Chapter 2
CALVIN
The door to my tiny B&B room clunks shut behind me, and the silence rushes in so fast it’s almost dizzying. Relief hits, then vanishes. For half a second I feel grounded. The next, it’s like I’m still on stage in a nightmare. Spotlight hot. Applause frozen. Adrenaline clawing my veins.
But here, now, surrounded by rose wallpaper faded to pink and a nightstand boasting a chipped Chamber of Commerce mug, my chest is tight, my shirt is damp, and my confidence feels dull as a butter knife.
Breathe. Shoulders back. Smile.
Isn’t this what I teach?
My whole empire runs on teaching men how to stay cool under pressure. Funny thing. Turns out I skipped the chapter on running into Jules Avery in a hallway.
I drop my duffel on the sagging bed. The springs squeak like they’re mocking me, which feels about right. The great Calvin Stewart, undone by five minutes in the rain and one look from her.
Her name alone is enough to break my frame.
Man, you just saw a ghost and tried to flirt with it. Smooth, Stewart, real smooth.
I peel off my jacket, scanning the room heavy with lemon cleaner and old regret.
A motivational poster on the door reads: Choose Happiness. Live with Purpose.
Cute.
Even the universe keeps its sense of humor.
The images won’t leave me alone.
Her hair, rain-streaked. Her glare, sharp enough to slice bread. Her voice, brittle and breaking at the edges.
A thin layer of armor over everything I used to think we could fix.
If the thousands of guys subscribed to my newsletter could see me now, they’d unsubscribe with one click.
Their almighty Dating Coach, ready to jump out a second-floor window to avoid one woman.
Step one, gents: don’t lose your cool when your past barrels down a hallway looking like your best what-if.
I lean over the sink, splash cold water on my face, and meet the reflection glaring back.
Half polished brand. Half homesick fraud.
I mouth the old mantra, forcing a grin.
“Fake it till you make it, Calvin. Just flesh, just flaws.”
The words hang hollow.
I let out a laugh that doesn’t sound like me.
“Yeah. More like the king of fake.”
I’m barely done pulling a shirt over damp shoulders when a soft knock turns into the creak of my door.
My pulse spikes.
Jules?
But it’s Mom, breezing in like locks were made for other people.
She carries a plate of cinnamon-sugar scones, the smell wrapping around me before she even sets them down.
“Hi, Mom. Ever heard of knocking?”
“Care package from your biggest fan,” she says, breezing past the jab.
She nods toward the window. “Would you look at that? Sunshine broke right through. Gorgeous out now.”
Her eyes flick up, sharp with that mother’s radar I’ll never escape.
“Why do you look tense?”
“Big weekend.” I shrug.
“Mrs. Dorsey told me Jules is back in town.”
The name hits like a live wire. I force a chuckle.
“Yeah. Love brings everyone home eventually, doesn’t it?”
She settles on the edge of the bed, cardigan pooling around her like a safety net.
“It’s been, what… ten years?”
“About that.” I drop my gaze, then meet hers again.
“I saw her already. More like crashed into her.”
A beat passes. My throat tightens.
“Now I know this weekend won’t be simple.”
Mom studies me.
“Don’t turn her into another case study, Cal. Remember how that went last time?”
I force a laugh, brittle at the edges. “I know, Mom.”
I snap a scone in half, crumbs scattering into my lap.
It tastes more like nerves than cinnamon sugar.
She nods, eyes soft. “She’s here without her partner this weekend. I heard he couldn’t make it.”
“Appreciate the intel. Good to know Mrs. Dorsey’s still running the small-town newswire.”
Mom chuckles. “That’s about right. You know Mrs. Dorsey, she always did love a headline.”
Her smile softens. “But gossip’s not why I’m here.”
I brush the crumbs from my palms, brow creased. “Then what? You come to tell me Jules is off-limits for the weekend?”
“No… but yes, actually.” Her smile tilts, knowing.
