Chapter Thirty-One The Morning After Everything Changed
Chapter Thirty-One
The Morning After Everything Changed
Frankie
I wake up to an empty bed.
I can still smell his cologne on the sheets, but the warmth feels distant now. I sit up slowly, pulling the blanket tighter around me, trying to shake the fog of sleep from my brain.
I replay the last few hours. The way he touched me. The way he kissed me. It felt real. It felt . . . good. Too good. Almost perfect.
I hear the soft murmur of voices coming from outside my room. Charles and Hayes are talking, laughing—normal, like nothing’s changed. Like I didn’t just let him into my life in a way I never intended. Like it wasn’t the most vulnerable thing I’ve done in years.
I push myself out of bed and stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do.
I throw on a robe, tugging the edges tighter to hide the way I feel so damn exposed, and step into the hallway. Hayes is in the main salon with Charles, dressed and dapper as always, like nothing’s different. Like we didn’t share something last night that’s suddenly making my chest tighten.
I pause just outside the door, wanting to say something but unsure of what. What the hell is wrong with me? It was just like Hayes said—casual and fun, and it meant absolutely nothing.
I clear my throat and walk in, my voice a little too loud, a little too forced. “Hey.”
Both men look up. Hayes gives me a quick glance, no more than that, and then turns back to Charles. He doesn’t say anything. Not a word. He doesn’t even acknowledge what happened. Not even an offhand remark or a casual smile. Just . . . nothing.
My stomach twists, and I feel it: the sudden, sharp pang of hurt. I want to say something—anything—but my mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. I could ask him if last night meant anything to him, but I already know the answer.
Instead, I force a smile that feels too tight. “I, uh, guess I’ll go get some breakfast,” I say, the words coming out so flat I can barely recognize my own voice.
Hayes doesn’t even look at me. He nods at Charles, then grabs his coffee like I’m nothing more than a blip on his radar. The casualness of it burns more than I expected.
I turn and walk away, my heart pounding in my chest, my head spinning.
Did I misread everything? Did I actually think there could be something between us?
It was just a hookup. But why did it feel like more?
Probably because of that thoughtful date he took me on and all the little things in between . . .
My chest aches as I make my way toward the kitchen, away from the two men who seem so at ease, so normal, while I’m here, spiraling.
I reach for the coffee pot, needing something to steady my hands. I pour myself a cup of coffee and head back to the table.
Hayes meets my eyes and frowns before his gaze darts away.
I almost choke on my own spit.
Okay?
No need to be an asshole.
We slept together.
And damn him, he’s acting like it’s no big deal. Meanwhile, I’m still trying to process that it was a big deal. A huge deal.
For starters, I’m almost certain I did pull a muscle.
He chuckles at something Charles says, totally at ease. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here, acting like someone who just discovered fire for the first time. Like . . . what’s even happening?
He stretches a little, looking over his shoulder at me.
And that’s when I notice it—the way his gaze lingers on me just a little too long, the way he smiles softly, as if he’s memorizing this moment. I feel a flutter in my chest, something warm and new.
From across the table, Charles watches us curiously, his brow furrowing. He looks from Hayes to me and back again, like he’s trying to piece something together. I can practically hear the gears turning in his head.
I meet Charles’s gaze, giving him an innocent smile and a little shrug. Nope. Nothing to see here.
But Hayes catches the exchange, too, and his frown returns.
I turn my attention back to Charles, who’s still giving us a look, and force a casual smile, but something about Hayes’s cavalier attitude stings. I didn’t often do the casual hookup thing, and last night felt different. Except, apparently not to him.
I stir my coffee like it personally wronged me.
Hayes sits three feet away, scrolling through his phone like last night was just another Tuesday. Like he didn’t completely rearrange my understanding of what good sex could be. Like I didn’t fall apart in his hands and put myself back together as someone entirely different.
The worst part? He looks good. Hair slightly messed up, that postsex glow that should be illegal on someone who’s currently pretending I don’t exist.
Charles glances between us again. The man’s eighty-two, not blind.
“So,” Charles says, setting down his newspaper. “What’s the plan for today?”
Hayes doesn’t look up from his phone. “I need to fly back to New York this afternoon.”
My coffee cup freezes halfway to my lips.
This afternoon?
“Business emergency,” he adds, still not making eye contact with me.
Right. Of course. A convenient business emergency exactly twelve hours after we had the most intense sexual experience of my life. What are the odds?
“That’s sudden,” Charles says, frowning.
Hayes shrugs. “These things happen.”
I set my cup down harder than necessary. The clink echoes across the deck.
“Frankie?” Charles asks. “Are you okay?”
“Perfect,” I say, voice bright as bleach. “Absolutely fantastic.”
Hayes finally looks at me. For exactly two seconds. Then his gaze slides away like I’m made of something that burns.
“I should go pack,” he says, standing abruptly.
And just like that, he’s gone. Leaving me sitting here with Charles, who’s watching me with those sharp eyes that see everything.
“Want to talk about it?” Charles asks.
