Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
MYA
I wake to the smell of vanilla and cinnamon and the low hum of someone humming off-key down the hall.
For a second, I think I’m dreaming. But then I stretch, and everything aches in the best way—my thighs, my abs, my heart. And that’s when I remember.
Last night wasn’t a dream.
It was Kingston. Raw and reverent. Worshipping me like I was the last prayer he’d ever say. Holding me through it like I was something holy.
My cheeks flush just thinking about it.
I roll toward the empty space beside me, still warm. The sheets are rumpled and smell like skin and sleep and something distinctly male—woodsy and clean and undeniably him. I press my face into his pillow for half a second longer, then peel myself out of bed, slipping one of his oversized T-shirts over my very naked body before shuffling toward the kitchen.
And there he is.
Six-foot-four of honey-golden skin and muscle, barefoot in his grey sweatpants, flipping pancakes with a concentration that could stop time.
“I must still be dreaming,” I murmur from the doorway.
He turns, flashing that crooked, sleepy grin that should be illegal this early in the morning. “You’re awake.”
“You made pancakes.”
“I promised I’d bribe you with them, didn’t I?”
“You did,” I admit, padding toward him. “Didn’t think you’d follow through.”
He slides a golden-brown stack onto a plate like a man on a mission. “Doubting me already? Tsk.”
I lean against the counter and smile. “You cook now?”
He shrugs, reaching for the maple syrup. “I YouTubed it once when I couldn’t sleep. Turns out the secret’s in the butter. And not burning shit.”
I grin, because of course it is. “Color me impressed.”
“Color you fed,” he says, setting a plate in front of me. He pauses, then dips his head, his lips brushing my temple. “You need food before you go.”
His voice is quiet, but it lands like a warm weight in my chest. Thoughtful. Unspoken.
I sit on a barstool, tucking one leg under me. “You remembered I have to pick Reese up.”
“I remember everything,” he says simply, sitting next to me. His plate stays untouched as he watches me take my first bite.
I moan—loud, shameless, half a joke.
Kingston’s grip on his fork tightens. “You keep making noises like that and we’re not leaving this apartment.”
“You’re not leaving,” I tease around another bite. “I’ve got a best friend to retrieve.”
He leans back in his chair, watching me like I’m the sunrise and he’s got nowhere else to be.
And maybe that’s the part that undoes me.
Because this man—this massive, emotionally guarded, stoic, grumpy football god—is sitting here, cross-legged on a barstool, waiting for me to eat pancakes like it’s the highlight of his week.
I reach for his hand.
He laces our fingers together without hesitation, thumb brushing slow circles against mine.
“I didn’t think it could be like this,” I say softly. “Feeling this safe. This… okay.”
Kingston doesn’t smile. He doesn’t need to. His eyes say everything.
“It can,” he says. “With me, it will be.”
I swear, leaving him this morning feels like the worst kind of betrayal. My stomach’s still warm from breakfast—and from last night—but I can’t stop myself from dragging my feet as I pull on my boots by the door.
He leans against the counter, arms folded, and gives me that lazy, satisfied grin like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
I shake my head, lips curving around a smile I can’t contain. “Tempting. But I don’t think Reese would appreciate a six-foot-three shadow trailing us to meetings.”
Kingston chuckles, pushing off the counter with the kind of fluid, muscle-coiled grace that makes me dizzy. “Fine. But if you’re not back by dinner, I’m sending a search party.”
I step into him, my hands sliding up his bare chest one last time for good measure. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I prefer the term devoted,” he murmurs, kissing my temple, then my lips, then lower—just once, right over the swell of my belly. “Go knock her socks off.”
God help me. This man. This life. I leave feeling kissed out and aching already to get back.
Reese’s text comes through just as I’m pulling into the airport pickup lane.
Reese: Landed. Where the hell are you, woman? I need eyes on that bump!
She spots me before I spot her—waving a perfectly manicured hand in the air, pulling a hot pink suitcase that definitely wasn’t built for New York sidewalks. She’s glowing. Glowing like someone who knows she’s built an empire out of spandex and sass.
“MYA!” she squeals, barely waiting for the car to stop before she yanks the door open and practically hurls herself into the front seat.
I laugh and catch her in a hug. “Hi to you too.”
She pulls back and her eyes immediately drop to my belly, which—yeah, okay—has definitely popped.
“Oh my God. Look at you!” Her eyes go wide, then misty. “It’s like… an actual bump. A real one. Since when do you look like a whole mom?”
“I know.” I groan dramatically. “I woke up yesterday and couldn’t see my toes. Send help.”
