Chapter 6
six
SADIE
I wake up the next morning feeling so refreshed I actually bounce out of bed.
I grin, barely recognizing myself. Maybe it’s because last night was the first proper sleep I’ve had in days, or maybe it’s because last night was exactly what I needed.
A few glasses of wine with the girls, a lot of gossip, some baby squishes with Autumn’s new little one, and the smug satisfaction of not knowing what happens at Bro’s Book Club.
I have to admit, when Romy first asked to host a men-only book club in Books by the Sea, I laughed. I couldn’t imagine she’d get many attendees. Yet every month they’re lined up at the door at seven, like they’re desperate to be let in.
She’s promised me there are no illegal activities going on in there. That they actually do read books. And quite frankly, that’s all I need to know.
It’s still so early as I look out my bedroom window that the island is barely awake. The first ferry hasn’t left yet, the sun is barely above the horizon, and there’s a special kind of silence in the air that you barely get when it’s light outside.
So I decide to do something different. To go for a run.
After my mad dash to the art committee meeting, I’ve gotten a newfound appreciation for how good it felt to move. To let my body take over when my brain won’t stop spinning. I live by the beach, for crying out loud. I should take advantage of it.
So I tug on my shorts and an old sweatshirt, lace up my shoes, and step outside into the salt-sweet morning air.
The sky is pale and streaked with pink, the waves rolling in slow and lazy, smoothing out the sand in wide, glittering sheets.
I start with a walk down the lane toward the beach, breathing in deep, the air cool against my throat, before picking up my pace.
When I reach the sand, it doesn’t take long to find a rhythm, like my body remembers exactly how to run even if it’s been a long time since I was on the track team.
My steps match the sound of the surf, my pulse syncing with the steady push and pull of the tide. Every breath feels clean, new, like I’m rinsing something stale out of my system.
When the first ferry leaves for the mainland, I’m already halfway down the beach. The sound echoes through the morning, low and familiar. And that’s when I see another runner at the far end of the long stretch of sand.
I swallow hard, knowing exactly who it is.
He’s running toward me, bare-chested, sun striking across his shoulders and the hard lines of his chest. There’s a focused set to his jaw, his movements sure and powerful. Every stride eating up the sand like he owns the island.
I should look away. I tell myself to look away.
But I don’t.
Because there’s something hypnotic about him. The control he has over his body. The ease with which he runs. The sense that, if he wanted to, he could keep going forever.
My pulse quickens. I try to convince myself it’s because I’m exercising. That it has nothing to do with the stupid TikToks I’ve been watching. The book I’ve been reading.
Nope. Not at all. No Siree.
Zach’s wearing reflective running shades and there’s no sign that he’s spotted me. No change in his speed or direction. His pace is unbroken, with the kind of steady rhythm that belongs to a man who never doubts himself. A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the breeze.
Before I can think better of it, I turn and start running the other way.
It’s totally rational, after all. I’m avoiding an awkward small-town encounter before breakfast, not reenacting the plot of my current bedside reading material.
Except my brain doesn’t believe me.
Every step I take, I can feel him behind me. Heavy footfalls against the sand. The phantom sound of breath drawing closer.
My pulse spikes, my thighs burn, and I swear the air thickens with heat.
“Jesus, Sadie,” I mutter, forcing a laugh that sounds too breathless to be convincing. “You’re officially an idiot.”
Still, I don’t stop. I keep running until the sand dips beneath my feet, catching me off guard. I stumble, catch myself, but the sound that escapes me – a sharp gasp – carries through the air.
That’s when I hear it. The deeper rhythm of his shoes against the hard sand, closing in.
I glance over my shoulder, and there he is. Closer than I thought. Bare chest slick with sweat, muscles flexing with each stride, his face level with mine like he’s already caught me.
And like the idiot I am, I freeze.
For a second, the world narrows to nothing more than the rush of the surf and the sound of our breathing.
“Morning,” he says, voice low, gravel-rough, as he comes to a stop next to me.
I open my mouth to say something smart, but nothing comes out. I’m stupidly slick between my thighs. There’s a pulse there, too. It’s teasing and insistent and I really hope I have a neutral expression right now.
“Did you hurt yourself?” he asks, frowning as he pulls his shades up onto his head. And then he reaches for my wrist. Actually closes his hand around it.
I think I let out a yelp.
What the hell is wrong with me? I swallow hard, trying really hard not to look at his sweat covered muscles. Not to imagine them flexing and tightening as he does exactly what he wants to me.
“Sadie?” His voice is low. “Are you okay?”
“I… yes. Yes, I’m fine. Stumbled on the sand. It’s kind of… sandy, you know? All grainy and yellow and…” I trail off. Oh God, I need to shut up now
There’s an amused look on his face. His gaze washes over me, like he’s appraising me. “You were running fast.”
“Was I?” Well that’s good at least. I haven’t lost it. I give myself an imaginary fist bump.
“It’s funny,” he says, a smile still playing on his lips. “One minute you were running with an easy pace toward me, the next you spun around and ran like we were competing for first place.” He blinks slowly, his eyelashes sweeping down. “Was I supposed to be chasing you down or something?”
My face heats up even more. Of course he doesn’t know I was thinking about that book. How could he? And yes, I was imagining him being the chaser in this scenario, but he’d have to kill me before I’d admit that to him.
“Oh!” I say, needing to get out of this. “I just remembered I have a delivery coming. Gotta get back to the shop.”
“A delivery before the ferry makes its first round trip?” he murmurs. “That’s impressive.”
I let out a ragged breath, consoling myself that there’s no way he knows about my secret fantasies. He probably just thinks I’m an idiot.
