Chapter 30
The cottage door is slightly ajar.
I don’t notice it from the driveway as I’m pulling in from picking up lunch and snacks for my movie day with Madison.
It’s not until I’m up the porch steps that I’m even aware of it.
I shut the door behind me this morning when I left.
I locked it. The habit is automatic now, ever since the first conversation with Ian.
I always double-check the deadbolt before I leave anywhere.
It’s become an obsessive tic over the last year.
I stand on the top step, the bags from the store hanging at my side, and stare at the gap.
It’s barely there, less than an inch. I was in a hurry to meet Aiden at the cafe this morning, maybe I didn’t latch the door like I thought I did.
Maybe it was the wind. It could have been a dozen things that aren’t my stalker showing up in Stonebridge Hollow.
There still hasn’t been a single report about my whereabouts, just a lot of theories.
The porch creaks under my feet as I step closer to the door, pushing it open with my elbow, the bags rustling against my chest as I do. Nothing looks wrong. The kitchen counter is clear, my instruments sit against the wall where I left them, the dishes from last night are still in the kitchen sink.
I set the bags on the counter and stand there for a second—listening.
Nothing. No footsteps, no breathing. Just the hum of the fridge.
My eyes move to the stairs, following their path up to the loft. Something in my gut tells me that’s where I’m supposed to go. It’s a stupid decision, but I still move up the stairs slowly.
I don’t make it to the top before I see it.
The pillow’s shifted, angled away from the headboard, and the sheets are pulled loose on one side, the corner bunched up near the middle of the mattress.
I make the bed every morning, a simple reminder of my childhood, the action something my mother made me do.
It’s muscle memory for me, the same way I brush my teeth and start the coffee.
I know the sheets were flat and tucked when I left.
I try to make sense of it. Maybe Madison came by to straighten up.
She still does, no matter how many times I tell her it’s not needed.
Not only is it weird having my friend clean up after me, but she’s pregnant and doesn’t need the extra work when I’m more than capable of cleaning up after myself.
She just laughs and says I’m a paying guest and does it anyway.
But she wouldn’t leave it like this. Even if she’d come up to change the sheets, she’d remake the bed before she left and she wouldn’t leave the door open on her way out.
I sit on the chair by the bed and pull out my phone. Maybe I’m making a bigger deal out of it, but…
Ian answers on the third ring. “What’s up?”
“I’m pretty sure someone was in the cottage.”
“Details,” Ian demands.
“The door was open when I got back, and the bed’s unmade.” I don’t need to explain more than that. Ian’s the reason for my obsessive behavior with locking doors and he knows I wouldn’t mention the bed unless it was something important.
“Is anything missing? Don’t just look for the obvious, check drawers, cabinets…wherever you keep your underwear.”
I flinch at the reminder, but move around the loft, checking places like he suggests.
My clothes are still folded in their drawers, my underwear piled next to my socks.
My laptop is on the coffee table where I left it after my call with Ryan last night.
Everything’s exactly where it should be.
“No. Nothing’s gone or moved. The only thing of note is the bed. ”
“Okay.” He says it carefully, the way he talks when he’s thinking.
“Maybe I’m overreacting,” I blurt, hoping I am. “But—”
“You’d rather be safe than sorry,” Ian finishes for me.
“What do I need to do?” I ask in resignation. I don’t want to leave, but if this is what I think it is, I don’t know if I have a choice.
“You’re positive you locked the door when you left?”
“I don’t—” I cut myself off, truly thinking about what I did this morning on my rush out the door. “Is it possible I was moving too quickly and didn’t lock the door? Yes, but it’s unlikely.”
“What do you want to do?” There’s a soft rustling and then the sound of a door shutting and I wonder what I interrupted Ian doing on a Saturday afternoon.
My eyes wander to the front window. I can’t actually see it from where I am, but I know the sight better than anything. I can see the image of Madison’s house, dusted in the blanket of snow we got last night. I can feel the warmth of the living room as if I’m already standing in it.
“I’m supposed to go over to Madison’s,” I say. “We’ve got our movie day planned.”
“Then go.”
I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “Maybe I should cancel. Come back to the city.”
“Go spend time with the woman you love. Let me figure out what comes after that. I’ll call you in a bit.”
The line goes dead before I can say anything else, and I stand in the loft with the phone still pressed to my ear, stunned frozen.
Love.
The way Ian said it, like it’s obvious. Like it’s a fact I’ve already written down somewhere and just haven’t read yet.
My mind wanders to the last few weeks since Madison told her family about the pregnancy.
She’s been lighter, more carefree. She initiates contact more.
Even if it’s in small ways. A brush of her fingers along my back as she walks past. A text in the morning to tell me about some funny request a guest made.
A photo of a squirrel sitting on the porch railing with the caption “your replacement.” All random, ordinary things that I read three times before I respond because I want to get the words right.
It feels like love, like the kind of thing I’ve heard songs about, the kind of feeling that pours out of me in a way I can’t stop—not that I want to.
It also feels insane. I’ve known her less than two months.
People don’t fall in love in two months.
That’s something that happens in movies, in the books Madison keeps around the house, in the songs I’ve tried to write to capture something I’ve never actually felt.
But maybe that’s no longer true. I’m feeling it now, standing in a cottage someone broke into, thinking about a woman who’s waiting for me on her couch with a pile of depressing movies and a bag of popcorn.
I don’t want to miss a single moment with her. Not when they might be numbered.
I grab the food and go.
Madison’s curled into the corner of the couch, her feet tucked under my leg under the blanket we share, the remote in her hand. The credits of Schindler’s List are rolling on the TV and the silence in the room is heavier than it was before the movie started.
“Thank goodness Singin’ in the Rain is next,” she says without looking away from the screen. “I swore I’d never watch this movie again after the first time I saw it.”