Reese just grins, brushing her fingers lightly over the curve of my belly. “You’re glowing. Like full-on, dewy-skinned, goddess-of-fertility glowing.”
I scoff. “It’s sweat. And hormones. And the fact that Kingston made pancakes this morning.”
Reese’s brows fly up. “He cooked? Okay, this man really is the fantasy.”
I don’t tell her what happened after the pancakes. Or the night before. But I’m pretty sure my cheeks give me away.
She grins like a cat who already knows the ending to the story. “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.”
The showroom downtown smells like fresh linen and lavender, and the samples for Simply Reese’s pregnancy line are spread out across the glass table like a pastel dream. Soft blush tones, ivory, dove gray, even a moody emerald that Reese calls “forest fire.”
She holds up a cropped hoodie and does a happy dance. “They nailed it. I mean… feel this.”
I do, and okay, it’s like touching a cloud that spent a week at a spa. “It’s perfect.”
“We’re sending it to production tomorrow,” she announces. “I want these on shelves before the next trimester takes me out.”
“You’re not even pregnant,” I remind her.
“Details,” she sings, then links her arm through mine. “Now come on, I’m starving, and I flew all this way just to see you. Let’s get lunch.”
I laugh, the tension in my shoulders melting like butter. “You’re only in town for the night, huh?”
“Which means we have exactly one meal to talk about everything. Starting with Kingston. And ending with names for those babies.”
* * *
We’re seated by the window at a cozy little bistro Kingston recommended—something lowkey with good lighting and even better pasta. The kind of place that serves sparkling lemonade in those oversized vintage goblets and breadsticks that should be illegal they’re so good.
Reese hasn’t stopped staring at me since we sat down.
“You look different,” she says, one perfectly manicured brow lifted. “And don’t give me that innocent wide-eyed ‘who me?’ look, Mya. I know you.”
I smirk, swirling my straw in the glass. “Do you?”
“Don’t play coy. I know that look. You’re happy. Stupid happy.”
I cough on air. “That’s not a thing.”
“Oh, it is. It’s very much a thing.” She leans in, narrowing her eyes. “And I want the tea. Immediately.”
I lean forward, elbows on the table. “You’re relentless.”
“I’m nosy. Now spill.”
My laugh is too loud, drawing the attention of the couple beside us. “Okay, okay! Things are… good. Really good.”
Reese tilts her head like she’s dissecting me under a microscope. “So good you’re sleeping with the hot quarterback who makes pancakes?”
I drop my head onto my arms. “God, you’re insufferable.”
“Thank you. That’s not a no, by the way.”
I lift my head, grinning despite myself. “Fine. We crossed that line. Happy now?”
Reese squeals—an actual squeal that makes the waiter pause mid-step. She waves him off. “Sorry! She just told me she’s finally getting laid again.”
The waiter gives me a look of sympathy. I want to sink into the chair and disappear.
Unfazed, Reese pops a piece of focaccia in her mouth and talks around it. “Details. Positions. Number of rounds. Don’t leave me hanging.”
I toss a napkin at her face. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Maybe. But you look like you finally slept more than four hours, which means something in that penthouse is working wonders.”
Reese knows about Kingston, of course. We’ve been friends long enough that I told her everything. That was years ago—long before I packed up my life and moved to Horseshoe Bay.
My smile softens. “It doesn’t feel casual anymore. It feels like something I could fall into and never want to climb out of.”
Her expression shifts, warmth radiating across her features. “Good. You deserve that kind of safe.”
I nod, throat tight. She’s the only one who knows what it means for me to say that out loud.
She reaches across the table, grabbing my hand. “I’m proud of you.”
“Enough to not roast me for the rest of lunch?”
She snorts. “Absolutely not.”
The word lands between us with a spark of mischief. Her eyes glint like she’s seconds away from launching a full-scale interrogation with me as the star witness.
I narrow my eyes, pointing my fork at her. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Too late.”
She braces her elbows on the table like she’s about to deliver a TED Talk. “You’re blissed out. And you look like a woman who got thoroughly, properly, unforgettably railed.”
My cheeks go nuclear. “Reese.”
She waves off my mortification like it’s smoke. “Nope. You don’t get to backpedal. I flew across the damn country to look at athleisure pants. The least you can do is let me live vicariously.”
I drop my face into my hands with a groan. “We are not doing this in a public restaurant.”
“Oh, but we are,” she singsongs, chin in her palm. “So. How was it?”
I peek at her through my fingers, voice dry. “Reese.”
She grins like a devil in designer lip gloss. “Did he rock your world? Or tilt it on its axis and ruin other men forever?”