“She is off-limits, Cal, and you’d do well to respect that. You’ve always had a soft spot for her.”
She softens. “But tonight I only came to see how you’re holding up.”
I manage a wry smile. “I’m… staying vertical.”
Mom’s expression softens into something almost fond. Her hand drifts to my notebook, still open to a half-finished bullet list.
“Always working, I see.” She taps the page lightly, eyes kind but sharp.
“Life isn’t a TED Talk, Cal.”
“Depends on the topic.” I glance down at the margin notes, the tidy headers, and sigh.
“Sometimes the best plan is no plan at all,” she says.
“You weren’t always the guy with taglines. You used to just… be. Remember that boy who wrote poetry about sunsets?”
“He doesn’t exist anymore, Mom.”
I look at her seriously.
Then we both laugh, the mood breaking just enough to let the air back in.
She tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear, eyes kind but unyielding.
“Cal, Jules is here for a wedding, same as you. Keep it simple. I know your mind wants to plan ten steps ahead, but this isn’t that.
Let her have her peace, and give yourself some too.
This weekend isn’t about the past. It’s about Maddie and Riot.”
I can’t argue with her.
It settles me, loosening the knot in my chest.
She’s right.
I don’t have to fix anything.
I don’t have to make anything work.
I snap my notebook shut and exhale. “Thanks, Mom.”
She stands, kisses my forehead. “Love you, son.” Then she gives me that gentle nudge only she can perfect.
“Well…”
A muffled cough cuts through the paper-thin wall.
Mom glances over, then back at me. “Oh… Jules is right next door. Mrs. Dorsey mentioned that as well.” She covers her mouth.
I wince. “Yup, Mom. What are the odds?”
She smiles. “Not too bad, actually. Not when the crew books the whole B&B.”
Probably Riot’s idea.
Mom cups her hand to her ear. “Hey, Jules? You there?”
A soft laugh carries through the wall. “Hey, Mrs. Stewart, just over here accidentally eavesdropping. Missed you. Can’t wait to catch up tomorrow.”
Mom’s eyebrows shoot up. She lowers her hand with a laugh. “Miss you too, honey. Looking forward to it.”
She pats my shoulder, grin tugging sly. “Well, I’ve stirred up enough trouble for one afternoon. Best be on my way.”
She folds me into a hug, warm as the cinnamon clinging to her cardigan, then slips out.
Her footsteps creak down the hall until they fade into silence that feels too loud, my heart thrumming with peace—and twice the anxiety.
On the other side of the wall, there’s a shuffle. Then the door opens, closes. Light footsteps, quick but careful, heading down the stairs.
And then nothing.
Just the faint drift of something warm from the kitchen, and a wall too thin for this weekend.
Laughter ricochets off the B&B walls as I make my way downstairs. The lantern-lit dining room buzzes with the clink of silverware and low chatter.
A farmhouse table groans under roast chicken and root-vegetable mash.
At its center, Riot spins a menu like a prizefighter sizing up his next opponent, debating shellfish as if it were a matter of national importance.
He spots me and springs to his feet, grinning like I’m the main course. One stride and he’s on me, ruffling my hair the way he did in high school.
His hand smacks my back, heavy and sure, carrying the scent of cedar smoke and something earthy like he dragged the woods inside with him.
“Calvin Stewart in the flesh!” His grin tilts knowingly, too big for just me. “Teach us your secrets, guru!”
Wedding planner Cara drifts over, eyes dancing. “Hey, Mr. Masterclass. Guess destiny finally decided to make you face your past.” Her smile tilts, playful and sharp, like she’s waiting to see if I’ll flinch.
She gestures to the seat across from Jules. The air shifts the second I sit.
Jules folds her arms, chin angled, every inch composed. I try not to stare. My chest betrays me anyway, tightening at every twitch of her mouth, even the fake smiles.
Riot’s already performing, leaning across the table like the headliner at open mic.
“Cal, remind me again—step five of the formula is…?”
I lift my glass, eyebrow cocked.