“I get that,” I murmur, my attention still on the rolling credits. “I’m good never seeing that one again either.”
I feel Madison shift and let my head lull in her direction. She’s so beautiful with her hair pulled up in a knot on top of her head, a few pieces falling loose around her face. She’s wearing one of her oversized sweaters, the gray one that falls past her hips. She looks comfortable.
“That bad?”
“Not bad. Just depressing. Please tell me Singin’ in the Rain is happier than the last few movies we’ve watched?” I ask. “Classics are depressing.”
Madison laughs. Not a polite laugh, not a chuckle. A real one, that kind that takes her whole body and has her double over, pressing her forehead to her knees. Her shoulders shake and when she finally sits up again there are tears in her eyes.
She opens her mouth to answer, but the only sound she releases is a gasp, her hand flying to her belly.
Everything in me goes tight. I’m on my feet before I know I’m standing, my hands hovering over her, afraid to touch in case I might hurt her. “What’s wrong? What happened? Do you need me to call an ambulance?”
Her eyes meet mine, the tears slipping free, but she’s smiling. It’s not small or careful. It lights up her entire face and she shakes her head, reaching for my hand.
“Give me your hand,” she says, not waiting for me before she takes it, placing it flat against her stomach.
“What’s wrong?”
“Shh. Just wait,” she whispers.
Her fingers press mine into the fabric of her sweater, and all I can focus on is the warmth of her through the knit. I wait, not sure what I’m waiting for. The credits still scroll on the muted TV, but the only sound in the room is the hum of the heater and the tick of the clock on the wall.
Then I feel it.
A small nudge, a gentle push against my palm, like someone knocking to say hello.
My eyes go wide. “Was that a kick?” My gaze bounces between her face and stomach, having no idea where I want to look, but when I catch Madison’s nod, my eyes stay locked on hers.
Her eyes are wet, her smile still stretched across her face, and she’s looking at me like I’ve just been handed something I didn’t know I was waiting for.
I keep my hand on her stomach, not wanting to move it, not wanting to leave this spot. I just want to stay right here, with my hand on her belly, feeling that little person telling us he’s here.
And just like that, the moment is broken.
My phone rings, the screen lighting up on the coffee table with Aaron’s name.
I ignore it, my attention moving back to Madison’s face.
On the way she’s watching me with an expression I can’t name yet, one that makes my chest feel too small for what’s inside.
As soon as it stops, my phone starts ringing again.
“You should get that,” Madison says softly. “It must be important.”
I don’t want to. I know it’s already broken, but I want to go back to the quiet moment, just the two of us marveling at the miracle of a child growing in Madison’s stomach. But the phone is buzzing against the table and there’s no getting that moment back, not until I deal with Aaron.
“Yeah.” I pick up as I watch Madison stand from the couch, her hand patting my knee as she does.
“Beckett, we’ve got a problem,” Aaron clips, his voice all business. “The venues in Chicago and Boston are pushing back on dates. We need you in New York to deal with this.”
“I’m not coming to New York.” The words are out before I even realize it, but there’s nothing in me that wants to take them back.
“Beckett—”
“No. I’ve got another six weeks here, I’m not coming back right now.”
Aaron exhales, and I can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose the way he does when he’s trying to be patient. “Beckett.” It’s one word said in exasperation, and I don’t care at all.
“Aaron, I’m finally back in my groove. I’m writing music I love, music the label loves. Leaving now will ruin all of that.”
I watch Madison move around the kitchen, the way she reaches for a glass and fills it from the tap, the way she leans against the counter and takes a slow sip.
She’s still smiling, her hand resting against the swell of her stomach.
The afterglow of the kick still on her face, and something in my chest tightens at the thought of leaving this. Of leaving her.
I don’t want to miss moments like these. I don’t want to be in a conference room in New York when she feels the baby kicks again, when the next milestone happens. I don’t want to be on a tour bus or in a recording studio when he arrives. I don’t want to be anywhere that isn’t here.
“I’m not coming to the city,” I say into the phone, interrupting whatever Aaron was saying. “Schedule the meeting virtually. I’ll take them from here.”
“I can’t do that.” Aaron’s voice tightens. “These aren’t people you say no to. They want to see you, shake your hand, look you in the eye. You know how this works.”
“Then they can wait.”
“You know that’s not true.” The sigh that sounds over the phone is one of pure resignation, like he knows he’s losing me, and for the first time in my career, I think he just might. “Come to the city for a few days. Handle the meeting and then go back.”
I watch Madison set the glass down, her now empty hand joining the other on her stomach. She presses her palms flat against her belly, feeling him move.
“Fine,” I say. “A few days. But I won’t be in the city until Monday.”
“Monday works. I’ll see you then.”
He hangs up and I set the phone on the table. My eyes find Madison. She’s already watching me, her hands still on her boy, and I can see the question in her eyes before she asks it. There’s worry on her face. Fear that maybe I’m not coming back.
I don’t wait for her to voice the words. I cross the room and brush a loose piece of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear.
“Just a few days,” I say. “I’ll be back before you have time to miss me.”
She looks up at me, and for a second I think she’s going to deny whatever she’s thinking, but she doesn’t. She leans into my hand the smallest amount and offers me a small smile.
“Miss you? I barely tolerate you as it is. I’ll be glad you’re gone.”
I chuckle as she grips the sides of my shirt and pulls me in for a hug. Her stomach presses into me and I feel the little tap-tap of the baby between us, almost like he’s apologizing for his mom’s terrible joke.
My arms wrap around her, holding her close, and I tell myself that a few days is nothing. That I’ll be back before the week is over. We’ll get our movies and junk food and be right back here, just the two of us.
That’s the plan, and I’m holding on to it.