My lips twitch. And despite myself, a soft, content sigh slips out.
That’s all she needs.
“Oh my God.” She drops her fork, vibrating with glee. “You had sex with him. You did the deed. The Big Bang. The full-body fireworks.”
“Can you please lower your voice?”
“No. Because my best friend is finally getting laid again and her entire aura says satisfied woman. Now, tell me—was it a one-time thing or a ‘welcome to the rest of your life’ situation?”
I laugh, helpless, reaching for my water. “Okay, okay, enough.”
She clutches her chest dramatically. “He totally had you seeing galaxies.”
“Reese.”
She leans in, eyes twinkling. “Tell me everything. I want soundtrack, setting, choreography. Don’t spare the juicy bits.”
I groan. “You are the worst.”
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
She beams. “I knew it.”
I roll my eyes and stab a piece of grilled zucchini. “Anyway. You’re deflecting.”
Her smile flickers. “What?”
I raise a brow. “How are things with the band?”
That earns me a sigh worthy of an Oscar as she leans back in her chair, draping herself across the booth like she’s auditioning for a melodrama.
“They’re fine. Finally. Album’s done—thank God. Fletch is still being a tortured genius, but at least now he’s a productive tortured genius. And the tour starts in two weeks, so we’re all gearing up to throw ourselves headfirst into chaos.”
“New York is your first stop, right?”
“Yup.” She straightens, the playful air dimming. “It’s going to be… intense.”
I nod. “You ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” She shrugs, then grins. “At least Thorin and I get to crash at your place instead of some overpriced shoebox like the rest of the band. Kingston’s insistence is officially the only good thing about having a terrifying, possessive athlete as a best friend’s baby daddy.”
I smirk. “You’re not wrong.”
She stabs a fry and lifts it like a toast. “To living with pro athletes who cook pancakes and open their guest rooms to exhausted best friends.”
I clink my glass to her fry. “To Reese’s runway to stardom and pre-launch samples that didn’t fall apart on the mannequin.”
We both grin.
And just like that, everything feels light again.
The buzz of the restaurant melts into the background, replaced by the rhythm of conversation and clinking cutlery. It feels…normal. Safe. Like this—Reese and me, sharing a meal and soft moments—hasn’t been a craving tucked between texts and missed calls since the day I left Horseshoe Bay.
“So.” I adjust my glass, trying to be casual. “How’s everything really going with the band?”
She doesn’t answer right away.
Just lifts her drink and watches the ice swirl like she’s searching for clarity in the frost.
“They’re… good,” she says slowly. “The album’s finally done, which is a miracle considering the month we just had. We’re in that weird pre-tour phase where everything feels urgent and behind schedule and you’re not sure whether to panic or celebrate.”
I nod, sensing the shift. “The guys get into the city soon, right?”
“Two weeks.” Her fingers tighten slightly. “Kickoff’s at Madison Square Garden. Management’s losing their minds over the press schedule. It’s a lot.”
I know what she means. This isn’t just another album cycle. It’s the moment. The one where everything gets bigger—venues, headlines, stakes.
“Everyone ready?”
She hesitates. “Most of them are.”
And there it is. The crack.
“Fletch?” I ask, gently.
She exhales like the word alone stings. “He’s not okay. He’s… off.”
“Off how?”
“Restless. Distant. He’s writing all the time but not finishing anything. Snapping at Bodhi. Canceling interviews. Sometimes he just disappears.”
A knot forms in my stomach.
“Is he talking to you?”
She shakes her head. “Every time I ask, he says he’s fine. But there’s something in him now. Something heavy. Like he’s carrying a weight no one else can see.”
I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. “That’s not nothing.”
“I know.” She swallows, blinking hard. “This tour is everything. It’s what we’ve worked for. And I’m scared that just when it finally starts, he won’t be able to finish.”
I nod because I get it. Because I’ve been there—watching someone unravel and knowing you can’t catch all the threads.
“You’re not alone in this,” I say. “He has you. He has Thorin and the guys. It’ll all work out. You’ll see.”
Reese offers a wobbly smile. “You always know what to say.”
“That’s because I’ve been talking you off ledges for years. One would hope I’d know what to do by now.”
She lets out a wet laugh, dabbing under her eyes. “Thank God for that.”
Then she straightens. “Okay. Enough sad. Let’s order dessert before I cry into your risotto.”
“Only if it’s molten chocolate something.”
“I like the way you think.”
And just like that, the air clears.
Because that’s what we do.
We pivot. We show up. We listen.
Because best friends? We don’t run from the storm.
We weather it.
Together.