Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
SOME THINGS NEVER CHANGE
LOLA
I wasn’t sure it would be a good idea to go away with Patrick.
We’ve been teetering toward a breakup, at least on my end.
He asked me to give him another chance, so I agreed to this trip.
Now that I see how beautiful Windhaven is, I can’t help but be glad I’m here.
I’ve always loved Lake Superior, and this is one of the prettiest resorts I’ve ever been to—not that I’ve been to many, but this has everything I love.
Down-to-earth luxury, what could be better?
I don’t know much about the place, but Patrick said it’s just been built and hasn’t been open long.
He swore we wouldn’t just hike the whole time, but now that we’re here, I wouldn’t mind exploring.
“Should we take a little walk before dinner?” I ask.
“I’d hoped to visit the room first,” he says, pulling my back against his chest and nuzzling my ear.
“There’s plenty of time for that later,” I tease.
“Ugh, you’re going to make me work for it, aren’t you?”
“And why shouldn’t I?” I ask.
I try to swallow back the irritation and then am annoyed with myself for considering letting his comment slide.
“I guess we’ll see if you really meant it about making every effort.” I lift a shoulder.
His jaw clenches, letting me know he didn’t like that, but I’m tired of giving in and ignoring it when he says something I don’t like.
“Come on, baby.” His voice needles.
I roll my eyes and move toward the flowers, suddenly wishing I were on this little vacation by myself.
The second I see him, I stop walking.
Patrick says something beside me, his hand at the small of my back, but his voice goes thin and far away, like he’s speaking from underwater. My body knows before my brain does. Every muscle tightens. My fingers go cold.
Because twenty feet ahead, sitting on a bench near a white arch covered with clematis, like this place was built just to frame him, is Tully.
Tully Whitman.
My Tully.
My used to be Tully.
The guy who once knew me in a way I didn’t let other people see. The guy I walked away from, and I tried to never look back. The guy I’ve thought about every day since.
He’s sitting next to an elderly woman, and they’re laughing at something, their heads tipped back. He has that same low, easy laugh that used to buzz through my chest when I lay on his shoulder. The sun hits his dark brown hair, like he personally negotiated the lighting with the universe.
“Oh my God!” I gasp.
No.
No, no, no.
“Lola?” Patrick says, finally noticing that I’ve turned to stone. His thumb rubs a small, absent circle against my spine. “You okay?”
I don’t answer.
Because Tully looks up.
And sees me.
It’s like someone slams two magnets together across a room. His expression just stops, his smile dying. His eyes lock on mine, and for a second I see the exact same shock I’m feeling ricochet through him. We stay in that frozen state for I’m not sure how long.
The garden noise keeps going—clinking glasses from the terrace, a fountain trickling somewhere, a woman in a floppy hat talking about ordering room service—but inside this invisible line between us, everything is silent and bright and terrible.
I forget how to breathe.
Patrick follows my gaze, and his grip tightens around me.
“Tully Whitman,” he says coolly.
“Yes,” I hear myself say, but my voice doesn’t sound like mine.
Across the garden, Tully runs a hand through his hair, his nervous tell. He says something to the woman next to him, but his eyes never leave me.
I feel exposed. Like someone just opened an old diary and started reading it out loud.
What is he doing here?
Windy Harbor was supposed to be a soft reset for Patrick and me. A place where I’m not haunted by a love story that ended in sadness.
My heart is trying to punch its way out of my ribs.
Tully stands and walks toward us.
Each step he takes feels like a countdown.
Ten feet.
Eight.
Five.
I can see the tiny line between his eyebrows that only shows up when he’s overwhelmed. I can see him trying to figure out what version of me he’s about to meet.
Honestly? Same.
His hair is shorter than when we were together, and he has more tattoos. The same intense eyes, as always. He’s still the hottest man I’ve ever seen. My body betrays me just by being near him.
He stops a few feet away. Close enough that my body remembers how being held by him felt, which is deeply rude of it.
“Lola,” he says.
Soft. Careful.
I remember how he’d whisper my name, his body arching over mine. He’d stare at me, driving into my body. I remember how his body grew taut as he let go, and how beautiful he looked in those moments.
I remember everything.
“Hi, Tully,” I say. “Crazy seeing you here.”
Surprise splits across his face. “It shouldn’t be,” he says, laughing slightly under his breath, but the humor doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Since this is my family’s resort,” he adds.
I stare at him in shock. “What?”
He scans my face, as if he’s trying to discern whether I’m telling the truth or not, and then his gaze turns to Patrick, and his whole demeanor shifts.
He looks like he does when he’s ready to get in the face of the competition on the ice.
That’s when I turn to Patrick and see him smirking at Tully.
“Did you know?” I ask.
