Chapter 28 #2
A whippoorwill chants outside the open window, and the faint tinkle of wind chimes drifts in from the porch.
After a while, Maggie curls into me again, like her body can’t help reaching for mine.
“I’m not ready either,” she says softly. “But what you’re asking? It just won’t work. I can’t sit around in LA waiting for you to do…whatever it is you do.”
“Then we’ll figure it out. When both our schedules are clear, you come to LA. When mine is, I’ll come to you.”
“And do what?”
I slowly skim my fingers up and down her back. “I don’t know…help?”
“How, Holden? By upstaging the bride? You can’t exactly be seen.”
I’d hide in your room every damn day if it meant I could spend my nights with you.
I hold her tighter, like somehow that’ll keep us both here. “Just think about it. Please.”
Seconds slip by. So does whatever hope Ben gave me.
“Okay,” she finally says.
But it’s not a promise. It’s a concession. And it sounds a hell of a lot like goodbye.
“We should get some sleep,” I tell her. I blame tomorrow’s choreography schedule, but the truth is, I just need to check out for a bit.
“Okay,” she says again, then turns away from me.
And I don’t sleep a goddamn wink.
Maggie slipped out before the sun was even up to shower and change. It’s still early when she comes back, about an hour before Gabi and the choreographer are due to work on the Big Dance Scene.
She steps inside wearing white leggings, an oversized butter-colored sweatshirt that hangs off one shoulder, and matching Adidas sneakers with bright pink stripes. Her hair’s pulled back into a ponytail, a few loose strands framing her face.
Even dressed down, she’s still the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.
But who am I kidding? She could wear a burlap sack, and I’d still want her.
“Ben made pancakes,” she says, setting a plate on the table. Then she backs away a little, like she’s not comfortable sitting down. “They’re not as good as yours, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him that.”
Some awful, smug part of me puffs its chest out. “How’s he doing?”
“Fine, I guess. Quiet. From the looks of the kitchen, he seems to be cooking a lot.” She folds her arms. “He’s been watching that British baking show nonstop. Wants to make something called spotted dick.”
“Think I’ll pass on that one.”
Maggie leans against the sink, worrying her lip between her teeth, and I brace for whatever’s coming.
We have to stop this.
I’ll never love you.
“Are we good?” she asks.
Relief punches through me, then fizzles out just as fast.
Because she doesn’t want this. At least not enough.
“Of course,” I manage, my throat tightening. “Why?”
But I already know why. I’ve barely said two words to her since last night. Scared if I opened my mouth, every screwed-up thought in my head would come spilling out.
She shrugs. “This morning when I left, things felt…a little weird.”
“I, uh…didn’t sleep well. We’re fine.”
I reach past her for the fork in the dish drainer.
“Okay,” she says.
Okay. God, I think I hate that word.
I inhale my food while Maggie scrolls her phone—something I’ve never actually seen her do—then push out of my chair and carry my empty plate to the sink.
“I’m going to take a shower. Make yourself at home,” I say. “Or…whatever.”
Her gaze swings from the used towel slung over the corner of the sofa to my obviously damp hair. “You didn’t already take one?”
“No, I just…need a longer one.”
“Okay,” she says again—drawing it out this time—and a muscle tics in my cheek.
In the bathroom, I step under the spray of the water and press my forehead to the cool tile. Despite what I’ve been raised to believe, I am not everything to everyone. I can’t fault Maggie for not feeling the same.
But there are moments, like last night, when I’m certain she does. And for her to not even consider the possibility of us after this hits harder than I want to admit.
Why isn’t what we have enough?
I shove the thought down. I can’t afford to dwell on it. Everything we’ve done these past few weeks hinges on today. I can dance with Maggie, but what about Gabi?
And Gabi will sense something’s off. She always does.
I figure the best way to get my head right is to go full Tripp McCoy, so I ditch the joggers and sneakers I had on earlier for a pair of creased Wranglers and the Luccheses that Maggie—make that Katie—loves so much. On my way out, I grab Tripp’s Stetson that I brought home from set.
