Chapter 12
GIDEON
The crunch of tires on gravel hit my ears like a gunshot.
Maude's sedan, rolling up the drive with the leisurely confidence of someone who had no idea what she was interrupting.
Hazel's eyes went wide, pupils still blown from what we'd done, cheeks flushed pink. "Oh, God," she breathed, scrambling upright. "She's back."
I should've been calmer. I'd infiltrated compounds guarded by men with automatic weapons and night vision.
I'd extracted targets from buildings wired to explode.
But the thought of Maude walking in to find us tangled in sheets, the room thick with sex and sweat, sent a jolt of panic through me that was frankly embarrassing.
"Go," I said, hauling myself up and reaching for my jeans. "Shower. I'll—I'll stay here."
She was already moving, gathering clothes with hands that shook just enough to make me want to pull her back to bed and forget about propriety entirely. Her T-shirt was inside out. Her jeans were wrinkled beyond redemption. She clutched them to her chest like a shield and darted for the door.
"Hazel," I called.
She paused, hand on the knob, looking back over her shoulder. Hair a wild mess. Lips swollen. Beautiful in a way that made my chest ache.
"Yeah?"
I wanted to say something meaningful. Something that captured the weight of what had just happened between us. Instead, what came out was: "You forgot your socks."
She looked down at her bare feet, let out a strangled laugh, and snatched the socks off the floor. Then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her with a soft finality that left me standing alone in a room that still smelled like her.
I scrubbed a hand over my face and tried to get my breathing under control.
The sound of the front door opening drifted up through the floorboards, followed by Maude's cheerful voice calling out a hello to the empty foyer. I heard the rustle of bags, the soft thud of her purse hitting the entry table, her footsteps moving toward the kitchen.
I finished dressing—jeans, T-shirt, boots laced with the kind of precision that came from muscle memory. Ran my fingers through my hair and caught sight of myself in the small mirror above the dresser.
I looked like I'd been wrecked.
There was no hiding it. The flush hadn't entirely left my face. My eyes were too bright, my mouth curved in a way that felt unfamiliar. I looked satisfied. Happy, even.
Christ.
I splashed water on my face from the small sink in the corner, dried off with a hand towel that smelled faintly of lavender, and told myself to get it together.
By the time I made it downstairs, Hazel was already in the kitchen.
Freshly showered. Hair pulled back in that severe bun she favored, though a few damp curls had already begun their escape, clinging to the nape of her neck in a way that made my hands itch to touch.
No makeup. Skin scrubbed clean and glowing faintly pink from the heat of the water.
She wore a simple cotton dress—pale blue, nothing fancy—that somehow made her look softer. More vulnerable.
More beautiful than before.
If Maude hadn't been standing three feet away, unloading tinfoil containers onto the counter, I would've backed Hazel against the nearest wall, hiked that dress up, and carried her straight back upstairs.
Instead, I cleared my throat and stepped into the kitchen like a civilized human being.
"Gideon!" Maude beamed at me, hands full of what looked like pulled pork. "Perfect timing. I brought barbecue from Sister Margaret—she makes the best in three counties, I swear it. You two must be starving after all that work on the porch."
Hazel's eyes flicked to mine, just for a second, and the heat in them nearly undid me.
"Starving," I agreed, voice coming out rougher than I meant. "Smells incredible."
"Well, don't just stand there," Maude said, shooing me toward the cabinet. "Plates are up there, glasses to the left. Hazel, honey, can you grab the coleslaw from the fridge?"
We moved around each other in the small kitchen, a careful dance of avoidance and accidental touches.
Her fingers brushed mine when she handed me a serving spoon.
My shoulder grazed hers when I reached past her for the napkins.
Every contact sent sparks skittering under my skin, and from the way her breath hitched, she felt it, too.
Maude kept up a steady stream of chatter as we worked—something about the choir director's new arrangement of "Amazing Grace" and how Sister Margaret's husband had finally fixed the church's leaking baptismal font.
I made appropriate sounds of acknowledgment, but most of my attention was on Hazel, who was determinedly not looking at me while she set the table.
We sat down to eat, the three of us crowded around the same table where we'd had lunch. Simple food, but good—tangy barbecue that fell apart at the touch of a fork, creamy coleslaw with just enough bite, cornbread left over that Maude had warmed in the oven.
Maude launched into more stories about the inn, her voice taking on that same nostalgic quality it had before.
"There was the honeymoon couple in '92," she said, gesturing with her fork.
"Sweet as pie, married all of three days.
They checked in late, and the next morning—Lord have mercy—they were down here at dawn asking if we had a hardware store nearby.
Turns out the headboard in their room had come loose during the night.
" She paused, eyes twinkling. "If you know what I mean. "
I nearly choked on my cornbread.
Hazel's face went scarlet, and she suddenly became very interested in rearranging the coleslaw on her plate.
Maude continued, oblivious or merciful, I couldn't tell which. "Your grandmother just smiled, handed them a screwdriver, and said 'Young love is hell on furniture.' They stayed the whole week."
I risked a glance at Hazel. She was biting her lip, fighting a smile, and when her eyes met mine the shared amusement there made something warm bloom in my chest.
We were trying so hard to act normal, to not stare at each other across the table like teenagers who'd just discovered what bodies could do. But every time I looked up, I found her looking at me. And every time she glanced over, I was already watching her.
Her hand resting on the table. The way she tucked that same stubborn curl behind her ear. The small smile that played at her lips when Maude said something funny. The hollow of her throat where I could still see the faint mark I'd left without meaning to.
I was cataloguing her. Memorizing her. And she was doing the same to me.
