CHAPTER 5. Noah
I wake with a start, disoriented by unfamiliar shadows stretching across an unfamiliar ceiling.
The mattress beneath me feels too soft, too wide—nothing like my tiny lumpy bed at home.
For a moment, my brain struggles to place where I am, the confusion deepened by how quiet everything is.
No sirens. No Mrs. Horowitz arguing with her husband through paper-thin walls.
No garbage trucks backing up with that incessant beeping.
Just silence, broken only by the gentle whisper of wind through trees outside.
Then it clicks—the Berkshires. My father’s birthday weekend. The cottages.
I turn my head toward the other side of the bed, half-expecting to find Connor there, but his side is empty, the covers pulled back neatly. Through the wide windows, the sky has darkened to gray-blue, daylight fading fast. How long have I been asleep?
I prop myself up on my elbows, wincing as my thighs protest the movement.
They’re sore in a way I haven’t felt in years, muscles I apparently never use at the gym making their displeasure known.
The horseback ride. Right. An hour of sitting astride that massive horse with Connor behind me, his chest pressed against my back, his hands on my hips.
Every time the horse took an uneven step, his grip would tighten, and I’d feel his breath catch against my neck.
I remember returning to the cottage afterward, both of us tired and quiet.
Connor claimed the shower first while I collapsed on the bed, scrolling mindlessly through emails I had no intention of answering.
When he emerged in a cloud of steam wearing just a towel, I pretended to be deeply fascinated by my phone screen.
After my own shower, I came back to the bedroom wearing sweatpants and a worn T-shirt to find Connor already half-asleep on top of the covers, a book open on his chest—Daphne du Maurier’s The Scapegoat.
He must have pulled it from the bookshelf, because Connor doesn’t exactly seem like the type to read Daphne du Maurier.
I lay down beside him, careful to maintain a respectful distance, just to rest my eyes for a minute.
And now it’s evening. So much for “just a minute.”
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, stretching my arms overhead until my back pops satisfyingly. Through the open window, distant laughter carries on the breeze. My family must be outside. I wonder if Connor’s with them.
In the bathroom, I splash water on my face and try to tame my hair, which has decided to rebel against gravity in several different directions at once. I give up after thirty seconds and pull on a gray hoodie over my T-shirt, then pull on my sneakers before heading downstairs.
The cottage is silent except for the soft creak of wooden floorboards beneath my feet.
When I open the front door, cool evening air rushes to meet me, carrying the scents of pine and lake water.
It’s the kind of clean air that makes you realize how polluted the city actually is, as if your lungs are suddenly remembering how breathing is supposed to feel.
I follow the path down toward the lake, where I can see my parents standing at the water’s edge.
Dad is toweling off, his hair still wet, while Mom gestures animatedly as she talks.
Further out in the water, two figures swim with powerful strokes—Maya and Connor, cutting through the lake’s surface in parallel lines.
Mom spots me first, waving me over with that too-bright smile that means she’s in full vacation mode.
“Noah, sweetheart! Did you have a nice nap?”
She pulls me into a hug as soon as I come over, and I let her, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” I say. “Didn’t mean to sleep so long.”
“You needed it,” she says, patting my cheek like I’m still ten years old. “The cooks are preparing dinner in the Main Cottage. Should be ready in about thirty minutes.” She pauses, then adds, “Oh, and the Scotts will be arriving soon.”
The mention of the Scotts sends a nervous flutter through my chest. Rick. I’m going to see Rick. And Cassidy.
Dad finishes drying his hair and drapes the towel around his neck. “Water’s perfect,” he says. “Cold at first, but you get used to it.”
I nod, but my attention has already drifted to the lake.
Connor and Maya are racing now, their bodies slicing through the water.
Connor’s broader shoulders break the surface as he pulls ahead, tattoos visible even in the fading light.
He reaches the floating dock first, touching it with one hand before turning back toward shore.
When he notices me standing there, he lifts an arm and waves.
A weird little rush goes through me before I can help it. He looks so at home here, so comfortable with my family already. Maya splashes him as she catches up, and he laughs, the sound carrying across the water.
“Come swim with us, Noah!” he shouts. “The water’s great. Once you get past the initial shock!”
I laugh and shake my head. “No way. It’s too cold!”
