Chapter 40
F uck.
We had one more hurdle to jump over before skipping off into the sunset and living happily ever after. And his name was Jack.
I stared at myself in the bakery bathroom mirror, palms braced on the cool marble counter, trying not to visibly freak out. The opening party was in full swing out front—string lights glowing, music playing, glasses clinking.
My parents were here. Jack and Jazz were here. Half the town, it felt like, was here.
And Fitz. Fitz was here. A day early, no less, because he couldn’t stand waiting any longer to get back to me.
We’d had our ridiculous, sexy, heart-shattering reunion the night he arrived—limbs tangled, clothes barely making it off before he was inside me, whispering against my skin how proud he was, how much he loved me, how he wasn’t going anywhere.
And now here we were, in public, pretending to be old Fitz and Charlie—sniping, tolerating, pretending there wasn’t an entire history humming between our bodies every time our eyes met.
He caught me watching him once already tonight, across the bakery floor, and he winked so shamelessly that I nearly dropped the tray of mini lemon tarts I was carrying. The bastard.
He looked fucking edible tonight too—white shirt rolled to the elbows, pressed heather-grey slacks slung low on his hips, his hair a little messy from the wind off the ocean.
Relaxed. Happy. Mine. And yet not mine—not until Jack knew, not until the last landmine was cleared.
I didn’t know how we were going to hide it during all the wedding festivities next month, but somehow, I guess, we’d make do.
I ran my hands down the sides of my dress—the lavender one that Fitz said was his favorite, hugging just enough curve to feel sexy—and took a deep breath. I could do this.
I could fake it for another few hours. I could be the charming hostess and proprietor, all the while pretending Fitz Whitmore wasn’t the man I was planning to fall asleep beside every night for the rest of my life.
When I pushed open the bathroom door and stepped back into the bakery, the first thing I saw was Fitz standing with Jack and Jazz at the espresso bar, sipping an espresso martini like he wasn’t plotting every filthy thing he was going to do to me the second we were alone again.
Jack clapped him on the back, laughing loud enough to turn a few heads. Fitz grinned. Easy. Familiar. Like always.
I walked back to the front and pasted on my best winsome bakery-owner smile as people lined up to congratulate me. Jazz caught my eye across the room and winked, lifting her glass in a silent cheers. I winked back.
Good. Keep it light. Keep it normal, just a little while longer.
But this thing between us wasn’t casual and light. This was it. It had always been it—Fitz and me. All roads, all summers, all lemon bars and stupid fights and stolen glances had led right fucking here.
And no matter how tonight went, Fitz was mine. He was already home.
T he party didn’t so much end as dissolve, slow and sweet, like sugar melting into hot tea. Everyone raved over the raspberry almond tarts and practically tackled each other for the last few lemon drop cupcakes.
Mollie May, the town’s unofficial gossip queen, cornered me near the espresso bar to pitch the idea of hosting an open mic night every Wednesday. One of the local artists offered to hang his paintings in the seating area in exchange for espresso and croissants.
My parents made the rounds like proud royalty, sipping champagne and introducing themselves to strangers like they were campaign managers.
Jazz couldn’t stop her eyes from misting, proud and tipsy and hugging me every time she passed. And Jack—Jack grinned that big, stupid, brotherly grin like he hadn’t expected to be so fucking proud of me and didn’t know what to do with the emotion.
It was perfect. It was more than perfect. It felt like the beginning of something that had been waiting in my blood forever.
By the time we locked up, my heels were dangling from two fingers and I could barely feel my face from smiling. Fitz squeezed my hand in the shadows, his thumb brushing over my pulse point like he was reminding me he was there, solid and real and mine.
We barely made it back to the Lemondrop Lane house before Jack was tossing a new plan into the air.
“Change and meet back here in ten,” Jack said, clapping his hands together. “We’re going down to the beach. I’ve got a few joints rolled and a full case of beer chilling in the fridge. Come on, late night celebrations are calling.”
Jazz whooped and immediately ran upstairs for jeans and a sweatshirt.
Fitz caught my eye across the living room and smirked like he already knew what I was thinking. Sex could wait. A few j’s on the beach with my favorite people under the stars on a perfect night was a hell fucking yes.
The girls grabbed beach blankets and stuffed them under our arms. Fitz hauled the case of beer. Jack carried the joints like he was smuggling contraband, holding them carefully in his palm as we all slipped out the back door and down the worn path that led past the dunes.
The night was clear and wide open, the sky velvet black and studded with stars.
A balmy breeze rolled off the ocean, warm and salty, lifting the loose hair at the back of my neck.
