Chapter 32 Residual
Residual
The light hits first.
Sunrise floods the bedroom in gold, threading through the wide windows and piercing straight into Sara’s closed eyes. She groans softly, blinking into the glow, then pulls the comforter higher—burying herself in the warmth of sheets that still carry someone else’s scent.
Jaxon’s scent.
She stays there a moment longer than she should, breathing it in.
Eventually, she pushes back the covers and walks barefoot to the window.
The view outside is so serene it feels like fiction.
The sound is still and gleaming, morning birds gliding over glassy water like the world has nothing left to prove.
Her gaze shifts—drawn to a crane perched at the end of the dock, still as stone.
A daily view.
A life someone gets to live.
She turns away before the longing turns too loud.
In the bathroom, she brushes her teeth in silence. Her movements are automatic. Slow. Almost… reverent. Like this space is hallowed ground and she’s trespassing on it.
She starts the shower and waits as the steam clouds the glass wall. When the temperature turns scalding, she steps in.
The shampoo smells good.
Too good.
Rich and masculine, not cheap or generic. She lathers it into her hair, eyes closed, letting the scent invade every breath. The water carries it down her back, over her skin, down the drain.
She watches the suds swirl away, and that’s when the thought hits her.
Why did I sleep so well last night?
She hasn’t had a full night’s rest in months. But last night, in that bed?
She slept like her bones belonged there.
Was it the bed? The exhaustion? The salt in the air?
Or was it just… him?
She shakes the thought away. Grabs the body wash from the shelf. Opens the cap and sniffs—then lets out a quiet laugh.
“Guess I’m gonna smell like a man all day.”
But even as she says it, there’s no hint of annoyance.
Only a subtle, dangerous warmth blooming in her chest.
She washes quickly and steps out, wrapping the towel around herself. But before leaving the room, she leans forward over the vanity, arms braced against the counter. She looks into her own eyes.
Stares too long.
Then lifts her arm to rake her hand through her damp hair—and the scent hits again. His scent. On her skin.
That ghost of him, clinging in places he’s never touched.
And just like that—there’s that ache again. Sharp and quiet.
She forces herself to speak aloud. Ground yourself, Sara.
“I’m happy for Claire,” she says to the mirror.
But it doesn’t land the way it should.
Downstairs, the kitchen is cold but still smells faintly like last night’s tacos. She cracks eggs into a bowl, beats them with too much force, and tosses bacon into the skillet. She reaches for bread, pops slices in the toaster.
Her hands are moving, but her mind isn’t here.
I’m happy for Claire…
But underneath that truth is another one.
I envy her.
Claire came here to breathe—and ended up finding the kind of man every woman says doesn’t exist. The kind who leaves money for room service tips. The kind who remembers. Who listens. Who makes you laugh and breakfast. Who probably reads books and makes you feel like the only person in the room.
Gentle. That’s what she called him.
Sara flips the bacon with shaking fingers.
She found the guy who does it all. And I’m the one cooking in his damn kitchen.
The thought hits so hard it makes her blink.
The sizzle of bacon is the only sound until a voice cuts through it.
“Damn, girl. Are you okay?”
Sara jumps—visibly flinching.
Macie’s eyebrows lift. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
Sara clears her throat, turns back to the pan. “Was just thinking. Didn’t hear you come in.”
“You looked deep in it. Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just… spacing out.”
She shakes it off, grabs a spatula, and busies herself with flipping toast.
“Breakfast is almost ready. Where’s Taylor?”
“Should be down soon. I heard her moving around.”
Sara nods, but says nothing more.
Because suddenly, she doesn’t trust herself to speak.
She doesn't trust what’s creeping in through the walls of this house.
Or why she’s starting to wonder what it would feel like to stay just one more night.
Alone.
In his bed.