Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The apartment was too warm, already thrumming with bodies and the bass of someone’s playlist. Not a borrowed speaker tonight.
Someone had splurged on a sound system that could rattle drywall.
The lights were low, shot through with gold from fairy lights that had been strung across the ceiling.
Glittering balloons hovered in every corner.
A photo booth with a ring light stood propped near the sliding doors, backed by a sparkly sheet.
Everyone was dressed like they were waiting for a moment. Suits with undone buttons. Dresses with cutouts. Heels that hadn’t seen a sidewalk. It wasn’t black-tie, but it was definitely trying. And succeeding, in its own local kind of way.
Bea stepped inside with Claire, shrugging off her coat, her heels clicking against the hardwood. The smell hit her next: prosecco, department-store cologne, the faint undertone of someone’s cinnamon-scented vape.
She was offered a party hat but didn’t take it. Claire did, immediately sticking it on sideways.
It was a student party, but done with confidence. No heirloom diamonds. No curated menus or security outside.
She scanned the room, and saw him. Logan.
The music didn’t fade. The crowd didn’t hush. But Bea’s heart slowed anyway, like it needed a second to catch up.
He was standing by the kitchen, drink in hand, mid-laugh. Still tall. Still handsome in that home-grown way that made people lean in without realizing they had. His jaw was sharper now, his frame filled out. Same easy smile.
He glanced up. Brown eyes caught hers. He seemed to still, just for a breath. Like he’d been expecting her, but not like this.
Bea smiled at him in greeting, then looked away first.
She let herself get swept up in the pull of it all: names she hadn’t said out loud in a year, hugs that lingered too long, and stories that had somehow gotten softer with time. She heard her name more in the first hour than she had in the last six months.
And no one mispronounced it. Bey-ah.
Not Bee-ah. Not Bee.
Here, she didn’t have to explain herself. Here, in her past, she was known.
Claire tugged her from conversation to conversation, drink in hand, dropping snark and compliments in equal measure. Bea followed, smiling where it counted, genuinely laughing a few times. Moments that almost felt like what she’d imagined when she booked her ticket home.
She noticed the glances of the boys more than she used to, a little too interested, some looking twice. Maybe they’d always been there. But now, she saw them. Because for the first time, she had someone. And she wasn’t looking to catch anyone’s attention.
She kept moving. Kept telling herself this was exactly how she wanted to spend New Year’s. Home, with old friends, in the town that raised her.
But the truth was, it was like trying on a favorite dress she hadn’t worn in years. It still fit, but the fabric felt different. The sleeves pulled in places they hadn’t before. The color wasn’t quite how she remembered it. It was familiar. But it wasn’t quite hers anymore.
Eventually, she slipped out the narrow sliding door onto the rooftop.
Toronto in December was all bite. The wind pushed under her coat. Sirens blared in the distance.
She wrapped her arms around herself, away from the noise of the party. From familiar voices asking the same things on repeat—
How’s St. Ives?
What’s it like being around so many rich people?
They didn’t know. About what she’d been through. About what she was going back to.
The door slid open behind her. Footsteps.
“Figured you’d come out here,” Logan said behind her.
Bea turned. He was wearing a coat now, hands tucked into his pockets. His breath was visible in the crisp night air.
He looked good.
Once, that might’ve been enough to make her heart stumble. But now, after everything…he looked different. More boy, less man. One who’d never had to carry the kind of weight Gage held in his hands every day.
She offered a faint smile. “Needed air.”
“You always did.”
“Did I?”
“Yeah,” he said, eyes scanning her face. “At parties. Lunch breaks. When things got loud. You’d slip out. Take a walk around the field or sit beside that gross vending machine.”
She laughed under her breath. “Wow. That’s oddly specific.”
It was sweet. He’d noticed.
But the memory felt like it belonged to someone else. Someone who hadn’t slept in penthouses. Who hadn’t been kissed against marble. Who hadn’t learned what it meant to be looked at like a future.
He shrugged. “You were always hard to read.”
“You mean I was awkward.”
“No, Bey.” He smiled. “You were untouchable.”
The word surprised her. “That’s not true.”
“It is,” he asserted. “You’ve always had this…barrier. Not in a bad way. Just like you were waiting for some other life.”
Her throat tightened. “Logan—”
“I should’ve said something before you left last year.” He pushed the words out like they’d been sitting too long. “I thought about it. But then you were going, and no one knew if you’d come back. But now you’re here…maybe there’s still time.”
