Chapter 17
Savannah
Iwas dreaming about him again.
Images of him taunted me whenever I closed my eyes, making it next to impossible to find sleep.
How was I meant to fall asleep when all I could think about was that lazy smirk, or the scent of his cologne, or the feel of his hands lingering where they shouldn’t have, doing things I pretended not to replay in my head?
It had been two days since I’d last seen Jaxon. Two days since the beach house, since laughter and salt air and moments that felt too intimate for something that was supposed to be fake.
I was back in the city now, back in my bed, back in reality. I’d even skipped the welcome party earlier tonight, claiming a headache, claiming coursework, claiming anything that meant I didn’t have to smile through small talk and pretend I wasn’t unraveling.
Lying still in the dark, I stared at the ceiling and tried to slow my breathing.
I didn’t understand it—the way my body reacted to him. I’d never felt this pulsing need with anyone else before, not even Chase. Five years with Chase, and I’d never felt this restless, this keyed up, this undone by the thought of someone’s hands.
I turned onto my side, then onto my back again, sheets twisted around my legs. I was too warm, my thoughts too loud.
Wanting Jaxon felt inconvenient.
Dangerous. Stupid.
And yet…
He brought me coffee that morning without making it awkward.
Didn’t crowd me. Didn’t linger. Just a quiet gesture, left like a question he wasn’t forcing me to answer.
I half-expected tension when I woke up alone in that bed, followed by a dose of regret for being so stupid, but when I woke up alone, it gave me a moment to breathe. Instead, there was space.
Consideration.
And somehow, that made it worse.
This wasn’t supposed to get messy.
I turned again, desperate to find a comfortable spot but failing. The deepest parts of my mind told me where I could go to find that comfort, but I wasn't about to play that game with my subconscious tonight.
Twisting and turning in bed was my punishment.
I must be out of my mind to want Jaxon Cage.
Jaxon Cage, the man who kissed me like I was the air he breathed, whose touch lit me on fire, and who watched me come undone before getting on his knees to devour me.
Yep, definitely out of my mind.
With a quiet groan, I reached for my phone and tried to find a distraction. I opened my email, scrolled through every unread promotional message, then course notifications, then case notes. Nothing. Everything was already open or done.
I would curse my organized brain for this later.
Clicking on Instagram, I casually browsed my feed, slowly getting lost in the world of others.
I had no time to keep up with social media—and after Chase and Lori's announcement, I had no interest in being on there for long.
My thumb swiped across the screen, and I was halfway through my feed when his name appeared on a post Nerissa shared.
Jaxon had posted a new tattoo.
It was an arrangement of planets swirling around an hourglass, the lines precise and fluid all at once. It was intricate and beautiful, breathtaking even. I couldn't believe he drew something like this. The patience it must’ve taken to design and replicate this… Gosh.
Curiosity got the better of me before I could stop it.
I tapped his profile.
It didn't surprise me that it was mostly tattoo work and murals—both pieces in progress and finished art. But mixed in were photos of him. And did he not own a shirt? There were too many shirtless ones.
My breath caught on one in particular—him leaning back against his bike, his tattoos out on full display, stretching across his chest and down his arms. He was smirking at the camera like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Like he knew what he was doing to me.
Against my better judgment, I zoomed in. Traced the ink with my eyes. Noticed the chain around his neck, the same one he always wore. The jellyfish pendant rested against his skin, familiar now in a way that made my chest tighten.
“Ugh, why couldn't you be ugly?” I groaned, staring too long at the photo. “Why can't you make me hate you?”
His eyes stared back at me, and I had to shut my own to bring myself back to focus. Releasing a ragged breath, I zoomed back out.
But my thumb slipped and the heart lit up the screen.
“Oh my God,” I whispered, sitting bolt upright.
I unliked it instantly, heart pounding, as if that would erase the evidence. I dropped my phone onto the bed like it had burned me.
Why must the universe hate me?
Seconds passed. Then minutes.
Exhaling a breath of relief, I sank back into the sheets when my phone lit up. My heart sank straight into my stomach at the sight of his name.
JAXON
You stalking me, trouble?
My cheeks flushed instantly and my grip on the phone tightened. I kept looking at the screen, hoping that the message would disappear, but luck was never on my side when it came to men.
SAVANNAH
No.
JAXON
My notifications say otherwise.
