Chapter 56 Where the Compass Points
WHERE THE COMPASS POINTS
NOLAN
The thing about bridges—
Sometimes you cross them.
Sometimes you burn them.
And sometimes you stand there and watch the whole damn thing collapse under the weight of its own lies.
That’s what happened to Big Stream Marketing.
No bombshell, no scandal. Only the slow, inevitable rot catching up.
Turns out Laurel had been playing a longer game than any of us realized. Apparently her and Thatcher had a little something back in the day. Which he fucked up.
Guess it’s true what they say: Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
And Laurel went full scorched earth.
At the mixology mishap on the island, friendly drinks led to a little harmless flirting, which led to some late night fuckery in his cottage.
Add in a conveniently placed laptop. And phone.
Throw in a dash of the perfect timing, and Laurel didn’t just blow the whistle—she derailed the train then blew up the station, handing the Feds everything they needed.
Stolen client lists. Cooked reports. Shady contracts buried under mountains of NDAs.
Thatcher didn’t see it coming. Arrogance rarely does.
By the time the smoke started rising, Big Stream was already on fire.
Internal audits.
Missing funds.
Clients fleeing like rats off a sinking ship.
Jackson tried to play dumb. He acted like he didn’t know the paperwork he was smoothing over had teeth.
And maybe he didn’t.
It’s possible he was just a fool happy to cash a check and look the other way.
But I doubt it.
Regardless, the fall didn’t spare him.
Big Stream’s golden nephew is currently neck-deep in depositions, clawing for a life raft that doesn’t exist.
And if I’m being completely transparent, I thought Tammy and Imogene were behind it all. Not Laurel. I was sure those reports they pulled for me had something that helped the whistleblowing along.
I asked Tammy about it once, a few months back.
She just smiled innocently and said, “I don’t know a thing about what you’re talking about, Boss.”
Mhm. Sure.
I asked her to pull shit on Thatcher while we were still on the island. I’m pretty sure she did, but kept me far away from it. She’s always been so protective of me. Love her.
Even with the satisfaction of hearing Thatcher’s about to get what’s coming to him, the thought of Big Stream crumbling still stings.
I built that company like it was mine—fighting for every client, every deal, every inch of respect.
And even though Big Stream’s fire died out, we forged something stronger. Rhodes and Co.—born from the burn.
As for Chloe?
When Thatcher’s empire crumbled, she pulled her golden parachute.
Last I heard, she’s trying her luck as a lifestyle coach, selling self-worth one Instagram post at a time.
Poetic, in a way.
And me?
I don’t regret walking away. I don't miss the politics. The fake smiles. The way loyalty there was just another currency waiting to be spent.
Rhodes & Co. is thriving. Tammy’s amazing, as always. Rishi starts next month. And I don’t answer to anyone but myself anymore.
Maybe that’s the best kind of win.
The quiet kind. One you don’t have to shout about.
And now, here I am—in a tiny restaurant tucked into the rainy edges of Seattle, poking half-heartedly at my plate with the tip of my fork, shaking my head like I still can’t believe it. Because I can’t.
“I can’t believe we’re working with a mac and cheese company.”
Across from me, Tammy snorts, stirring sugar into her tea likes she’s mad at it. “Mac and cheese is a billion-dollar industry, Nolan.” She lifts her pinky dramatically. “We’re not sellouts. We’re visionaries.”
I chuckle under my breath. “Visionaries, huh?”
“Absolutely. You think you’ve reached the pinnacle of your career, and then—bam—you’re branding cheese powder dreams.” She leans forward, eyes glittering. “Admit it. It’s hilarious.”
I laugh, because it is.
A year ago, I was grinding my life away in glass conference rooms that smelled like the desperation of men and women who thought $300 cologne could cover up rotting ambition.
Now I’m consulting for Big Marty’s Mac Shack, sitting across from my best business partner, who is currently giving a passionate speech about the emotional impact of elbow pasta.
This is my life now.
And honestly?
I love it.
Mostly.
By every metric that used to matter, I’m winning.
And yet...
There’s still this hollowed-out space inside me. A room left half-furnished. I’m waiting for something—or someone—to walk back in and fill it.
Some ghosts don’t leave easy.
I reach for a fry on my plate, but before I can even get it to my mouth, Tammy swipes it right out of my hand like a damn savage.
“Seriously?”
She shrugs, completely unapologetic, crunching into it like it was hers all along.
“Proven fact,” she says around a mouthful of stolen goods. “Fries taste better when they’re stolen.”
The words hit me harder than they should. Suddenly, I’m back in that anonymous text thread. Back in the early days when stolen fries were a joke, and a I was part of a slow, beautiful unraveling. Back on that plane, stealing them off Rorie’s tray and catching her smile like it was mine to keep.
Rorie.
Her name claws through my chest.
It’s been nine months. Nine goddamn months.
And still, she’s everywhere.
Everywhere and nowhere.
I push my plate toward Tammy without a word and sit back, scrubbing a hand down my face like that might erase the ache rising up in my throat.