“Step five… don’t mention step five.”
Laughter ripples through the group.
Jules arches one brow, half amused and half unimpressed, and the spark behind my ribs nearly jolts me.
Cara catches it instantly, eyes flicking between us. Her grin tilts, sly.
“You two look ridiculous. Like you’re auditioning for Can’t Keep My Eyes Off You.”
She nudges my arm. “Don’t make us guess who’s got the bigger crush.”
My eyes widen. Jules gaze drops to her plate, expression unreadable. I force a laugh, reach for my water, and my hand jitters, the glass knocking against the plate.
Riot clears his throat, grinning wide. “Man, this is better than pay-per-view. Who needs cable when we’ve got front-row seats? Somebody call the network, we’ve got live drama at table six.”
I nod, raising my glass. “Yeah. Ratings’ll tank once you realize it’s just awkward silences.”
The table stalls for a beat, then breaks into laughter. Jules grip on her napkin eases, almost imperceptibly.
I spear a forkful of roast. Comfort food, they call it, but it’s cold on my tongue.
Conversation tumbles on: brunch logistics, rehearsal timing, the mystery of three identical room keys. Riot keeps circling back to me, louder with each turn, like he’s trying to prove something.
“Guess this time I’m in charge, buddy!” His grin stretches wide, but his eyes flick nervously from Jules to Maddie to me. “Bet you didn’t see that coming.”
I arch a brow, letting a smile tug. “Don’t let the power go to your head. Last I checked, you nearly forgot the rings.”
Cara fires back before he can protest.
“Please. This man once introduced himself as the best man at a funeral. You really trust him with rings?”
The table erupts again. Jules laughs. Really laughs. The sound startles me more than Riot’s theatrics ever could.
Her eyes find mine, and in that instant the room recedes. Clinking cutlery, chatter, all of it fades. What’s left is a flash of what we used to be.
Late-night talks, whispered secrets, trust I never deserved but had anyway.
To everyone else, we’re just catching up. But beneath the smiles, Jules and I both know better. What once felt effortless now stretches across a canyon neither of us knows how to cross.
The clatter of plates still echoes when Mrs. Dorsey bustles in with bottles of red, insisting no toast can wait.
She lifts her voice above the chatter. “Excuse me, darlings!”
We all look up as she sweeps into the room, beaming.
“The hot water tank upstairs just blew. The repairman can’t pry himself away until Monday. Cara, Jules, Calvin, you three will need to trek downstairs for your showers!” She winks.
Cara rolls her eyes at Riot. “Fantastic. I call dibs on the first trip. I’m not risking an ice-box wake-up.”
Riot snorts, raises his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll sacrifice myself! Nothing like a frosty wake-up to own the day, right Cal?”
He flexes, and Maddie playfully smacks his arm.
“You’ll die of hypothermia before breakfast,” she teases, shaking her head as she drops her napkin. “It’s just three people. You’ll figure it out.”
Jules and I exchange a sharp look.
Her eyebrow lifts, challenge glinting beneath the calm.
For a heartbeat, it’s high school all over again. She’s daring me to flinch. I’m pretending I don’t feel it.
Mrs. Dorsey claps her hands once. “Order of appearance! That big old tank downstairs won’t run out of heat.”
Then she’s gone in a rustle of shawl and perfume.
Jules’s cheeks flush as she tugs at her napkin. “We appreciate the hospitality, Mrs. D.”
The table erupts in mock cheers and groans.
Riot leans in, grin unshaken. “Now, don’t let this distract you from the main event.”
Maddie bumps his shoulder. “Right, because a busted boiler is the worst crisis we’ve ever faced.”
Her smile softens. “This is perfect. No matter how far we roam, some things never change.”
I glance across the table. Jules’s laughter lingers a second too long, and for the first time all night, it feels real.
My chest tightens, half-hope, half-warning.
Because if I let this place feel like home again, I might start falling for the ache I’ve spent years pretending I outgrew.