Chapter 12
I hadn’t planned on hiding from Fitz all day—but I sure as hell wasn’t trying to bump into him after yesterday’s little show-and-tell fiasco.
Unfortunately, hiding from Fitz in our cozy little beach house was like trying to avoid humidity on an island in July—impossible, sweaty, and mildly infuriating.
So, naturally, I spent most of the afternoon baking like my life depended on it, pretending the steady rhythm of folding pastry dough wasn’t a flimsy distraction from remembering Fitz’s face, his hands, or his…
goddamnit. I slammed the rolling pin down so hard Jack popped his head into the kitchen to ask if I was trying to commit dough homicide.
By the time we all piled into golf carts for Bellwater Cove’s version of nightlife—aka, the upscale beach restaurant with string lights, overpriced cocktails, and a band playing Jimmy Buffett covers—I’d almost convinced myself the incident with Fitz was just a weird dream.
Almost.
But the moment we sat down at the table on the beach patio, waves sighing nearby and the band setting up in my peripheral, I caught him looking.
Fitz, all casual elegance in a crisp linen button-down and slacks tailored within an inch of their lives, was staring at me like he could see the moment seared into my brain.
You know, the one where the Whitmore family heirloom was on full display.
I looked away fast, hopefully before a creeping blush would overtake my face like a rash.
“Jazz, can you pass the sangria?” I asked, forcing brightness into my voice.
“Absolutely.” She slid the pitcher my way, her dark curls bouncing. “Let’s get loose and drag the boys on the dance floor,” she said with a twinkle in her eye as she crooked her finger teasingly at Jack. “It’ll be practice for the wedding!”
Sloane turned to Jazz and asked with curiosity, “Spill the details about the wedding. It’s October, right?”
Jazz beamed, “Yes! I’m so excited about the venue. It’s at a new vineyard outside Crozét. Exquisite view of the Blue Ridge Mountains and just twenty minutes from the city. We’ll have a bus carry everyone from the hotel out to the vineyard so people can get sauced and party.”
Jack leaned in, his eyes sparkling in that blissed-out way only Jazz could inspire. “Hopefully it will be perfect fall Virginia weather, pretty leaves, outdoor ceremony, indoor reception, delicious wine.”
“How charming,” Sloane said smoothly, crossing one elegant leg over the other. “The foliage up near Charlottesville is divine in the fall. I love visiting Fitz’s family home and visiting the vineyards that time of year.”
I nodded and took a generous gulp of sangria. If wedding chatter was the distraction I needed, fine by me. Anything to keep my brain from replaying Fitz’s moan on loop.
“Yes! You’re welcome to join our bachelorette pre-wedding festivities, Sloane.” Jazz went on cheerily, “And Thatcher, I’m sure the guys would love to include you for their tee times if you golf.”
“I golf every weekend,” Thatcher replied with enthusiasm. I choked mid-swallow. Sangria splattered on the tablecloth.
Jack leaned over to pat my back. “Jesus, Char. You okay?”
“Sorry,” I coughed out. “Just—the sangria. Tart. Really tart.”
“Uh-huh,” Jack said skeptically, giving me a sideways glance. But his attention quickly wandered back to Jazz, leaving me to wallow in my awkwardness.
Thatcher at the wedding? As my date? That was so far from the plan it made my head spin.
Thatcher was a temporary buffer, not someone who’d be posing with me in family photos.
The idea of my future grandkids flipping through albums and seeing their grandma on the arm of a man whose personality could be summed up by embroidered shorts made me nauseous.
I felt Fitz’s eyes again, a weight pressing between my shoulder blades. He hadn’t said a word yet, which was a relief, because after yesterday the only possible conversation we could have would involve me spontaneously combusting.
Sloane, meanwhile, was casually sipping her French champagne. She’d never been so poised, so calm, so goddamn unbothered, and suddenly I envied more than her flawless skin.
Jazz, bless her heart, ignored the tension and happily plowed on. “It’ll be great, everybody together. Super cute for photos. It’ll be like one big romantic weekend getaway.”
“Romantic,” I repeated flatly, taking another sip of sangria. “Sounds amazing.”
Fitz smirked into his whiskey glass. “Doesn’t it, though?”
I met his gaze, and the memory of his flushed skin and ragged breath was so vivid my face heated instantly. God, I was a mess .
The waiter returned just then, asking if we were ready to order, saving me from further embarrassment.
But my stomach twisted, appetite forgotten.
Fitz’s eyes caught mine again across the table, and for a split second, something passed between us—raw, unfinished, aching.
Then Sloane leaned in to whisper something to him, breaking the connection.
I turned to Jack, plastered a smile onto my face, and listened to him wax poetic about the ten-piece band they booked.
I tuned back in, right when Jack clapped his hands, a mischievous gleam lighting his eyes.
“Alright, enough wedding planning. It’s time to dance.
” He waved down our waiter. “Tequila shots for the table—top shelf, my treat.”
Jazz cheered, hands clapping in excited applause. “Hell yes. No backing out, guys. We’re doing this.”
Fitz shot Jack a dark look that Jack happily ignored. I sat straighter in my chair, hoping tequila would take my troubles away, and by troubles, I meant my all consuming thoughts of Fitz jerking off to me, which had inconveniently lodged themselves between my legs and refused to leave.
