired part. The part that secretly wishes someone would step in without being asked.
“You’ve held up the world long enough,” he says. “Let someone hold you now.”
The words are quiet. Gentle. And they settle in places I didn’t know were hollow.
I don’t argue.
He goes inside, grabs the med kit from the bathroom, and then kneels beside me on the lounge chair like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
His hands move with slow precision, carefully peeling back the bandage.
His warm fingertips graze my skin, and there’s an unfamiliar, soft flutter in my chest.
“This might sting.”
But it doesn’t. Not really. His touch is careful, loving. He cleans the wound with a sort of personal focus. And it hits me that I’m not some temporary person in his life.
God, I want him too.
His brows are drawn, his attention completely on me. It’s not just about the injury, it’s about how much he cares that I’m hurt.
When he presses the new bandage into place, our eyes meet. And for a breathless second, we stay there, frozen in the glow of the string lights, hearts exposed and racing.
He slips in beside me on the lounge chair, pulls another blanket from off the back, and drapes it over both of us.
My body curls toward him on instinct, as if it always knew where it belonged. His arm snakes around me without hesitation, it’s like sunlight after a storm, solid ground after a freefall.
We sit, wrapped in silence. Not empty, but full—of breath, of meaning, of everything we’ve said and everything we don’t need to.