SAVANNAH
I was looking at something
It was an accident
JAXON
Accident like the lingerie pic accident?
SAVANNAH
You really need to let the photo go!
JAXON
Trouble, that image of you is permanently burned into my skull
Only way I'm letting that go is if I die
And if that's my last thought then I'd die a happy man
Heat crawled between the sheets, wrapping me tight in its grip. What the hell do I say to that?
Bubbles appeared on the screen before another text from him.
JAXON
Why are you up this late?
SAVANNAH
I can't sleep
JAXON
Funny, neither can I
Which explains why I'm up sketching
SAVANNAH
Sketching?
Seconds later, an image appeared in the chat. The sketch showed a clean-cut vision of a fox woven through skeletal fingers, a rose curling along the bones, playing cards tucked into the composition like secrets. It was haunting and elegant at the same time, sharp in all the ways that mattered.
My chest tightened.
SAVANNAH
That’s… wow.
I can’t believe you drew this.
The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, then came back.
JAXON
It’s for a long-standing client.
Still a work in progress though.
Something’s off and I can’t figure out what.
I sat up in bed, blankets pooling around my waist, and zoomed in on the image again. The more I looked, the more impressed I became.
SAVANNAH
No, I really mean it.
It’s beautiful.
This time, there was no immediate reply.
I waited.
And waited.
I told myself that was fine. The conversation didn’t need to keep going. It shouldn’t keep going. I set the phone down, exhaled, tried to relax back into the pillows.
Then my phone started buzzing, and his name lit up my screen again.
Calling.
My stomach flipped like I was about to step off a ledge. I had no reason to be nervous for a phone call with him. Logic demanded that nervousness wasn't welcome here, but I couldn't stop the fluttering in my stomach, and I stared at the screen.
I answered on the third ring. “Hi.”
“Hey,” he said, voice low, rougher than it had any right to be this late. “Figured this would be better than texting.”
“Sure.”
Silence.
My lips parted to say something, but he beat me to it.
“I don’t usually show anyone my sketches before they’re done, but I’ve been staring at it all night.”
“I don’t think you’re missing anything,” I said honestly.
“Are you being nice to me, trouble? Is that where we are in this loving relationship?”
“I can go back to hating you if you prefer.”
His chuckle made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“Humor me,” he replied. “If you had to change something, what would it be?”
I looked at the sketch again, tracing the lines with my eyes. Hesitated. “Well… I’m not a tattoo artist.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m asking.”
I swallowed. “Maybe move the rose. Put it closer to the center instead of anchoring it at the bottom. I think it would merge better with the fingers. Balance it out.”
There was a brief silence. Then I heard it. A soft hum of approval. The faint scratch of pencil against paper.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, I see it.”
The sound did something to me. Knowing he was working, adjusting, because of something I said. He didn’t stop sketching when he spoke again. “You wanna tell me why you’re really up this late, trouble?”
My heart skipped.
I could’ve told him the truth. That he’d been living in my head since the moment we left Sunset Creek. That I couldn’t sleep because every quiet second was filled with him.
Instead, I chose the safer lie.
“I’m just… thinking about the bridal brunch tomorrow,” I said. “With Lori and the girls.”
His pencil paused. “Talk to me.”
So I did. I told him about the discomfort, the way Lori had always found subtle ways to remind me she’d won.
How it was going to be all women, no buffer, no distractions.
How none of them had ever really liked me when I was with Chase.
I was too quiet. Too reserved. Too much and not enough all at once. He didn’t interrupt once.
I finished with a sigh. “I’m expecting it to be… unpleasant, and I'm not looking forward to fake smiling for two hours.”
When I was done, his voice came softer. Steadier. Certain.
“Then don't go.”
“I wish it was that simple. If I skipped it, I'd never hear the end of it.”
“Savannah,” he said, “you don’t owe any of those women a performance. Or an explanation. Or a smile.”
I closed my eyes.
“You are phenomenal,” he continued. “And on your worst day, you’re still ten steps ahead of anyone who needs to tear someone else down to feel tall.”
My throat tightened.
“Let them talk,” he added quietly. “Fuck their criticisms and comparisons.
You don't belong in any group that treats you lesser than. Those women could never compete with you, and the fact that they feel the need to tear you down when Lori and Chase fucked around on you says more about their character than yours.”