Chapter 9
SOPHIE
Beth sat cross-legged on the bed, sipping coffee from the hotel’s tiny paper cup like it was a ceremonial event, while Natasha leaned against the vanity, scrolling through her phone with one perfectly shaped eyebrow raised.
“So,” Beth said, drawing the word out. “How are you feeling about your very casual run-in with the childhood best friend who looks like he walked off a movie set?”
I paused mid-mascara swipe and glanced at her in the mirror. “It was … surreal.”
“Surreal is not an answer,” Natasha said. “Surreal is what people say when they don’t want to admit they’re internally combusting.”
Beth nodded solemnly. “She combusted.”
I rolled my eyes, but heat crept into my cheeks. “I did not combust.”
“You hugged him,” Beth said. “You stared at each other like the rest of the dock stopped existing. And then you went for drinks.”
“Those are facts,” Natasha agreed. “Not judgments. But also … judgments.”
I capped my mascara and turned toward them. “You both act like I planned this.”
“That’s what makes it better,” Beth said. “The universe planned it. The odds of you running into your best friend from a tiny Texas town in Charleston, South Carolina, on the exact night you save a man’s life on a boat?”
Natasha lifted her phone. “Statistically impossible. Romantically inevitable.”
I laughed despite myself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Are we?” Beth gestured vaguely. “Because you’re about to go have coffee with him. After twelve years.”
My stomach flipped in a way that felt entirely too aware. “It’s just coffee.”
Natasha smirked. “Famous last words.”
I moved to the closet and pulled out the sundress I’d laid out earlier. Soft pink, light fabric, fitted in a way that made me feel feminine without trying too hard. I hadn’t chosen it for Wyatt, but I also hadn’t chosen it not for him.
Beth followed my gaze. “You look like a woman who accidentally breaks hearts.”
“That is not a compliment,” I muttered.
“It absolutely is.”
Natasha tilted her head. “Are you nervous?”
I hesitated. “No. Yes. I don’t know. It’s weird seeing someone who knew you before everything. Before you became … this.”
“This what?” Beth asked.
“An adult with expectations,” I said.
“Sexy,” Natasha deadpanned.
I smiled faintly. “It’s just … he knew me when I was a girl. Braces. Ponytails. No idea who I was supposed to be.”
“And now?” Beth prompted.
“Now, I’m standing here wondering if he’s still going to see that girl when he looks at me. Or if he’ll only see …” I gestured to myself.
Natasha’s gaze softened. “Both can be true.”
Beth set her coffee down. “We’re sitting by the pool today. Hydrating. Being horizontal. You take your time.”
I blinked. “You’re not coming with me?”
“Absolutely not,” Beth said. “We need recovery time. Emotionally and physically.”
I laughed. “You’re abandoning me.”
“We are empowering you,” Beth corrected.
I slipped into my dress, feeling the soft fabric skim my thighs. The air-conditioning brushed against my skin, cool and grounding, but my thoughts were already drifting ahead.
Wyatt. The way his voice sounded when he said my name. The solid warmth of his arms when he hugged me. The way my body had noticed his presence before my mind had caught up.
It was unsettling how quickly awareness shifted from memory to something far more physical.
“I saw something online,” I said casually, trying to redirect my brain. “There’s a Texas Night at a country line dancing place in North Charleston tonight.”
Beth’s head snapped up. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Mechanical bull. Two-step. Line dancing.”
Natasha grinned slowly. “We would absolutely dominate.”
“I thought maybe we could go,” I said. “Show South Carolina how Texas actually moves.”
Beth was already reaching for her phone. “We’re going. I need boots. Or at least boot-adjacent heels.”
Natasha nodded. “We’ll need a car.”
“That part made me pause,” I admitted. “North Charleston. Is that … safe?”
Natasha considered. “Like anywhere else. Certain areas, certain times. We’ll be fine.”
Beth shrugged. “We’ve survived Austin parking garages. We can survive North Charleston.”
“Okay,” I said, smiling. “Then we regroup later. Get glammed up. Dinner before dancing?”
Beth clapped once. “Yes! Plans. Dancing. Potential chaos.”
“Your favorite combination,” Natasha added.
I grabbed my purse, heart thudding with something dangerously close to anticipation. “Wish me luck.”
Beth smirked. “We’ll be here dissecting everything when you get back.”
