Chapter 1
JULES
Iswore I’d never come back here. Not after Calvin Stewart turned our story into his empire. Small-town golden boy. Self-help mogul. My first heartbreak.
But here I am.
The whole ride has been a slow torture. Mile after mile of highway and rain-smeared windows, and all I can think about is how I hope he misses his flight… or at least ends up stuck in some miserable layover. He built a multimillion-dollar dating empire.
I was his first guinea pig. His first lesson in what not to do.
I press my forehead to the cold glass as the town sharpens into view. Rain-washed sidewalks gleaming in weak afternoon sun, the faded glow of a gas station, and a row of shuttered storefronts holding their breath until dinner hour. The diesel thrum beneath my seat rattles through my bones.
Ten years gone, and it still tastes like him.
The Greyhound pulls into Willow Ridge around 3:30, before it lurches to a stop with a squeal of brakes.
Gravel crunches under my boots as I stumble off in my raincoat, dragging my too-small suitcase behind me.
A knot tightens in my stomach.
Around me, passengers peel off toward waiting hugs and cars while locals cluster together, trading gossip about weather and whose kid made valedictorian.
Small-town chatter that proves how far I don’t belong.
I left this place with a diploma in one hand and a head full of plans in the other. Now I’m back with nothing but baggage.
The heavier one has his name all over it.
The bus roars away, and for a split second I wish I were still on it.
I step into Main Street’s puddle-dappled gloom, rain plastering my hair, clinging like the anxiety I can’t shake.
I squint at the old bakery sign swinging in the wind. Half-Off Scones.
For a heartbeat, I swear I see a monitor flicker in the glass, Calvin Stewart’s crooked grin staring back at me.
My chest tightens.
Please, not yet.
Across the street, Mr. Abernathy leans on his cane, raincoat slick, dog at his side. “Welcome home, Jules,” he calls.
I wave, breath fogging the air. “Thanks, Mr. A. Hope you’ve got an umbrella.”
He shrugs. “Rain’s just weather. Give it five minutes. The sun’ll apologize.”
Thunder rolls overhead, like the sky itself wants to laugh at my homecoming.
I tuck my chin and step forward, counting each cobble like a heartbeat.
Just a few blocks to the B it feels like a tear, but it’s just rain.
I pass the church, where someone’s updated the sign to say Congrats Maddie & Riot! in squeaky magnetic letters. A few are upside down, which feels about right.
By the time I reach the corner, my shoes are squishing and my mood has shifted from “confident guest” to “drowned possum.”
If I’m lucky, I’ll make a beeline to my room, dry my socks, and steal an hour of peace before the Calvin Stewart circus begins.
The rain sharpens to a downpour, chasing me up the B&B porch steps.
My heart hammers, if this is a sign, let it be love, not disaster.
I push open Mrs. Dorsey’s heavy oak door and inhale a wave of wood polish, ancient pine, and scorched vanilla, like a flashback trying too hard.
I drag my suitcase across a faded rug, rain dripping from my coat in plinks, and surrender to the foyer’s patchwork chandelier, grudgingly admiring its old-world gaudiness.
Sepia wedding photos line the walls: brides in flowery hats, grooms in bow ties. One frame catches my eye: me at five, clutching cousin Ellie’s cake. My stomach flips.
Mrs. Dorsey appears behind her floral desk in a blur, lipstick slightly off-center, enthusiasm fully intact. A towel hangs ready over her arm, as if she knew the storm would send me in.
“Jules Avery! Soaked and stylish!” Her voice peals like church bells, and her knitted shawl settles over her shoulders like a grandmother’s hug.
“Room 7, sunset side. Best for dreaming… unless your roommate snores.”
I set my suitcase by my side, water streaking down the plastic shell.
“No roommate this time, which means blissfully silent dreams.”
I swipe the rain from my cheeks, take the towel, and blot at my hair.
“Still running this place twenty-four seven?”
She winks. “Some things never change, except the Wi-Fi password. You booked for two. Where’s your other half?”
My chest tightens. “Evan got stuck at work. He’s a banker. They’re trying to close a major account.”
She tsk-tsks over the ledger. “Big jobs, big schedules. Everything okay?”
“Yeah. He’s swamped, but he’s good.” I force a small laugh. “Says he’ll send flowers.” As if roses could fill the space he left empty.
She slides me a brass key engraved with a daisy. “Well, there’ll be plenty of company to keep you busy this weekend.”
She winks. “And don’t be a stranger at breakfast. That’s when the real stories come out.”
I smile, softer this time. “Got it. My parents say hi, by the way.”
Mrs. Dorsey lights up. “Oh! Mercy, they left town a couple of years after you. Sad times.”
She sighs. “Please give them my warmest greetings. Where did they end up?”
“South Carolina. Air Force reassignment. They’ve had two more little girls, five and eight.”
Mrs. Dorsey presses a hand to her lips. “Oh, my dear, how beautiful. I miss them so much. I wish we still had those end-of-summer potlucks.”
Heat flickers in my chest, equal parts pride and ache.
“Yeah. Those summers feel like another lifetime.”
I tuck the key into my pocket.
