Page 164 of Neap & Spring

And staying means being honest about what I want.

Which is him.

I want Callum. I want to wake up in Westerly Point and go to Margo’s for coffee and help Frannie with social media strategy and argue with Callum about menu pricing. I want to taste Roman’s experimental sauces and listen to Cora explain the chemistry of laminated dough with that deadpan delivery that makes everything sound like a threat. I want Sunday dinners at Patrick’s with all the Reid brothers talking over each other, Beckett telling surf stories, Hayes sketching building plans on napkins, Wesley pretending to be annoyed while secretly enjoying every second. I want dinners with Iris in Crescent Bay where she tells me about the books she’s editing and the news she’s researching and we drink too much wine. I want to help Sloane figure out her business plans for the fishing company. I want to fall asleep listening to the ocean through open windows.

I want to stay.

But I don’t know if I get to. If I’ve earned it. If —

The window explodes.

Glass erupts inward in a spray of glittering shards as something massive and dark crashes through, the sound of impact so loud it feels like it’s inside my head, rattling my skull. I scream, throwing my arms up to protect my face, the blanket falling away from my shoulders.

A tree branch as thick as my arm and covered in leaves lands on the floor with a crack that shakes the whole cottage, reverberating through the floorboards. Water streams off it onto the hardwood.

And the window is gone. There’s a gaping hole where glass used to be, rain pouring in like someone turned on a fire hose, wind screaming through the opening with a sound like a freight train.

I’m on my feet before I consciously decide to move, backing away from the window. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat and in my chest, pounding against my ribs. Glass crunches under my bare feet, and I feel a sharp sting, but I keep moving, putting the couch between me and the broken window like that will somehow help.

Water is pooling on the floor and spreading fast. The candles have blown out, plunging the cottage into darkness except for the occasional flash of lightning that turns everything white for a split second before dropping back into black. The wind is inside now, tearing through the small space, knocking things off shelves, sending papers flying, scattering everything. A picture frame crashes to the floor. The curtains whip violently.

The cottage is groaning a deep sound that comes from the foundation. And I can hear something else now, something that makes my stomach drop.

A sound like tearing. Like fabric ripping. Coming from above.

The roof.

The roof is starting to give.

I need to leave. I need to get to my car, drive into town, get to Margo’s or literally anywhere that isn’t this death trap of a cottage that’s about to come apart around me.

I stumble toward the bedroom, glass cutting into my feet with each step but I don’t care, I just need my keys, my phone, my shoes. Maybe a jacket?

An engine roars outside, breaking through the howling of the wind.

Headlights sweep across the cottage, cutting through the rain and dark, so bright I have to squint against them. A truck pulls into the driveway way too fast, gravel spraying, tires sliding slightly before catching.

The engine cuts, and a door slams with enough force I can hear it over the storm.

Someone is running toward the cottage, their footsteps heavy and fast on the gravel, and then they’re pounding on the front door hard enough to rattle it in its frame.

“Vivienne!” The voice is raw and frantic. Barely recognizable over the roar of wind and rain. “Vivienne, open this fucking door!”

Callum.

My heart fills with relief and fear and love all tangled together.

I run to the door, my feet leaving bloody prints on the floor, and I fumble with the lock, my hands shaking so badly it takes two tries to get it open.

The second the lock disengages, the door flies inward, ripped from my grip by the wind.

And Callum is there.

He’s completely drenched. Rain is streaming down his face in rivers, his jacket plastered to his body, his hair dripping into his eyes. He’s breathing hard like he ran here instead of drove, his chest heaving. His eyes are wild, scanning me from head to toe with an intensity that feels like a physical touch. He’s checking for injuries, for blood, for any sign that I’m hurt.

“Are you okay?” His voice is rough and demanding, and he’s already reaching for me, his hands hovering near my shoulders like he wants to touch me but isn’t sure if he should. “Are you hurt?”

His gaze drops to the floor. To my bare feet and the bloody footprints I’ve left on the hardwood.