Chapter 29
Ruby
“YOU CAN COME OVER AND see for yourself, ma’am,” the paint warehouse lady said in an indifferent tone that screamed I don’t work on commission.
If Dave hadn’t vouched for this place and promised a discount if I mentioned his name, I wouldn’t have bothered driving out of town.
But since no one there seemed capable of answering my questions about the exact shades of green, blue, and yellow I wanted, I gave up on the phone call and went in person.
The lady turned out to be the owner’s twenty-something daughter, who had greeted me with, “Oh, it’s you. Yeah, here are our swatches. Holler if you have questions. I need to close soon.” She was about as warm as the paint samples.
“Your dad knows you’re this good at sales?” I muttered before leaving, colors finally chosen for when the main house job was done.
Needing caffeine strong enough to revive the dead, I pulled into Brew It On, the café my Aunt Amy once bragged about poaching a barista from for her coffee shop in Riviera View.
The busy place smelled like heaven—coffee, sugar, and cinnamon, which made me miss the good days of my breakfast room at the inn. I couldn’t wait to have it running again.
Behind thoughts of colors, materials, timelines, contractors, and bookings, my mind still reeled with thoughts of Sebastian and what-ifs.
I stood at the counter, surrounded by others, scrolling through my phone while waiting for my turn to order.
A laugh—bright, feminine, warm—cut through the noise.
I glanced over from behind someone’s back.
And just like that, all the noise in my mind completely shut down.
And my heart nearly ceased beating.
By the big back window, where the fading daylight cast everything in soft golden brown, a woman chuckled at something the man across from her said, her hand briefly resting on his exposed forearm.
For a second, all the air got sucked out of the room.
I didn’t know her—pretty, younger, laughing like she belonged there with him.
But what killed me was his smile. That smile. The one that could undo me without trying.
He looked easy. Relaxed. Like this was normal.
Which it probably was. Really. Normal. Totally.
I turned on my heel before Sebastian could notice me, forgetting all about the coffee I came for.
“Ma’am?” the barista said. My second ma’am that day.
I spun back to the counter, mumbling, “Never mind.” My voice didn’t even sound like mine.
The door chimed cheerfully behind me as if the universe thought this was funny.
It probably was.
It was fine.
Only my stomach didn’t get the memo. It still dropped like a stone.
Of course he’d have coffee with someone. He’s allowed. We’re nothing.
Coffee. A date. Somehow, that stung worse than casual sex.
But this was exactly what I’d wanted, right?
So why did it feel like a punch straight to the gut?
Behind the wheel of my car, I was angry at my reaction. Why should I care? Wasn’t this what we were about—free to do whatever the fuck we wanted with whoever the fuck we wanted?
Wasn’t I free to do exactly the same right now—just hook up with whoever I felt like?
Only ... I was malfunctioning. I didn’t feel like hooking up with anyone. I wished I did.
By the time I pulled into the inn’s lot, my jaw hurt from how tightly I’d been clenching it.
Two guests, hand in hand and giggling, strolled past me with a beach tote. I forced a smile.
“We’re going for a dip,” the woman said, throwing an admiring glance at the man. “Amazing how mild October is in these parts.”
“Enjoy the sunset,” I called, my voice way too bright for how queasy I was feeling.
She beamed back a thanks, and I kept walking like my chest wasn’t one big knot.
Inside my cottage, I tossed my keys on the counter and stared at the to-do list on my desk. I could’ve worked. Should’ve worked. Instead, I just stood there, hands on my hips, mind buzzing and blank all at once, like I’d swallowed a storm I couldn’t name.
An hour later, the faint crunch of tires on gravel hit me like a shot of adrenaline.
Sebastian.
My pulse jumped.
God, I hated that my body reacted before my brain caught up.
I told myself to stay put. To be cool. To not care.
He could do whatever—or whoever—he wanted. That was always the deal.
Keep it simple. No strings. No what-ifs.
And this was exactly why. Because feelings were debilitating. I should’ve trusted myself, trusted that I knew better. I knew myself best. Should’ve stuck to that and never doubted it. Time to put it back the way it was.
But my stomach twisted again anyway, a sick mix of nerves and heat, like standing too close to a fire.
I wiped my damp palms on my shorts, pacing the cottage like that might burn off the restless energy coiling through me.
The slam of a car door.
My hearing became so attuned that I could pick up every sound in the distance. It didn’t help that the inn was nearly empty and that evenings here were always so still.
A few moments later, I heard his footsteps and the door of cabin four closing.
I froze.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I yanked my door open and stepped outside, my heart hammering as if I had just finished a marathon.
I knocked.
Sebastian opened the door and stood there, looking like an Everest I’d have to conquer. That calm, sure, warm smile—the same one that had gutted me across that café table—spread across his face.
“Hey,” we both said at once.
He stepped back inside, leaving the door open in invitation. I followed, closing it softly behind me.
“How was Armstrong?” My voice sounded normal. Too normal.
“Good,” he said. “Meeting ran long, but—”
But I didn’t hear the rest.
All I saw was her hand on his forearm, that easy laugh she’d given him.
Before I knew what I was doing, my feet were moving.
Two strides. Three.
My brain was a blur when I crashed into him—his heat, his scent, the solid strength of his chest and arms—everything familiar, everything that was Sebastian.
My mouth found his mid-sentence. His taste, his breath, everything that shouldn’t feel like mine but did.
Not yours, my brain screamed, trying to reason.
But my heart, my stupid fucking heart, ached in an unfamiliar way that tore through me.
My fingers fisted his shirt—the buttoned-up shirt he’d worn on his coffee date. The one whose cuffed sleeves allowed her to lay her hand on his exposed, veined forearm.
All I wanted was to rip that fabric off him. I was going to.
I yanked him closer like he was the only air left for me to breathe. My other hand gripped his nape to anchor myself further to him, my nails digging into his skin, like I needed to leave my mark on him.
Because this wasn’t just want anymore. It was need, a terrifying, raw need.
And this was the only way I knew to stop it.
Demolish.