“Nope.” I force a smile. “Nothing to talk about.”
But my hands are shaking around my coffee cup, and we both pretend not to notice.
An hour later, I’m stress-cleaning the already spotless galley when I hear the helicopter.
My hands still on the counter I’m scrubbing for the third time.
He’s really leaving.
I listen to the sound fade into the distance, taking with it any stupid fantasy I built up about what last night might have meant.
Charles appears in the doorway, looking older than usual.
“He’s gone,” he says unnecessarily.
“Good.” I scrub harder. “More room for the rest of us.”
“Frankie.”
“What?” I turn, and whatever he sees on my face makes him frown.
“Come here.”
I don’t want to. I want to keep scrubbing things until my hands are raw and I stop feeling like someone hollowed me out with a spoon.
But Charles has that look—the one that says he’s about to dispense grandfatherly wisdom whether I want it or not.
I sink into the chair across from him.
“My nephew,” he says carefully, “is an idiot.”
Despite everything, I almost smile. “Yeah. I’m starting to figure that out.”
“He’s also terrified.”
“Of what?”
“Of being happy.”
The words settle between us like stones.
“His parents screwed him up pretty good,” Charles continues. “Made him think love was just another way to get hurt. So he runs when things get real.”
“Well, he’s good at it,” I mutter.
Charles reaches across and pats my hand. “Give him time.”
“Time for what? To find another supermodel to bang and abandon?”
The bitterness in my voice surprises even me.
“Time to realize what he’s lost.”
I pull my hand away. “Charles, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m not going to sit around waiting for some emotionally constipated idiot to figure out his feelings. I have more self-respect than that.”
At least, I’m trying to.
Charles nods slowly. “Good. You should have more self-respect than that.”
Wait. That’s not the response I expected.
“But,” he continues, “you should also know that I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”
“Yeah? And how’s that?”
“Like he’s drowning, and you’re the life raft.”
That night, I stand on the deck, watching the sunset paint the Mediterranean in shades of pink and gold. It’s beautiful. Postcard perfect.
I feel like garbage.
I can’t believe I let him in. Can’t believe I ended my self-imposed boy ban for him. And for what? To feel like absolute crap about myself now that he cast me aside.
A two-line text message telling me hey thanks, you were good for Charles, but absolutely nothing about how I was good for him too?
It’s horseshit. I was good for Hayes. Whether he saw it or not.
I guess Tessa wasn’t wrong about me—I do pick the worst guys.
I thought Hayes was giving beige flags when in reality they were red, red, red.
My phone buzzes. Text from Tessa.
Tessa: How’s life on the love boat?
Frankie: Crashed and burned spectacularly.
Tessa: Details. Now.
Frankie: Can’t. Too humiliating.
Tessa: Did you sleep with Hayes?
Ugh, she knows me too well.
Frankie: Maybe.
Tessa: Francesca.
Frankie: Fine. Yes. And it was amazing. And now he’s gone.
Tessa: Gone as in . . . ?
Frankie: Gone as in flew back to New York immediately after like I was a prostitute he regretted hiring.
My phone rings thirty seconds later.
“What the actual hell?” Tessa’s voice is sharp. “He just left?”
“Yep. Had a sudden business emergency.” I lean against the railing. “God, I’m so stupid.”
“You’re not stupid. He’s an ass.”
“Same difference.”
“No, it’s not. You took a chance. That takes guts.”
“Guts and apparently zero common sense.”
“Frankie.” Tessa’s voice softens. “Did it feel real? When you were together?”
I close my eyes, remembering the way Hayes looked at me in the lavender fields. The way he touched my face like I was precious. The way he held me afterward, like he didn’t want to let go.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “It felt real.”
“Then maybe it was. Maybe he’s just scared.”
“Since when do you defend the men who hurt me?”
“Since never. But this one . . . I don’t know. Something about him seems different.”
Different. Yeah. That’s the problem.
Hayes Winters isn’t like my usual disasters. He’s not obviously broken or clearly wrong for me. He’s successful, smart, devastatingly handsome, and absolutely incredible in bed.
Which makes it so much worse when he runs.
“I need to forget about him,” I tell Tessa.
“Good luck with that.”
After we hang up, I stay on the deck until the stars come out. The yacht rocks gently beneath me, and for the first time since I took this job, I feel truly alone.
Charles finds me there an hour later.
“Can’t sleep?”
“Something like that.”
He settles into the chair beside me with a soft grunt. We sit in comfortable silence for a while, watching the lights of distant boats twinkle on the water.
“You know,” he says eventually, “when I met Betsey, I nearly didn’t ask her out.”
“Why not?”
“I was scared she was too good for me. Too smart, too beautiful, too everything. I figured she’d realize what a mess I was and run.”
“But she didn’t run.”
“No. She saw through all my bullshit to something worth keeping.” He pauses. “Sometimes the best things in life come disguised as the scariest.”
I know what he’s trying to do. And I love him for it.
But I’m not sure I believe in fairy tales anymore.