“Uh-oh,” Gabi says, climbing out of her car as I close the carriage house door. “Going method on me?” She cranes her neck, scanning the yard. “Where’s Maggie?”
“Probably at her house. Where she lives,” I say with way too much bite. Guess my head isn’t right just yet. “Sorry. I’m a little cranky today.”
“I can see that.”
“Hi, Michele,” I say to Gabi’s PA.
She gives me a wave before popping the trunk on today’s rental—a black Audi Q7.
“What happened to the Jag?”
“Paps,” Michele says, tucking one side of her pale-blonde bob behind her ear. “We needed something a little more discreet.”
“Tragically boring.” Gabi throws her head back dramatically before grabbing her bag and hoisting it over her shoulder.
I ignore her theatrics and turn toward the gate. Nothing there, as far as I can tell. “You see any when you came in?”
“No, why?” Michele asks.
“Pretty sure Maggie and I made Deuxmoi last night at dinner.” I rub my eyes. “And they followed me home yesterday. Probably pegged the truck I’m driving.”
“Nope. Nothing unusual.”
Gabi plucks the hat out of my hand and slaps it on her head. “Explain yourself, Shaw. Are we spiraling this morning?”
“Wait,” Michele says as the trunk clicks shut. “Before you two get into it, where am I going?”
“Barn.” I nod toward it. The door’s open, exterior light on. “Looks like Maggie’s already over there.”
“Got it, Tripp.”
Michele takes off, and I turn back to Gabi. “I asked Maggie to go to LA with me.”
She presses her lips tight, like she knows I screwed up before I even have to admit it. “And?”
“And…yeah. Not great.”
“Because you just assumed she’d drop everything to chase after you?” Gabi shakes her head. “Has it occurred to you that maybe she has a life here?”
I grab my hat and put it on. “Yes, it’s occurred to me,” I say. After she so bluntly reminded me. “I even offered to work around her schedule, but she’s just…not willing to try.” I shrug like it doesn’t gut me.
“Oof,” she says—super helpful—folding her arms and leaning back against her tragically boring luxury car like she’s posing for Vogue.
Today she’s Gabi-casual from head to toe: designer jeans, a T-shirt that probably costs more than most people’s rent, and Chanel sneakers (because of course).
Her hair and makeup are flawless, naturally.
I’m sure she brought a clip, but she wouldn’t put it up herself; she’d have Michele twist it into something effortlessly chic instead.
“Has she seen you in your costume?” she asks, waving a hand in front of me.
“Not yet.” I arch a brow. “Should I be worried?”
She narrows her eyes, the corner of her mouth tipping up. “Holden, what’s your endgame here?”
“My what?”
“Ultimately, what do you want? A visit? A live-in girlfriend?” She cocks her head at me. “A wife?”
All of the above?
“A visit, but—”
“But.” She sighs. “Maggie can probably sense that but, and she’s panicking. When you’re calm, make sure she knows it’s just a visit. Nothing more. Not some sneaky way to lure her to LA. Not a marriage trial.”
I smile at my friend. “You know, for someone who goes through an awful lot of effort to appear shallow, you give surprisingly deep advice.”
“Tell anyone, and I’ll end you,” Gabi says, then glances toward the barn. “Should we head over before Michele starts sending passive-aggressive texts?”
“Probably wise.”
We start that way, gravel crunching under our shoes, the barn looking bigger and more intimidating than ever.
Inside, Maggie’s at the bar with Michele, setting up a coffee station.
She’s changed into faded jeans that cling in all the right places, her favorite blue boots, and a slinky pink tank that leaves her shoulders bare.
She doesn’t see us come in, and for a second, I just watch her.
She’s relaxed. Smiling. It knocks me sideways.
Gabi’s phone buzzes, and Maggie looks up. Her smile softens for just a beat before stretching wide across her face. And for one luminous second, I think maybe it’s for me—until Gabi flicks the brim of my Stetson.
“Knew she’d get a kick out of this,” she says.
Jealousy burns low in my gut, and my jaw tightens.
She’s smiling at Tripp.
I square my shoulders and tip my hat toward her.
Then I turn my attention to Katie.
Holden Shaw is gone, and Tripp McCoy has just clocked in.