Let’s face it, he definitely thinks that. Our previous encounters haven’t exactly been heartwarming.
“So.. yeah. Gotta go. Nice to see you. Maybe put a shirt on next time.” I force a wide smile onto my lips. “Bye Zach.”
But before I can leave, he reaches out and runs his thumb over the inside of my wrist. So soft it’s almost featherlike. And my stupid, stupid body reacts even harder than it did when he grabbed me.
Like I’m on fire. Like I can’t breathe. Like I need the weight of him on me more than I need oxygen.
“Thought so,” he murmurs, then he turns away.
For a moment I can’t move. Everything else fades away other than the thud of my heartbeat and the place where his thumb touched my skin.
By the time I remember how to inhale, he’s already jogging down the beach again, all muscle and control and maddening calm.
And I’m still standing there, my wrist tingling, wondering what exactly he meant.
Thankfully the rest of the day passes quickly.
It turns out we actually do have a delivery, a big one, just a little later in the day.
It’s full of summer blockbusters and some special edition romance books that tell me exactly what Romy’s podcast is going to be about next week.
Why Choose books. Specifically about hockey.
Maybe I should read one to push the thought of being chased out of my mind.
It'd be so much easier to be turned on by the thought of having a harem of hockey players. And less embarrassing when I happen to bump into a certain Fitzgerald brother.
Romy comes in later that afternoon, carrying a stack of college work because she’s come here straight from class.
“How was book club?” I ask her as I go to put the last of the special edition books on display.
She takes it from me. “Oh God, this one is good. You need to read it next. If you’ve ever dreamed of having multiple orgasms from multiple men against your will, you’ll love it.”
I lift a brow. “That wasn’t in my top ten of fairytales when I was a kid,” I say deadpan.
She grins, leaning on the counter, her elbows just fitting in between the catalogue I’ve been going through and the coffee cup that’s been there since I bought it from Mylene’s after my run and promptly forgot about it.
“It should have been. And book club was… therapeutic.” She lets out a sigh.
“For them, mostly. Though I’ll admit, watching a bunch of emotionally constipated men talk about classic literature is my new favorite sport. ”
I can’t help laughing. I still can’t imagine them actually listening to her. “So, what’s the goss? Are they actually reading, or is this a front for getting out of the house for a while?”
“Oh, they’re reading,” she says, her grin widening.
“Asher spent ten minutes arguing that he’s nothing like Maxim de Winter, which of course means he’s exactly like Maxim de Winter.
And Hudson did his love language homework.
I swear, if Skyler doesn’t give me the biggest hug the next time I see her, I’ll be shocked. ”
“That woman deserves a medal,” I say.
“She has one. It’s called a husband who finally communicates.”
I roll my eyes. “Sounds terrifying.” I don’t ask any more questions because I want to maintain plausible deniability if any of my friends ask me about the club.
“Speaking of terrifying,” Romy says. “You’ve got circles under your eyes. Were you up late?”
“Not that I remember,” I say. “I crashed the second I got home.”
“Good,” she says, pulling a piece of gum from its wrapper. “You needed that.”
I really did. Mostly thanks to the sleepless nights from Red. “I have some paperwork to do,” I say. “I’m planning on locking myself up in the office until I actually reply to some emails. You okay to hold the fort?”
“Better than you’ll be. I’ll knock on your door in an hour to rescue you.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” I grab the mug of cold coffee and head into my office. It’s a mess, it always is. Paperwork isn’t exactly my favorite pastime. Unless it involves the kind in books. But running your own business means a pile of the stuff. And the more you put it off, the more it breeds.
I set my coffee cup down, open my laptop, and stare at my inbox until the words start to blur. Five minutes in, my brain already wants to escape.
And seriously, I deserve a reward. Out of the 203 unopened emails that were there when I started, there are only 179 left, thanks to the spam I deleted.
So I open up my drawer, deciding one chapter of The Hunting of Red will be my prize.
But the drawer is empty.
I frown. Did I leave the book upstairs? I must have. Damn, I can’t go up there now because Romy’s here, and I’m really trying to look like a responsible business owner, here.
I sigh, push back my chair, and force myself to focus on the screen again. One responsible hour, that’s all I need. Then maybe I can sneak upstairs and grab the book without Romy seeing me.
But the universe clearly has other plans, because that’s when my inbox pings.
There are two new messages.
The first one is from Maya Laurent. She’s a darling of the art crowd. She’s replying to an email I sent her a few days ago, with suggestions of where I’ll be displaying the piece she’s loaned us.
Her response is effusive. She loves my ideas. And I can’t help it, I grin. Because getting one of Maya’s pieces is a real coup. She’s unusual in that she’s not just talented, she also has great social media presence. I know she’ll promote us up the way we need it.
But the smile slips off my face as soon as I see the sender of the second email.
vine@
My eyes scan the subject line.
Automatic Update. Case 22CF521
I let out a long breath. Vine is the Victim notification service I signed up for when I left my idiot ex. After he was sent to prison.
My hand shakes as I click on the link inside the email and it takes me directly to the website, to his case history. And I see the latest update.
Probation Hearing Scheduled.
The date is in two weeks. I close the email as quick as my fingers let me. God, I shouldn’t have looked.
He can’t hurt me. Not anymore. But I still hate the thought that I won’t know where he is if he’s let out.
Safely locked up and far away from me.
And anyway, I’m not the scared lonely girl I was when I met him. I’m a business owner. I have friends. I feel strong. It’s going to be okay.
But damn, I could do with a good book to take me away from this all right now.