Juneberry was already buzzing when I arrived. Sunlight streamed through the big windows, soft green walls glowing, the smell of roasted tomatoes and fresh bread wrapping around me.
Wyatt was sitting at a small table near the window, coffee in hand, long legs stretched out casually.
He looked impossibly out of place and perfectly at home all at once—like he didn’t belong to any one setting so much as he simply occupied space and the world adjusted around him.
Broad shoulders under a fitted shirt, sun-kissed skin, that quiet confidence that didn’t need attention to command it.
My pulse stuttered.
He stood when he saw me, tall and unhurried, that same easy, devastating smile spreading across his face. The kind that suggested he knew exactly what it did to people and chose not to apologize for it.
“Soph.”
The way he said it still did something dangerous to me.
“Hi,” I said, suddenly aware of my dress, my hair, my pulse.
“You look …” He paused, searching. “Happy.”
I smiled. “You look like you belong in Texas, not a café that serves herb salads.”
He laughed. “Fair.”
We ordered coffee and pastries. The conversation started easy—Charleston, travel, the weirdness of fate. But beneath it all, something pulsed. Unsaid. Felt.
“Isn’t it strange,” I said, stirring my drink even though there was nothing left to mix, “how we’re calling ourselves old friends?”
The phrase felt safe. Contained. Like it had edges I could grip if I needed to pull back.
Wyatt didn’t answer right away. He watched me instead, head tilted slightly, that thoughtful stillness settling over him—the one he used to get when he was deciding whether to say something honest or something easy.
“You think that’s all we are?” he asked finally.
My breath caught, just barely. Not enough to be obvious. Enough to matter.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s just … the language we reach for first. The one that doesn’t ask anything of us.”
His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Because it keeps things uncomplicated.”
“Because it keeps things from tipping,” I corrected softly.
He leaned back in his chair, studying the ceiling for a second like he was giving the thought the respect it deserved. “We were best friends,” he said. “For a long time.”
“I know.”
“And then we weren’t,” he added.
“That part was abrupt,” I said dryly.
His eyes flicked back to mine, something wry and tender passing through them at once. “What do you think happens when two people who knew each other that well run into each other again?”
I shrugged, but my pulse had started to race. “They catch up. Share stories. Pretend the years in between didn’t leave marks.”
“And if pretending doesn’t quite work?”
The question landed softly—and stayed.
“I think,” I said slowly, “they start to notice things they didn’t before.”
“Like what?” he asked, though his gaze had already dropped—to my mouth, my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder—before returning to my eyes.
I swallowed. “Like how different everything feels.”
He nodded, once. “Different isn’t always bad.”
“No,” I agreed. “Sometimes it’s just … more.”
The word hung between us, loaded and unclaimed.
For a moment, the space between us felt electric. Not rushed. Not heavy. Just aware. As if the air itself had sharpened, tuned to the frequency of two people realizing they were standing closer to a line than they’d intended.
My mind drifted—uninvited, insistent—to the way his hand had felt at my back the night before. Warm. Steady. Certain in a way that had made my body respond. I wondered what those hands would feel like if they weren’t just holding memory. If they weren’t careful. If they were allowed.
Wyatt seemed to sense the shift. His fingers tightened slightly around his mug, knuckles whitening just enough to notice.
“You always did overthink things,” he said lightly.
I smiled. “And you always noticed.”
“Hard not to,” he replied. “You wear your thoughts right here.” He gestured vaguely toward my face. “Right before you pretend you don’t.”
I laughed softly, grateful for the release. “So, what are we calling this, then?”
His gaze held mine, steady and unflinching. “Right now?”
“Yes.”
He leaned in just a fraction, lowering his voice. “We’re two people having coffee. Seeing what still fits.”
“And if it fits too well?” I asked.
His smile turned slow. Dangerous. “Then we’ll have to figure out what to do about that.”
My pulse skipped.
I took a breath, feeling the weight of his attention settle into me. Whatever this was—friendship, history, something pressing up against the edge of want—it wasn’t nothing. And we both knew it.
Neither of us crossed the line.
But we both stood close enough to feel the heat.
I cleared my throat. “So. Slight change of subject.”
“All right,” he said.
“There’s a Texas Night tonight. Line dancing. North Charleston.”