Maude was in the middle of a story about a storm in '03 when she suddenly stopped mid-sentence, set down her fork, and pushed back from the table with a huff that was half exasperation, half amusement.
"All right," she said, looking between us with the kind of knowing expression that made me feel about sixteen years old. "I can't take it anymore."
Hazel froze. "What?"
"You two." Maude waved a hand between us. "If it's all right with you both, you can stop pretending there's nothing going on. I was young once, too, you know. And I'm old now, not blind."
The silence that followed was excruciating.
Then Hazel let out a sound that was half laugh, half mortified groan, and buried her face in her hands. "Oh, my God."
I felt heat crawl up the back of my neck—actual embarrassment, something I hadn't experienced in years. "Maude, I—"
She held up a hand, still smiling. "I'm not your mother, and this isn't my business. But watching you two moon at each other over barbecue is exhausting. So just … be yourselves, would you? Life's too short for all that tiptoeing."
Hazel peeked out from between her fingers, face still flaming. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be sorry, dear." Maude stood, gathering her plate with the ease of someone who'd said her piece and was done with it. "Be happy. Lord knows this house could use some happiness."
She carried her dishes to the sink, rinsed them efficiently, then turned back to us with a softer expression. "I'll leave you two to clean up. My shows are on, and I've got a date with my recliner."
"Maude—" Hazel started.
"Goodnight," Maude said firmly, already heading for the back door that led to her apartment. She paused in the doorway, glancing back with a smile. "And Gideon? The headboard in Room 4 is solid oak. It'll hold."
The door closed behind her before either of us could respond.
Hazel stared at the space where Maude had been, then slowly turned to look at me. For a long moment, we just sat there. Then she started laughing—a real laugh, the kind that shook her shoulders and made her eyes water.
I couldn't help it. I joined her.
We cleaned up together, still grinning like idiots, bumping hips and shoulders as we moved around the small kitchen. She washed, I dried. The silence between us now was comfortable, easy, punctuated by the clink of dishes and the soft splash of water.
When the last plate was put away, Hazel opened the freezer and pulled out a carton of vanilla ice cream.
She grabbed two coffee mugs from the cabinet—mismatched, one with a faded lighthouse, the other advertising a seafood shack that probably didn't exist anymore—and scooped generous portions into each.
"Fancy," I said.
"We're out of bowls," she admitted, handing me one. "And I didn't feel like washing more dishes."
"Coffee mugs are perfect."
We took our ice cream out onto the porch, settling onto the swing that hung from chains at the far end.
The evening had cooled, the air thick with salt and the green smell of the marsh.
Crickets sang in the reeds. Somewhere in the distance, the ocean murmured its endless conversation with the shore.
I sat first, the swing creaking gently under my weight. Hazel settled beside me, close enough that our thighs touched, and the simple contact felt more intimate than it had any right to.
We ate in silence, rocking slowly back and forth, the chains above us groaning their soft rhythm. The ice cream was sweet and cold, melting faster than we could eat it in the humid air. I couldn't remember the last time I'd sat on a porch swing. Couldn't remember the last time I'd wanted to.
My soul felt calm.
It was such a strange sensation that it took me a moment to recognize it.
No restlessness pulling at my edges. No urge to move, to disappear, to put distance between myself and anything that felt too much like staying.
Just this: the swing's gentle rock, the taste of vanilla, the warmth of her beside me.
Peace.
I didn't trust it. But I wanted to.
"What do you want to get done tomorrow?" I asked, breaking the comfortable quiet.
She didn't hesitate. "West room leak—need to get up in the attic and find the source.
Two more shutters need rehinging. The dock out back is listing, but I'm not sure if that's a repair job or a rebuild.
Kitchen faucet drips. Third step on the stairs squeaks.
And I want to start on the guest rooms—fresh paint at minimum, maybe new curtains if I can find fabric that doesn't cost a fortune. "
I turned to look at her. "You memorized that."
She shrugged, licking her spoon. "I like lists."
"I've noticed."
"They keep me organized."
"They keep you safe," I said quietly.
She paused, spoon halfway to her mouth, and met my eyes. Something passed between us—understanding, maybe, or recognition. She knew I saw her. Really saw her.
"Yeah," she admitted softly. "They do."
We finished our ice cream, the mugs scraped clean, and set them on the porch railing. The swing continued its lazy motion, back and forth, back and forth. The marsh whispered secrets in a language older than words. A night bird called out, lonely and searching.
Hazel shifted closer, tucking herself against my side. I lifted my arm automatically, draping it around her shoulders, and she melted into me like she'd been waiting for permission. Her head rested in the hollow of my shoulder. Her hand settled on my chest, right over my heart.
We rocked together, the swing's chains singing their soft song, and the world narrowed to this: her warmth, her scent—soap and something floral—the steady rhythm of her breathing matching mine.
The ocean crashed gentle in the distance. The marsh hummed its evening hymn. Nature gave us a private lullaby, and I let myself drift in it, holding her close, feeling her weight against me like an anchor I hadn't known I needed.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Time felt irrelevant.
Then the hunger returned—slow at first, then building, coiling low in my gut until I couldn't ignore it anymore. I turned my head, pressing my lips to her hair, breathing her in.
"Hazel," I said, my voice coming out rough, edged with heat I didn't bother hiding.
She tilted her face up to look at me, eyes dark in the fading light. "Yeah?"
"I can't wait any longer." The words came out raw, honest. "I need to be inside you again."
Her breath caught. For a moment she just looked at me, studying my face like she was reading something written there. Then she lifted her hand, cupping my jaw, her thumb brushing slow across my cheekbone. Her touch was gentle, reverent, and it undid me more than any words could.
"What took you so long?" she asked, her voice soft and teasing and full of want.