Watching me, she chews thoughtfully. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I reach for my napkin, pretending to wipe my mouth instead of pulling myself together. “Just thinking.”
“About?” she presses, casual but not really.
I shake my head once. “Nothing.”
She doesn’t buy it, not even a little, but she lets it go. For now.
Instead, she leans forward, her mischievous grin slipping back into place. “So. Ready for our big adventure?”
I sigh. Long and suffering. “Tammy, we came to Seattle for work. Not to go sightseeing.”
“Well, I’m forcing you to do both. So get your ass in the car, Boss.”
I tip my head back against the booth with a groan. “What the hell are we driving three hours for?”
Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she winks, like she’s Indiana Jones about to uncover a national treasure.
“A very important piece of Washington history.”
I roll my eyes but shove out of the booth after her anyway.
One time. I’ll humor her one time.
Because honestly, I could use a distraction. Even if some part of me knows, no matter how far we drive, there are some things you can’t outrun.
Three hours later…
I’ll give her this—Port Townsend’s a hell of a lot prettier than I expected.
It looks like the setting of an old novel: cobblestone streets, faded brick storefronts, salt-stained windows, and a harbor lined with boats rocking lazily in the gray, misty afternoon. This place doesn’t just move slower, it dares you to slow down too. To breathe. To feel.
Tammy parks the car and waves her hand toward the windshield.“Ta-da! Welcome to Port Townsend! Population: Charming as hell.”
I’m glancing around, pretending to be unimpressed. “Great. You’ve kidnapped me. Can we go now?”
She groans, thwacking the back of her hand against my chest. “For the love of overpriced coffee, will you just relax? Enjoy life for once?”
I cross my arms, still skeptical. “Tammy. We have work to do.”
“No,” she says, grinning. “You have work to do. I, on the other hand, am on a very important mission.”
She flashes me a Cheshire cat smile. “Now humor me. Or I’ll start unionizing.”
Knowing Tammy she means it.
I exhale heavily. “One hour. That’s it.”
She beams, victorious. “Perfect. Now walk, Mr. Grinch.”
We stroll through the town, and despite myself, I don’t hate it.
The air’s brisk and clean, carrying the briny bite of the sea.
Strings of lights crisscross above the street, glowing faintly against the low-hanging spring sky clouds.
People meander with paper bags from the local bakery, sloshing around in rain boots, their laughter bleeding into the mist.
It’s... nice. Sickeningly nice.
Tammy stops in front of a shop window called Love & Smells, peering inside at a display of candles stacked like trophies.
“You ever think about it?” she asks, almost casually.
I stuff my hands deeper into my jacket pockets. “Think about what?”
She shrugs. “You know. Love. Life. Maybe living somewhere like this. Slower. Happier.”
I snort. “Nah.”
She tilts her head. “Because you’re so thrilled selling cheese powder?”
Despite myself, I chuckle. “I’m thrilled not answering to assholes, if that counts.”
“Counts for something,” she says. “But don’t act like you’re not missing something, Rhodes.”
I glance down at the wet cobblestones. Missing something isn’t the problem. Missing someone is.
She elbows me. “You sucked at lying when we were corporate rats. You still suck at it.”
I shake my head. “Let it go, Tammy.”
But she doesn’t. Not really. Because she knows. And she proves it by nudging my arm and jerking her chin toward a store across the street.
I follow her gaze. And my heart stops.
There. Standing behind the glass door of a small bookstore with dark green lettering carved into weathered wood—North & Anchor—is Rorie Adams.
She doesn’t see me. She’s cleaning the window, her hair swept up in a messy knot. She’s wearing a thick sweater that looks like it could smother every bad day I’ve ever had.
She looks... beautiful as always. More so.
Settled.
Happy.
Like she belongs here.
Tammy shifts beside me, but I barely register her. The part of me that’s been hollowed out for months, the part I thought time would heal, just split wide open again.
She opens for a few customers, and follows behind them, deeper into the store, out of view.
And somehow, that tiny empty space hurts more than anything else.
Tammy tugs a slip of paper out of her coat pocket and hands it to me without a word.
A phone number. An address.
“She changed her number when she left New York,” she says, gentle. “I though fate might need a little nudge.”
I stare down at the paper. It’s heavy as a stone in my palm.
I look back at the store. Through the display window, Rorie’s laughing with a customer, brushing stray hairs from her face.
Life didn’t stop for her. She built something. Without me.
And that’s okay.
She was never supposed to be mine in the first place. But fuck if I can stand here one second longer and pretend it doesn’t matter.
I shove the paper into my pocket, turn on my heel, and walk back toward the car without a word.
Sometimes you don’t need a plan. You just need a shot. A prayer. And a little glitter.
“Where are you going?” Tammy calls after me.
“I need to make good on a promise I made to myself,” I say, looking back over my shoulder at her. “I’m going to need your help. It involves sparkles. And fries.”
Tammy whoops, and rushes after me. “Now that’s the Nolan Rhodes I know.”
I smile. After nine long months, I almost feel like myself again.