His eyebrow lifted. “You serious?”
“I am,” I said. “My friends and I plan to dominate.”
He leaned back, amused. “I’d need to wear my cowboy hat and real boots for that.”
Something in his tone made my stomach dip. “I think you’d look … right at home.”
His gaze lingered on me in a way that felt intentional. “I’d love to go.”
He said it so easily—I’d love to go—like it wasn’t a loaded sentence. Like it didn’t send a slow, dangerous ripple through my body.
“Really?” I asked, trying to sound casual and failing a little.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling into his coffee. “I haven’t line danced in years. Might be rusty.”
I laughed. “That’s impossible. You’re from Valentine. It’s muscle memory.”
“Careful,” he said. “You’re about to challenge my Texas credibility.”
“I absolutely am.”
Juneberry hummed around us—cups clinking, quiet conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine—but it felt like we were sealed off in our own pocket of space.
Wyatt leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, and I became acutely aware of the way his shirt pulled slightly across his shoulders when he moved.
The way his hands looked wrapped around the ceramic mug.
Strong. Capable. Familiar in a way that made my thoughts wander somewhere they probably shouldn’t—especially at ten in the morning.
“So,” he said, tilting his head. “Your friends. They okay with some guy from your past crashing?”
“Yes. They like you,” I added. “Which is … alarming.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Yes,” I said immediately. “Beth is relentless.”
He grinned, unbothered. “I’ve faced worse.”
I sipped my coffee, letting the warmth settle my nerves. “They’re spending the day by the pool. Told me to take my time with you before joining them.”
Something in his expression shifted—subtle, but there. Interest sharpening. “Did they?”
“Don’t read into that,” I warned.
“I’m absolutely reading into that.”
I shook my head, laughing. “You haven’t changed.”
“You have,” he said quietly.
The words landed with more weight than I expected. “Is that a good thing?”
He studied me for a long moment, his gaze steady, thoughtful. “Yeah. It is.”
My chest tightened. I looked away, suddenly shy, and focused on the table instead. On the crumbs from a croissant. On anything that wasn’t the awareness building between us.
“Wyatt,” I said, softer now, “what are you doing here? Really.”
He hesitated just long enough to tell me there was more to the answer than he was giving. “Work brought me through. I had some time.”
“That’s all?”
“For now,” he said. “I’m not very good at planning my life more than a few days out.”
I smiled faintly. “That tracks.”
Silence settled again—but this time it wasn’t awkward. It was charged. The kind that hummed beneath the surface, inviting something reckless.
I imagined him later—cowboy hat pulled low, boots heavy against the floor, hands at my hips guiding me through a turn. The image slid into my mind uninvited and stayed there, vivid enough to make my pulse quicken.
I shifted in my chair, suddenly hyper-aware of my body. Of how close he was. Of how easy it would be to lean forward and close the space between us.
It’s just coffee, I reminded myself. Slow down.
But my body didn’t seem interested in logic.
“Hey,” he said gently, like he sensed the shift. “You okay?”
I met his eyes. “Yeah. Just … thinking.”
He smiled at that, something knowing in it. Like maybe he was thinking about the same things I was and choosing—very deliberately—not to say them out loud yet.
We paid and stepped outside into the late-morning sunshine. Charleston felt alive in that easy, unhurried way—palms swaying, heat settling into my skin, the city breathing around us.
“I should let you get back to your friends,” he said. “Before they stage a rescue.”
“They won’t,” I said.
He nodded, then hesitated. “So … tonight?”
“Tonight,” I confirmed. “Texas Night. Dancing.”
He smiled slowly. “I’ll find boots.”
“And a hat,” I added.
“Obviously.”
We stood there for a beat too long. Close enough that I could smell his cologne—clean, warm, something faintly familiar that stirred memories and something newer, darker.
For a second, I thought he might kiss me.
Instead, he leaned in just enough to murmur, “I’m really glad I ran into you, Soph.”
My heart thudded. “Me, too.”
He stepped back then, giving me space, but not before his hand brushed mine—light, accidental, electric.
As he walked away, I watched him go, my mind already racing ahead to the night. To music and movement and the way his hands might feel when there was nothing left to pretend.
This wasn’t just nostalgia.
It was the beginning of something I wasn’t sure I was ready for—but already didn’t want to stop.