Bea turned to face him fully.
“You looked amazing in there.” Logan’s gaze skimmed over her. “The dress, the whole thing. It caught me off guard.”
“Thanks,” she said awkwardly. It wasn’t pleasure, more like dread that made her flush. “Logan, I’m—”
“With someone?”
“Yeah.” She was relieved not to have to spell it out.
“Claire mentioned something. From your university?”
“His name’s Gage.”
He studied her, the silence between them filled with the hum of city lights and distant sirens. “So where is he?”
Bea blinked. “What?”
“You’re here. Over Christmas and New Year’s. Alone.”
“He couldn’t leave work,” she said quietly.
“I’m not trying to step on anything. But you’re gone for what, ten weeks?” Logan’s voice stayed gentle. Not mocking. “You didn’t tell anyone you were with someone. And he let you go for that long. Just like that?”
Bea looked away. Logan didn’t know her life. He didn’t know Gage. But he was looking at her like she might still be reachable. And the way he said he let you go, just like that? like it implied apathy or weakness, made something click.
Gage had let her go. Just not the way Logan meant.
He knew he couldn’t stop her. Not without holding on so tightly she’d break. And somehow, hearing it from someone who didn’t understand, helped her better appreciate the one who did.
And miss him more.
Logan stepped toward her. “Is there a chance—”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “There isn’t.”
He looked at her for a beat. “Okay.”
Her heart was beating too loud in her chest.
“I’ll see you around, Bey.”
Bea stayed out there after he left, until her fingers were numb. Wishing for a portal that would bring her to him.
Bea sat on the edge of the sofa, drink forgotten in her hand, the noise of the party pulsing behind her. Claire was mid-story nearby, laughing with someone from high school, her heels dangling from two fingers.
She glanced down.
Incoming call: Gage
Bea swiped. “Hello?”
“There’s a black car waiting outside. Get in.”
Of all the things she expected him to say, that wasn’t even in the top one hundred.
Her heart kicked against her ribs. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. You’ll be safe. The driver has your name.”
“Where am I going?”
“You’ll see.”
He hung up.
She blinked, staring at the phone as though it had answers. Her pulse was a thread of lightning. The noise of the party faded around her. Claire turned to say something—but stopped when she saw Bea’s face. “Everything okay?”
Bea crossed over, grabbed her wrist, and dragged her behind her, along the corridor, and into the bathroom. “Cover for me.”
“What?”
“I have to go.”
“Go where?”
“I don’t know. He sent a car.”
Claire’s eyes widened. “Wait. Gage?”
Bea nodded.
Claire recovered fast. “Okay, okay. Is this a murdery situation or a private-jet-and-a-suite kind of deal?”
Bea gave a shaky smile. “The second one. I think.”
Claire fished through her purse and tossed Bea a lip gloss. “Take this. And text me so I know you’re alive.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Claire grinned. “Go. Get your New Year’s.”
Bea grabbed her coat, then slipped out through the front door. The car was already waiting, parked at the snow-dusted curb.
“Bea Cruz?”
She nodded.
He opened the door. She slid in. The seats were warm, the music low. The city lights blurred past the window as they pulled away. She didn’t know where she was going, but she was pretty sure she knew who was waiting.
The car drove to the financial district.
It was just before eleven. The streets were empty.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the private entrance of a luxury hotel.
The driver escorted her through the lobby, with its polished travertine floors, broken only by handwoven rugs and sleek brass inlays that caught the light like jewelry.
He whispered to the concierge, who met her with a nod.
“Room nineteen hundred, Miss Cruz. The penthouse elevator will take you straight up.”
The lift was mirrored and silent. She looked at herself. Her cheeks were streaked pink, but not from the cold. From anticipation. From nerves. If it wasn’t him waiting at the top, she might actually die of disappointment.
The elevator opened, and there was Gage. A soft blue sweater clung to his form. His navy trousers were perfectly pressed. His hair was slightly windswept, like he’d come straight from somewhere important, but not as important as this.
Bea didn’t think. She ran.
He caught her midstride. Arms around her waist, lifting her clean off the ground. She buried her face in his neck. Birch. Oakmoss. Him.
“You came,” she breathed.
GAGE
It had been twenty-four days.
Gage heard the suite door swing closed, locking automatically behind her.
She clung to him like she couldn’t believe he was real. He liked that. The way she welcomed him. Sweet and unguarded and completely his.