Chapter Twenty-Five
? Holly ?
Athens moved whether I kept up or not. Classes rolled forward, deadlines stacked, and the sidewalks around Sanford Stadium filled with red and black every weekend like the whole town had nothing else to live for.
Some days it felt like I was living two lives—one on campus with professors who didn’t know my name, and one just an hour down the road with a family who knew every piece of me but suddenly felt farther away than ever.
Willow’s Harbor lived in the margins. Numbers scrawled beside bullet points in my notebook, grant deadlines crammed between exam dates in my planner.
It was progress, sure, but it still felt like smoke and paper.
Hannah swore it would stand on its own legs soon, that I’d see it, touch it.
For now, all I had were scribbles, late-night calls, and the gnawing fear that the dream was running faster than I could keep up.
Friday afternoon, she proved me wrong.
We were at the clubhouse, Jewel babbling on Maria’s hip and Dalton lugging grocery bags like he was competing for Strongman of the Year. Hannah caught me by the elbow before I could escape to the kitchen.
“Come with me,” she ordered, and I followed her down a hallway I’d never bothered with because you don’t argue with Hannah Mills. She stopped outside one of the storage rooms and pushed the door open.
It wasn’t storage anymore.
The room had been remade into something small but soft—a twin bed with clean sheets, a dresser, a lamp casting warm light. A vase of plastic flowers sat stubbornly bright on the nightstand. It wasn’t much.
But it was safe.
It was intentional.
“What is this?” My voice came out thinner than I meant it to.
“Insurance,” Hannah said. “A place for anyone who needs to disappear for a while.” She stepped inside like she was giving me the tour of a palace. “August signed off on converting all the spare rooms. We’ll have half a dozen ready by the end of the month.”
My heart swelled. And then…tightened.
“In the clubhouse?” I asked quietly.
Hannah didn’t bristle. Didn’t snap. She just looked at me. Waiting for me to speak my mind.
I stepped farther into the room, running my fingers along the dresser edge.
“It’s beautiful. It is. But…some women might not feel safe walking through a building full of men.
Even good men. Even ours.” I swallowed. “If they’re running from someone who hurt them, the cuts, the noise, the bar…
it might feel like another kind of threat. ”
Maria came up behind me, Jewel balanced on her hip. She didn’t interrupt.
Hannah nodded slowly. “Good,” she said.
I blinked. “Good?”
“Good that you noticed.” Her mouth softened. “If you hadn’t said it, I’d have worried.”
“I’m grateful, I really am. I just don’t want this to feel like charity,” I continued, voice steadier now. “Or like they owe anyone here something just because the Saints gave them a bed.”
“They won’t,” Hannah said firmly. Then gentler, “But you’re right. We can do better.”
She moved toward the window, thinking. “There’s a side entrance we can convert. Separate lock. Separate access. No one needs to walk past the bar. We’ll set strict boundaries with the boys—not because they’re a problem, but because guests shouldn’t have to wonder.”
Maria nodded. “We can add signage that doesn’t scream ‘motorcycle club.’ Make the entrance feel neutral.”
“And we don’t advertise it as the clubhouse,” Hannah added. “We advertise Willow’s Harbor. This is just the first harbor.”
I let that settle.
“This isn’t the final version,” she said. “It’s the bridge. Until we secure the property you want.”
The knot in my chest loosened. “You’re not upset?” I asked quietly.
Hannah snorted. “Holly McCarthy, if you’re building something meant to protect women and you don’t question every angle, I’ve failed you.”
Maria smiled at me over Jewel’s curls. “You’re thinking like the woman who’s going to run this.”
I grabbed the doorframe, blinking hard. “You did this without telling me,” I managed.
Hannah’s lips twitched. “You would’ve tried to do it alone.”
She wasn’t wrong.
“You’ve got help,” Maria said softly.
I stepped into the room again and touched the bedspread, really feeling it this time.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t the freestanding house with its own porch and quiet street.
But it was movement. It was momentum. For the first time since Willow’s Harbor had been scribbles and late-night calls, I didn’t just believe in it.
I believed in us building it right.
Two days later, the envelope showed up.
I still hadn’t figured out how mail worked halfway across the world. Some letters took weeks. Others slipped through faster, like the desert itself had carried them on the wind. I’d stopped trying to guess, but every trip to the mailroom still made my pulse jump.
And then there it was—my name in Jackson’s hand, tucked in the little metal box under the buzz of the fluorescent lights.
This time I didn’t fumble my keys or nearly trip over my own feet.
I just grinned like an idiot the whole walk upstairs, the envelope clutched tight in my hand.
My bag hit the floor the second I pushed through the door, forgotten.
I slid down with my back to the wall, tore it open, and let his words pull me across the miles.
Malibu,
Got your letter. Got the picture. You trying to kill me? I opened it in the squad bay, and now every bastard in here knows I’ve got the prettiest girl in Georgia waiting on me. Half of them asked if you’ve got a sister. I told them no.
That photo wrecked me. I’ve got it taped inside my Kevlar so every time I throw it on, you’re with me. The guys can razz me all they want—I don’t care. I see you, sun in your hair, Sally under you, barefoot like the world can’t touch you. That’s mine. You’re mine.
Life here’s the same. Hump till your legs give out, chow that makes MREs taste five-star, dust everywhere it shouldn’t be. But your letter cut through it.
Don’t stop writing me, Malibu. Don’t stop sending pictures. You’re the only thing keeping me sane.
Love you,
Jackson
I leaned back against the wall, the paper warm from my hands, and read it again. “Humped until your legs give out?” I muttered, rolling my eyes at the page. “What the hell does that even mean?”
I caught myself tracing his words with my thumb, the corner of my mouth tugging up at the way he said “you’re mine” like it was already settled. The ache was still there, sure, but it wasn’t sharp anymore. It was steady. Bearable.