The sand was cool and silky beneath our bare feet, like sifted moonlight, each step a hush against the quiet of the night.
We spread the blankets out in a messy patchwork just beyond the dunes, where the waves broke soft in the distance, just a steady hush in the background.
Jack cracked open the beers, handing them out one by one, and Jazz set the little Bluetooth speaker on a piece of driftwood, letting old beachy classics float out into the darkness.
Tom Petty, Fleetwood Mac, Springsteen— songs that sounded like salt air and sunburns and the kind of memories that stitched themselves right into your bones.
Jazz leaned into Jack, and I don’t know why we risked it, but I looked at Fitz and he said, even if it came out a little stiff, that I could use him as a cushion.
Jack and Jazz didn’t seem to think anything of it, so I leaned back into Fitz’s side, feeling his arm curve naturally around me, his hand brushing my hip under the blanket where nobody could see.
And for the first time all night, I let myself relax. Let myself breathe.
J ack, ever the entertainer, didn’t even bother with a segue. He took a long hit off the joint, grinned like a shark, and declared, “Alright, assholes. Time for Fuck, Marry, Kill.”
Jazz immediately started laughing, sprawling onto her back and waving her beer in the air. “I’m so ready for this.”
Fitz smirked, settling back with his hands planted in the sand. I tucked myself tighter into the curve of his side, trying to pretend I wasn’t vibrating from the weed and the moment itself.
Jack pointed dramatically to Jazz. “Alright, Jazz. You’re up first.”
She flipped him off lazily, grinning. “Hit me.”
Jack waggled his eyebrows. “Don’t worry, baby. You can fuck and marry whoever you want because I know where your real loyalty lies.”
Jazz snorted. “Just give me my options.”
Jack held up three fingers like he was teaching a fucking pre-K class. “Your 10th grade biology teacher—Mr. Putnam, that old fossil who smelled like mothballs—Jennifer Aniston in her prime—and...Fitz.”
I snorted into my drink. Fitz choked on a sip of beer. Jazz shrieked with laughter. “Easy,” Jazz said without missing a beat. “Kill the bio teacher. Fuck Jennifer Aniston, obviously. And marry Fitz.”
Jack’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s hot! Not you and Fitz, hold on,” he spit out. “But you and Jen, damn baby, that’s got me thinking…”
She swatted him on the arm.
“Okay, right, but rewind it back. You want to marry Fitz?”
Jazz grinned wickedly. “Because then I’d be part of your bromance permanently. You would have to come to every family dinner, every holiday, every birthday. I’d get Fitz and you.”
Jack groaned theatrically, burying his face in the sand. “Jesus Christ, this is my nightmare.”
Everyone was laughing. It was easy, stupid, good-hearted, the way summer nights were supposed to feel. But then Jack grinned at me like a hyena spotting fresh meat. “Okay, little sister. Your turn. Fuck, Marry, Kill. Your choices are…Chris Hemsworth as Thor, Ryan Reynolds in a suit, and Thatcher.”
Fitz snorted beside me. Jazz broke into giggles again. And me? I could have kissed Jack for making it that easy.
I lifted my beer in a mock toast. “Kill Thatcher, obviously,” I said sweetly. “I would drown him myself if necessary.”
That earned a round of cheers. I grinned and leaned into it.
“Fuck Chris Hemsworth as Thor, because—come on, have you seen those arms? That hammer?” I winked. “And marry Ryan Reynolds, because he’d make me laugh even when he’s old and wrinkly. ”
Jack clapped his hands together. “Perfect. Let’s invite him to the wedding. I’d love to be bros with Ryan Reynolds.”
I glanced sideways at Fitz. He was smirking, but the relief in his eyes was unmistakable. He knew I’d chosen my words carefully, chosen the optics, chosen him, even if the other two were none the wiser.
Finally, Jack turned to Fitz, eyes gleaming with the smug energy of someone about to stir up serious shit. “Okay, Whitmore,” he said. “Fuck, marry, kill: Sloane, Princess Diana in the revenge dress, and...Charlie.”
I almost choked on my sip of beer. Jazz howled.
Fitz’s body went completely still against mine for one beat. Then he dragged in a long breath, like he was steeling himself for war. He sat up straighter, pressing his beer bottle into the sand, and looked Jack dead in the eye.
“Marry Charlie,” Fitz said calmly.
“Fuck Charlie.”
He shrugged, slow and unapologetic.
“And kill the other two, because, well—one’s already dead and the other’s dead to me.”
The words hung there, suspended between the four of us.
Jazz gaped, half-laughing, half-shocked. Jack froze, his mouth open halfway through a smirk.