Chapter 3
JULES
Iwake to the click of the radiator and daylight seeping through the curtains. My head still spins with echoes of last night: wine-stained laughter, Mrs. Dorsey’s hot-water fiasco, Riot’s roar.
New day. No men. No drama. Especially no Calvin Stewart.
I’m here for my best friend’s wedding, not for emotional archaeology.
I fling off the covers, hair tangled like weeds, and pull on my oldest concert tee. Shower caddy in hand, I slip into the hall before anyone can stop me. No message from Evan. Of course. I shove the sting down and head for the shared bath.
It’s early enough that even Mrs. Dorsey hasn’t started humming, and for the first time since I arrived I almost feel in control.
Stealthy, unseen, and on my own terms.
The door is shut, my prize, first come, first served.
I twist the knob, swing it open too hard, and Calvin jerks back through a cloud of steam as light blinds me. Momentum carries me forward until I crash into a wall of wet skin, damp hair, and raw nerve.
Calvin Stewart. Towel and all.
“Whoa! Easy there, killer.”
My hands shoot up like surrender. Don’t touch me or I might scream.
I skid sideways, slam into the counter, breath catching in my throat. My hand flies to my mouth.
The amber light catches his skin like a low-budget ad that somehow looks high-end. His towel barely clings to his waist. One inch of decency. No more.
My eyes snap up and meet his.
He’s supremely unbothered by the absurdity of standing half-naked in a narrow 1920s bathroom, two feet from my dignity.
Don’t look down, Jules. Don’t you dare look down.
Hair damp. Face smug. And of course he’s infuriatingly handsome. There ought to be a law against it.
“Disgusting!” My face twists. My voice is all defense, no logic.
He smirks. “Morning, sunshine.” His tone is smooth as dark chocolate, a low morning rumble.
“Oh, please.” My arms fold tight across my chest, butterflies rioting in my stomach. Mad at myself for feeling it. Mad at him for knowing.
I try to summon a lethal glare but probably land closer to a soggy kitten.
“What, did Willow Ridge pass an ordinance against public indecency?”
Calvin’s grin tilts slow, practiced, somehow boyish. “What, worried about corruption? Or worried you might enjoy the view?”
“In your dreams.” I huff. “You’ve got nothing I want. Try putting on some clothes before traumatizing the guests.”
“As far as I can tell, you barged in on me.” He steps aside, gesturing grandly. “I should be the one filing a complaint with Mrs. Dorsey.”
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, pushing past him so hard my shower caddy rattles. Our arms brush. I yank mine back like I’ve touched poison ivy.
He’s still grinning. “Let me know if you need anything. Soap, water… maybe a fainting couch?”
I spin to fire back, but my heel slips on the damp tile.
Time slows. My caddy clatters, shower gel flying, arms flailing.
I’m falling.
And then he’s there.
Calvin’s arms wrap around me, strong and lightning-fast, one hand firm between my shoulder blades, the other anchoring my waist.
For a heartbeat, the world disappears. His chest is warm, his breath against my ear.
He steadies me upright, but neither of us moves away.
We’re locked in a half-hug, suspended between memory and heat. His towel holds on by mercy alone.
My heart forgets how to behave.
Our eyes meet—startled, sharp, blue. For one suspended second, our lips hover too close. The absurdity melts away, leaving something far more dangerous.
That Old Spice hits me. Familiar. Nostalgic. Too good.
Once, being held by him felt like the safest place in the world. Now, I could drown in that memory.
I hate how much it both thrills and terrifies me.
The spell breaks. I jerk back.
“Thanks for the save,” I bite out, voice brittle. “Now, get lost.”
I slam the bathroom door behind me. The sound rattles the hooks and probably wakes three retired aunts.
I press my back to the wood, heart hammering.
What just happened?
All I can feel are Calvin’s arms. Strong, careful, and real. The swoop in my stomach isn’t just embarrassment. It’s the reckless part of me I thought I’d buried.
My tee clings damp to my skin, a stubborn reminder of the steam from his shower.
This is exactly what I was trying to avoid.
Too much nostalgia can’t be healthy.
Where is Evan? My so-called boyfriend. He’s never made me feel this alive. Or this unhinged.
That thought lands.
I push off the door, flick on the tap, and whisper to the mirror: “You don’t get to have power over me.”
The reflection doesn’t argue.
And my Swiss-cheese armor drips straight down the drain.