My mom smiles beside me. “It’s really not bad once you’re in,” she says, and I can tell she just wants to make sure I’m not ignoring my boyfriend, since she’s completely dry herself.
“Maybe tomorrow,” I say, though I can’t seem to pull my eyes away from him.
Connor swims toward the shore, and as the water gets shallower, he stands up and walks the rest of the way.
I’ve seen him shirtless a couple of times now, but something about this—the way water streams down his chest and shoulders, how his black swim shorts suddenly seem absurdly short against his massive quadriceps—makes my heart pound against my ribs.
My mother nudges Dad. “Daniel, let’s go get changed before dinner.” She gives him a meaningful look that isn’t subtle at all.
They walk away, clearly giving Connor and me privacy, which is both embarrassing and weirdly touching. My mother’s desperate hope that Connor might actually stick around is so transparent it’s almost painful—especially since, for all she knows, he’s the only serious boyfriend I’ve ever had.
Connor continues toward me, drops of water tracing paths down his chest and stomach. Goosebumps rise along his arms despite his earlier claim that the water feels great.
“Hey,” he says, running a hand through his wet hair, slicking it back from his forehead. “Sleep well?”
“Yeah,” I say, trying not to stare at him below the neck. “When did you wake up?”
“About an hour ago. I saw your sister swimming and decided to join.” He grins. “The water feels amazing. Sure you don’t want a dip?”
“Positive,” I say. “I can see you shivering from here.”
“That’s just the transition from water to air,” he argues, reaching for my hand suddenly. “Come on. You’re wearing way too many clothes.”
He tugs me toward the water, and I laugh, trying to plant my feet in the rocky shore.
“Connor, no—I’m serious!”
He doesn’t let go, instead reaching for my hoodie with his free hand. “Just a quick dip,” he says, catching the zipper and tugging it down an inch before I can stop him. “You need to stay active, baby.”
The way he says baby makes something in my stomach twist. I know he’s just joking, but still, hearing it from him, when he’s smiling like that is almost dizzying.
We struggle at the edge of the shore, laughing, my hand gripping his wrist while his fingers remain tangled in my partly unzipped hoodie.
He’s stronger than me, but he’s not really trying, just playing.
Still, the closeness—his damp chest, his face inches away, his eyes bright with mischief—makes my breath catch.
For a moment, something shifts between us. His smile fades slightly, and his gaze drops to my mouth. My heart hammers so loudly I’m certain he can hear it.
My sleep-softened brain might be making this up, but is he about to—
The crunch of tires on gravel cuts through the moment like a knife. Connor’s fingers slip from my hoodie as we both turn toward the sound. A sleek black Range Rover rolls up the driveway, its headlights sweeping across the trees before settling on us. My stomach drops. I know exactly who’s inside.
Dad, already on the doorstep of the Main Cottage, turns toward the approaching vehicle, one hand shielding his eyes from the glare. “The Scotts are here,” he announces, as if I might have somehow missed the car or forgotten who we were waiting for.
The Range Rover comes to a stop, and for a moment, no one emerges.
Then the engine dies, and the driver’s door swings open.
Brad Scott steps out in crisp khakis and a perfectly pressed navy blazer, looking as though he’s just walked off the set of an expensive watch commercial instead of spending three hours in a car.
His wife Maria follows from the passenger side, elegant as ever in white linen pants and a flowing blouse, her honey-blonde hair twisted into a perfect chignon.
My heart hammers against my ribs as the rear door opens.
And then Rick steps out.
My chest constricts painfully. He looks exactly the same—tall and broad-shouldered, with that perfectly styled blond hair that catches the last of the evening light.
He’s wearing chinos and a light blue button-down with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, exposing tanned forearms. The shirt fits him perfectly, stretching against the shoulders built from years of rowing crew.
Every inch of him screams privilege and good breeding.
Rick turns and offers his hand to the final passenger, and Cassidy emerges in a flowing white sundress, her long blonde hair loose around her shoulders. They look like a matched set—beautiful and polished and perfect.
I suddenly feel small and rumpled in my wrinkled T-shirt and hoodie, my hair still messed from sleep. Next to me, Connor is literally dripping lake water onto the ground. We could not look less put-together if we tried.