“Drink up, little sister,” Jack said, sliding me a shot with a grin. “We need you loose enough to show us your best moves.”
“You do remember my ‘best moves’ are just your worst moves after three margaritas,” I quipped, grabbing my shot.
Jack lifted his glass. “To Jazz—my fiancée, future wife, dance partner extraordinaire. May she forgive me for embarrassing her tonight.”
“Forgiveness will be conditional,” Jazz teased, clinking glasses.
I tossed the tequila back, welcoming the familiar burn. Warmth bloomed pleasantly through my chest. Jazz hopped up, tugging Jack toward the makeshift dance floor in the sand, illuminated by fairy lights swaying in the salt breeze. “Come on, everybody. I didn’t drink that tequila to sit still.”
Jack allowed himself to be pulled, tossing a playful glance back at us. “You heard the woman—move it!”
Sloane elegantly unfolded herself from the table, linking her arm through Fitz’s with practiced ease. Fitz rose smoothly, expression shifting back to his signature aloofness. Thatcher stood eagerly, holding his hand out to me like he expected applause for basic chivalry.
I ignored his hand, grabbing my drink instead, and followed them toward the music, my pulse annoyingly quickening as Fitz stepped ahead. The band launched into something upbeat and beachy, guitars bright against the steady rhythm of the waves.
Jazz danced with Jack like they’d never stop falling in love, her curls bouncing as he spun her playfully.
Even Sloane moved gracefully, hips swaying just enough to make it clear she never tried too hard.
Fitz rested a loose hand on Sloane’s hips, more out of habit than heat, his gaze flicking toward the water like he had somewhere else he’d rather be.
Thatcher grabbed my waist and pulled me to him, immediately off-beat. “Great spot,” he yelled above the music, oblivious to my wince as he stepped on my toe.
I forced a polite smile, wondering how bad my karma must’ve been in a past life to endure this moment, a bumbling idiot that I had mistaken for boyish charm as my date while the man I’d been obsessed with forever held his girlfriend in his arms.
Then, as if drawn against my will, my eyes drifted back to Fitz. He was watching Thatcher’s clumsy attempt at dancing with an expression that suggested genuine pain, arms crossed over his chest, mouth set in a thin line of disapproval.
“Loosen up, Fitzgerald!” Jazz shouted playfully. “You look like you’re auditing a class on human fun.”
Fitz cracked a reluctant smile and raised his hands in surrender. “Only for you, Jazz.”
Then he moved, effortlessly rhythmic, hips swaying just slightly, his natural elegance annoyingly mesmerizing. Thatcher attempted another clunky spin, and I nearly crashed into Jack and Jazz.
“Oh god,” Jack laughed, reaching to steady me. “Sorry, Charlie, I think your partner might be defective.”
“Very funny,” Thatcher muttered, oblivious to how not-funny the situation actually was.
Jazz shouted over the band, breaking the tension. “Partner swap!”
“Oh no—” I started, but Jazz was already pushing Jack toward Sloane, grabbing Thatcher like the angel she was, and tugging Fitz toward me. My protest died on my lips as Fitz’s hand settled on my waist, warm, firm, far too confident.
Fitz shifted closer into me and his scent—clean, expensive, infuriatingly delicious—invaded my space. He murmured in my ear, voice so low it vibrated down my spine. “Careful, Cupcake. Wouldn’t want a repeat of earlier.”
My cheeks scorched, but I shot him a look, feigning composure. “Keep your heirloom tucked away, Whitmore, and we’ll be fine.”
Fitz nearly choked on his next breath, coughing into his hand, eyes widening. Jack glanced over, brows raised. “All good over there?” my brother asked.
“Perfect,” Fitz rasped, throat clearly burning.
I didn’t even bother hiding my grin.
Leaning in close enough for his lips to graze my ear, he whispered, “Maybe if you didn’t need me to pick you up this morning, with your perky little ass in my face, there wouldn’t have been a problem. I could have just kept my hands to myself.”
I glared, cheeks flaming. “Says the man whose hands are literally on my waist as we speak.”
His laugh was a low rumble in his chest, felt more than heard. “Fair enough. But you weren’t complaining about my hands this morning.”
“Your hands on me wasn’t the issue,” I taunted back, my pulse racing wildly as our bodies moved together easily—too easily. We fit dangerously well, the curves of my body aligning effortlessly to his, our hips finding a rhythm that sent heat pooling deep in my belly.
“Agree to disagree. My hands on you precisely was the issue, but I can’t be bothered to give a fuck about it right now.”
“I guess you gave up all your fucks this morning—right into your fist if I recall.”
“If you recall,” he scoffed with a low dry laugh. “Like you’ll ever be able to forget.”
I leaned in, my lips grazing the edge of his jaw as I whispered, “Who says I’d ever want to?”
Around us, the music played, the lights swayed, and everyone else danced, oblivious. Fitz’s grip tightened, possessive for a heartbeat, his mouth dropping back to my ear. “Careful, Charlie,” he whispered back, low and dark. “People might think we actually like each other.”
I shivered despite the warmth, my head spinning. “Heaven forbid.”
He smirked again, eyes molten beneath heavy lashes. “Yeah. Heaven forbid.”
And yet neither of us pulled away.