Chapter 6 #2
But I knew one thing for damn sure: I wouldn’t tell either of them the truth.
I splashed cold water on my face and leaned over the sink, palms braced on the marble like I was waiting for bad news from my own reflection.
Something I still want. Fucking idiot.
I hadn’t even said what it was—and somehow that made it worse. An unfinished sentence was a blank page people could fill with whatever the hell they wanted. And Jack knew me too well to leave it alone.
Come on, Fitz, I thought, running a hand through my hair. Think of something. Anything. New job? Career change? I could say I wanted to get out of law—start a vineyard or buy a polo team. Something pretentious enough to sound real.
But even as I built the lie, I knew it wouldn’t hold. If I wanted a new job, I’d just say that. It wouldn’t be a secret. It wouldn’t deserve a Group Cup. No, this secret had weight. It had a pulse. And it was sitting barefoot in a patio chair two feet from my worst instincts.
A knock came at the bathroom door, then Jack’s voice. “Hey. You good?”
I opened the door too fast, like my guilt needed a breeze. “Yeah,” I said, clearing my throat. “I’m just wiped. The heat, the drinks—it’s been a long day.”
As we walked back into the kitchen together, Jack nodded slowly, his signature best friend expression forming—part concern, part curiosity, part knowing assumption. “That card got you a little flustered, huh?”
Shit. I kept my face even. “A little.”
“I figured it was about that thing with Sloane,” he said.
“That stuff you said you wished she’d do.
” He made a vague hand gesture that could’ve meant sex , kinks , general dissatisfaction , or the time you said you kind of wanted to move to Scotland and live in a cabin .
I wasn’t sure which. Maybe all of the above.
“Yeah,” I said, seizing the lifeline. “That.”
Jack clapped me on the shoulder like he’d cracked the code. “Anyway,” he said, glancing back toward the porch, “feel like venturing down to the beach? I wouldn’t mind sneaking a smoke like old times.”
I opened my mouth to answer—ready to say yes, to shift the mood—when the door to the kitchen opened behind Jack.
Thatcher, wearing that smug little smile with his shirt unbuttoned so far you could see his nipples, walked in. Of course. “Hey,” he said. “Sorry to barge in. Charlie said the ice bucket was inside. Didn’t mean to interrupt the bromance.”
“You didn’t,” I said.
But the moment was gone. Jack stepped back, smiling like the diplomatic host he was, and I watched Thatcher cross the kitchen like he belonged in the house.
Like he belonged with her. He opened the freezer, grabbed the ice bucket, then turned like he was about to disappear again—until Jack drew his attention with a smooth, affable tone that meant you’re not done here yet.
“So, Thatcher,” Jack said. “Remind me—where are you from?”
“Oh, uh—Rhode Island, mostly,” Thatcher replied. “I grew up there, kind of bounced around.”
“Northeast guy,” Jack said, nodding. “What do you do for work?”
And there it was. The flicker of hesitation. It passed quickly, but I caught it. “Consulting,” Thatcher said in the next beat. “Kind of a mix of stuff. Business strategy, development, that kind of thing.” He rushed through his words and the fragments tumbled out one after the next.
“For a firm?” Jack asked, still casual.
“Nah. Independent now,” Thatcher said, tossing ice cubes into the bucket. “I like keeping things flexible. Clients come to me when they need...solutions.”
Solutions. Jesus. He sounded like a hit man or a “fixer” for politicians.
“Sounds lucrative,” I said, with an internal eye roll, but I leaned against the counter like I had nowhere else to be.
“Yeah, it’s good. Keeps me busy.” He didn’t look at me. “Lots of moving parts. You know how it is.”
“Actually, no. I draft zoning ordinances, negotiate coastal easements, and spend most days making sure developers don’t build tennis courts on protected wetlands.”
Jack laughed, not quite realizing the cold contempt behind my words. “So how long have you and Charlie been together?” he asked, switching gears.
“Oh, we’re just hanging out,” Thatcher said quickly. “Nothing serious.”
And that— that —was what made me want to fucking hit him. Because Charlie wasn’t just something casual. Even if this was a fling. Even if I had no claim to anything. She wasn’t a casual girl. She wasn’t background noise to his career posturing and tequila-sodas.
“Well, we’re happy to meet you,” Jack said, ever the gracious host. “Glad to know who she’s spending her time with since she’s moved to Bellwater Cove.”
“Of course,” Thatcher said. “It’s great to meet you too.”
He flashed a grin like he thought he was charming, and maybe he was to other people. I didn’t know if it was just my bias against this schmuck Charlie was dating, but something about this guy seemed off.
And I realized, for the first time in years, that I wasn’t just jealous. I was territorial—especially when what I wanted wasn’t mine to want.