My phone buzzes.
Evan: I’m sorry, love. Thinking of you. Try to stay dry.
Sweet words. Honest words. He always means well.
But stay dry? I’m soaked to the bone, wishing he were here, laughing at the storm, sharing the mess.
Wishing he were more present than a text between meetings.
I slip the phone away, ache blooming behind my ribs.
Mrs. Dorsey leads me up the stairs and down a hallway papered in faded rose vines, past porcelain teacups and a dusty wedding bouquet.
Its petals were pressed a century ago, brittle as regret.
My suitcase wheels whisper against the rug.
I step into Room Seven and close the door.
Rain still ticks against the window, but thin light filters through the curtains, soft and restless.
In the hush, every photo and creaking floorboard feels like the whole town is leaning in, waiting for my next move.
After trading soaked clothes for something dry and catching a short rest, I rise with a parched throat and pad into the hallway on a mission for ice and, if I’m lucky, a glass of OJ from the kitchen.
I’m barely a few steps out my door when the runner betrays me.
Thud.
My heart somersaults.
Before I can right myself, I collide with a broad chest that stops me cold.
Solid. Warm. Unfortunately familiar.
Calvin Stewart.
He’s backlit by the sconce, paint-splattered duffel slung over one shoulder. Woodsmoke and something intoxicatingly spicy cling to him. It’s as if he timed his arrival just to collide with me.
I blink.
He’s infuriatingly as I remember, only upgraded. Taller somehow, jaw sharper, hair tousled like he’s been running his hands through it.
Time freezes. Then his mouth curves.
“Ten years, Avery. Didn’t think you’d throw yourself at me the second we crossed paths.”
Heat climbs my neck. I fumble the ice tub, my key clattering to the carpet.
“You’re the one radiating like a furnace. What, did you just finish chopping wood or something?”
He crouches to scoop up my key, holding it aloft like a trophy.
“Still quick with the jabs. Good to know some things haven’t changed.”
His fingers brush mine, electric and far too deliberate.
I yank the key free, pulse unsteady.
Our eyes meet, saying more than either of us should.
“Looks like rain didn’t spare your hair,” he says, voice low.
My throat tightens. A flush creeps up my cheeks as I swipe at the damp strands, suddenly self-conscious.
“Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”
I try for normal, but my voice shakes. “Surprised you didn’t bring an entourage with you.”
That lands.
His smile flickers, but then settles back into place.
“Still holding that grudge? Guess I’ll have to win you over at the wedding.”
He raises his hands in mock surrender. “I come in peace, Jules.”
He’s too close. Too charming. The way he talks like he doesn’t even care that it’s been ten years.
He steps aside with a small flourish. “You’re Room 7? Looks like we’re neighbors.”
“Stay out of my way.” I barrel past him, heart drumming.
Somewhere downstairs, the freezer kicks on, underscoring the reality that my high-school disaster is now my literal next-door neighbor, with walls thin enough to hear his every breath.
I catch my breath at the kitchen door.
Okay, Jules. You will not let Calvin Stewart get under your skin.
But that doesn’t change the fact, he already has.
Room 7 wraps around me with a warm embrace and a boarding school’s surveillance.
Cream curtains, a floral eiderdown, two pillows. One has Sweet Dreams hand-stitched in the corner, as if nostalgia alone could keep nightmares out.
My heart’s still ricocheting from that collision with my worst enemy. Heat crawls up my neck again, just thinking of it, not from the cold but from the humiliation of being seen, and from something far more dangerous: the pull of attraction.
I press my palms to the cool glass and watch the rain carve rivulets down the pane.
My phone buzzes, Evan’s name glowing softly on the nightstand. I don’t reach for it.
He loves me. He’s predictable. He never leaves bruises.
With him, I’m wrapped in calm certainty.
But Calvin… one glance, and my chest erupts into a riot of nerves.
It isn’t nostalgia. It’s raw energy, like he wired himself straight into my veins.
My thumb hovers over “reply,” then drifts away.
I flip the phone face-down.
Duty can wait.
Right now, I’m consumed by something far more pressing.
In the glass, my reflection stares back: mascara smudged, hair wind-scrambled, skepticism stamped in the tilt of my mouth.
I thought I’d armored up. Five minutes with Calvin Stewart, and my armor feels like Swiss cheese.
I shrug off my jacket and hang it on the radiator. Lemon polish and damp flannel scent the air. I collapse onto the bed, the springs squeaking in protest. Above me, the fan turns, stirring patterns I used to count at night.
This would all be easier if I could unpack my safe, solid boyfriend. But this town doesn’t let you stay neat or planned. It rattles loose the parts you swore you’d outgrown.
I’m not the girl who gets spun up over a look in a hallway.
I’m older. Smarter. Unbreakable.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I do not need Calvin Stewart.
Not for a story, not for a second chance, not for a single solitary thing… but the lie vibrates under my skin.
Thunder grumbles outside, low and knowing.
Rain murmurs against the glass, soft as if it pities me.
I close my eyes and pretend I believe myself.
My resolve feels fragile as tissue, but I cling to it anyway.
Because I have to.