Chapter Eighteen
AND HOW COULD she forget his… Stay forever. Her body would certainly remember his claiming. Her skin still tingled, while her muscles hung loose and languid, as if Noah’s lovemaking had pulled her body into a new state of being.
Now Rachel lay beside Noah, awake in the dark, listening to the soft cadence of his breath as he slept.
His arm curled loosely around her waist, as if even in sleep, he couldn’t quite let go.
The air was still, quiet in that soft, reverent way night tends to be—like the world was holding its breath, just for her.
The vaulted shiplap ceiling cast subtle shadows across the cabin.
The rustic, charming, solid cabin that Noah had built.
Nestled into the trees like it had always been part of the landscape.
And Noah, doing his Noah thing, had built it exactly where they used to daydream about it, back when they were muddy-kneed adolescents lying belly-down in the grass, sketching castles and cabins and futures in her spiral notebook.
Back then, he’d promised to build her a place right here, where the water curved like a smile and the sunsets made everything glow like firelight.
And Noah, being Noah, had done it.
A real cabin. A front porch. That ridiculous, expansive rear deck shaped like a crescent moon she pretended not to notice while secretly marveling at its construction.
She could almost hear his teenage voice in her ear, cocky and sweet and so sure of himself. You’ll see, Six. I’m gonna build this for you one day. On Calvary land. Then you’ll stay forever.
How could she stay?
The thought twisted through her like a thorn.
Yes, today had been magical. But great sex didn’t fix geography.
It didn’t erase time. Because she didn’t live in Service, and this love shack wasn’t just a romantic getaway, no…
It was a fork in the road. Noah wanted forever, but what did that even look like now?
Would having him require her to sacrifice the life she’d built?
Her life—her whole life—was on another coast. A condo with a coveted view of the San Diego Bay.
A job she loved. A team that relied on her.
Respect and credibility she’d fought tooth and nail for.
And a cactus plant she’d finally kept alive for more than six weeks. That had to count for something.
She closed her eyes and let herself pretend for a moment that this was home. That staying was simple. That forever was just a matter of saying yes.
But reality had a way of creeping in through the ache in her chest. What if they ruined each other… again? Only this time, they weren’t kids who could bounce back. And even if her heart was busy turning to goo over cabins and deck designs, her brain was waving a very large, very red flag.
She could still hear Pete’s voice, too. From years ago. Prom night.
“Put a ring on her fast, bro. Knock her up if you have to. Girls like Rachel don’t leave if they’ve got a baby and a backyard.”
It had made her sick then, hearing Noah laugh along, like trapping her was no big deal. Like that was love. Like she was a checkbox on someone else’s life plan.
The next morning, when Noah had come to the farm, gotten down on one knee with his PawPaw’s ring and that damn crooked smile, she’d known—known—if she didn’t leave, she’d never find herself outside of him.
Her phone buzzed on the bedside table, vibrating so hard it nearly launched itself onto the wood floor.
“Don’t you dare,” she muttered, fumbling for it, before the racket woke Noah from his deep slumber.
Benji: Okay FriendFriend, just
checking in to make sure you’re
alive, not kidnapped, and didn’t
end up in a Roku docuseries.
Text me back or I’m calling Liam
Neeson.
Rachel snorted. “Great timing,” she said to no one, possibly the universe. “Really nailed the mood.”
She typed a quick response.
Rachel: Tell Liam to stand down.
Still breathing—barely. Think
Mr. & Mrs. Smith cardio with…
more stamina.
Laughing at their antics, she added five emoji gold stars and pressed Send.
While she waited for his witty comeback, another message popped in.
Gillian: Expect an invite to a
video call. Need updates on
your redevelopment plan.
Of course. Because the real world hadn’t stopped spinning just because she’d tumbled back into Noah’s arms. She couldn’t hit Pause on everything just because she was wrapped up in nostalgia and the one man who had ever made her believe in always.
She slid from the bed with slow, practiced care.
Pulled her tank back over her head and eased her shorts up her legs.
She took one last look at the man who’d once promised her a cabin by the water and had actually built it.
Noah, who said the words like a vow. Noah, who made love to her like he had all the time in the world to memorize the shape of her sighs.
Noah, who slept bare-chested, mouth slightly open, probably dreaming about fire drills, or the future, or her. The thought made her chest ache.
He looked happy. Content. He looked so peaceful, tangled in the sheets, a smile still ghosting across his lips. Like a man who believed in second chances. She released a long-suffering sigh. This pull. This town. This man.
She didn’t want to crush Noah’s hope. She loved him for always seeing the roses through the glasses. She didn’t trust it. Not yet. Not enough.
Rachel scribbled a note on the back of one of her sketches—just her name and the truth she couldn’t say aloud: Need to work. I’m not running. I promise. Come find me.
Then she slipped out the door into the night, barefoot, clutching her boots and her doubt, heading for the plunge pool, to their spot.
To the place where she could see the cabin light glowing faintly behind her, like a flicker of hope she wasn’t ready to snuff out.
Her present and her future, both visible, but separate.
She’d just sat down to sketch out her idea for the old mill, when her smartphone alerted her to an incoming video call.
The phone didn’t just buzz, it blared. Loud and insistent, cutting through the predawn quiet like a fire alarm.
Rachel’s heart lurched as she saw the name, Gillian Begatta.
At 5:47 a.m. Eastern time, which meant it was 2:47 a.m. in San Diego, and Gillian was already in work mode.
Rachel’s eyes darted to the cabin where Noah slept, then down at herself.
She looked like a rumpled water nymph in Noah’s open-collar shirt, braless, and her hair…
looked like she’d been thoroughly loved all night long, which she had.
Answering the call meant Gillian would see her in this state.
Not answering meant career suicide. She swiped to accept, angling the phone to show only her face and shoulders.
“You’re awake. Good girl.” Gillian’s sharp voice seemed to disrupt the sounds of nature, and Rachel winced at the abrasive quality she’d overlooked mere days ago.
“Took you long enough to answer. What are you—wait.” Gillian’s perfectly manicured eyebrows shot up, her gaze sharpening through the screen. “You have freckles… everywhere.”
Why did people feel they had the right to comment on her body?
For all the Black women who spent generations silenced by systems designed to break their spirit, Rachel felt their bondage.
Her quiet accommodation, that voice that whispered tempered responses and repressed objection, stopped now.
“Yes, Gillian, I do. Nothing special. It’s me without makeup.
This is my Black and beautiful.” Point made.
No need for dramatics or playhouse theater.
To quote her father, she said what she said. “So, how can I help you?”
“Okay, then.” She reared back, and Rachel readied herself for blowback. “Love the bold and beautiful energy. How did I not know you had fire to match that red hair? You’re going to need more of that in the boardroom, Rachel. I’m excited to uncover what other skills you’re hiding from us.”
Gillian Begatta had said boardroom, need, and Rachel in the same sentence. Wow.