His lips lift slightly, but he doesn’t look at me; he just keeps watching Tully.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I knew.”
The words land like a slap I can’t react to, not here, not with Tully right in front of us.
My pulse hammers in my throat.
The muscle in Tully’s jaw jumps. He straightens, all six three of him uncoiling like he’s stepping onto the ice for a shift against the Dallas Suns.
Patrick tips his chin toward Tully.
“Long way from the arena, huh, Whitman?” The words are light, almost friendly. The edge underneath could cut glass. “You almost look like a soft lumberjack out here.”
Tully’s nostrils flare. For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to close the distance, say something that’ll turn this garden into a highlight reel brawl. But he swallows—visibly, deliberately—and forces a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Some of us know how to behave in public, Patrick.” His voice is low, controlled. “You should try it sometime.”
The air between them crackles.
I can’t breathe properly.
I keep my face blank, my hands loose at my sides, and the scream locked behind my teeth while they stare each other down.
Tully’s gaze cuts back to me. Something flickers there, or maybe it’s just the same stupid muscle memory I’m fighting.
Then he nods once, short and sharp, and turns away before walking back to the bench.
I hear him say, “Love you, Grandma Donna. Thanks for the chat.”
His grandma. I feel her eyes on me now, and I give her a quick smile. She’s adorable, and I wish I were meeting her under different circumstances. Tully walks past her, and I turn to walk in the opposite direction, toward the resort.
Patrick exhales through his nose. “Classy as ever.”
I don’t answer. I don’t trust my voice yet.
When we reach the resort, Patrick tries to talk to me before we go inside. I lift my hand.
“Not here,” I tell him.
We ride the elevator in silence. The second the suite door clicks shut behind us, I round on him.
“You brought me here on purpose.”
Patrick sets his keys on the console table with careful precision. “It’s a nice resort, Lola. Five stars. Thought you’d like it.”
“Don’t.” My voice cracks on the word. “Don’t play dumb. You knew this was his family’s resort. Were you hoping he would be here? What were you hoping to see?”
He meets my eyes, unflinching. “Maybe I wanted to see if it still hurt.”
The honesty guts me more than any lie could have.
I stare at him—at the man who’s been fun, a sweet distraction, and, I thought, decent to me. Right now, I want to claw his eyes out.
“You used me,” I whisper. “To get one over your rival. That’s what this was? A dick-measuring contest with me as the tape measure?”
“Lola—”
“No.” I step back when he reaches for me. “You don’t get to touch me right now.”
His hand drops. For the first time today, he looks uncertain.
“I didn’t think it would hit you this hard.
I was hoping it wouldn’t affect you at all, honestly.
” He steps closer, hands up like he’s approaching something skittish.
“I didn’t bring you here to hurt you. I swear. I hoped you were over him.”
The words hang there, heavy and honest, and I feel my throat close.
Over him.
I’ve spent five years telling myself I’d get there. Years of pretending the ache in my chest was just scar tissue, not an open wound. And then I saw Tully, and everything I’d tried to forget was still living right there at the surface.
I don’t know how to get over him. I never have. And now, standing here with Patrick looking at me like I’m the only thing that matters, I’m not sure I ever will.
Patrick takes another step, slow, careful. “I fucked up. I see that now.” His voice drops. “I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
I shake my head, tears burning. “You shouldn’t have blindsided me.”
“I know.” He reaches out, hesitates, then lets his fingers brush my wrist. When I don’t pull away, he closes the distance, cupping my face with both hands. His thumbs wipe at the tears I didn’t realize were falling. “I love you, Lola.”
My breath catches.
He’s never said it before. Now the words are out, raw and unsteady, and I don’t know what to do with them. Part of me is still standing in the garden, still feeling the pull of a man who never said those words either—not out loud.
Patrick’s forehead rests against mine. “Stay,” he murmurs. “Let me make this right. I’m just…scared you’ll never look at me the way you looked at him.”
I close my eyes. My hands come up, fisting in his shirt. “I don’t know how I looked at him.”
“Like he’s still yours,” he says quietly. “And I need to know if there’s any part of you that still wants him to be.”
The question sits between us, sharp and terrifying.
“You don’t have to answer that right now,” he amends. “Just please stay.”
“I’ll stay,” I whisper. “Just tonight.”
His arms come around me then, careful, like he’s afraid I’ll bolt if he holds me too tight. He presses a kiss to my temple, then my cheek, then the corner of my mouth.
“I love you,” he says again, softer this time. Like he’s testing the words, like he’s afraid they’ll break if he says them too loud.
I don’t say it back.
I can’t.
With Tully’s face still burned behind my eyelids, I wonder if love is supposed to feel this much like survival. Because I’ve had to fight to do just that ever since I walked away from him.