Page 31

Whitley

By the time we pull back up to the cottage, I feel like I’ve been flattened by a steamroller made of burlap and wedding stress.

My back hurts. My shoulders are knotted so tight I think they’ve fused into one singular muscle. And there’s still dried flower pollen on the back of my hand from when I knocked over that crate of baby’s breath.

But we did it. Maggie, the flower farm angel, came through. We have buckets of blooms waiting in the resort’s cold storage. We have a DIY plan. We have hope and a hell of a lot of work cut out for us. So worth it for Violet, though.

We also have a two-hour window before dinner, and all I can think about is that stupid hot tub.

I shouldn’t want to get in it again. Not after what he said or the way I caught myself watching the droplets roll down his neck like I was one second from licking them off.

But also…my body aches. Like, all over. And I’ve been fantasizing about soaking in those jets since noon.

Maybe I can sneak out there early, slip in without a sound. Except, when I emerge from my room twenty minutes later, Beau’s already out on the deck.

Hot tub lid flipped. Steam rising. Bottle of beer on the ledge.

I freeze by the sliding door, hovering like an absolute creep, watching as he leans back with his eyes closed, all long limbs and carved muscles. His hair is damp at the ends again, curling slightly at his nape, and he looks so…at peace out here.

I could leave him alone, but…I want to be in that hot tub pretty darn desperately. And I’m tired. And kind of lonely. And even if we’re awkward and tense and he thinks I talk too much, I like being around him for some reason.

I step outside, deliberately loud enough that he hears me coming.

His head turns. Eyes meet mine. And then he shifts slightly to the side, making room for me. Not a word. Just a silent offer.

“I won’t ramble,” I say softly, stepping in.

Beau’s mouth twitches. “No promises on my end.”

That makes me smile. He’s trying.

I sink into the heat with a groan, the jets working their magic almost immediately. The silence stretches between us, warm and buzzing, and for once, I don’t feel the need to fill it.

I’m content to just…exist. Here. Next to him.

I keep my arms crossed over my chest like a shield. He tips his head back, eyes closed again. God help me, I want to trace the slope of his throat with my tongue. Just once. Maybe twice.

Okay, three times but that’s it, I swear.

“You were good today,” I tell him, my voice almost inaudible above the bubbling of the jets. Soft enough that he can ignore it if he wants to. I wouldn’t blame him. We’ve been circling this truce all day. “With Maggie. With the flowers.”

Beau’s eyes open slowly. “You would’ve figured it out.”

“Maybe.” I sink lower into the water until it licks at my collarbone. “Eventually. But I was two seconds from a meltdown and you…you stepped in. I appreciate it.”

I glance over at him. His jaw ticks, but he doesn’t say anything. Just gives one small, silent nod. I wonder what it costs him to just take the compliment.

The silence returns. My limbs are starting to loosen, heavy with exhaustion, but the knots in my shoulders still throb.

I roll my neck. Something pinches at the top of my spine, and I wince.

His head turns immediately. “You okay?”

“Just sore,” I admit, trying to play it off with a weak smile. “Turns out flower crisis management uses muscles I didn’t know I had.”

His eyes track the way I stretch my arm across my body, then down along the opposite shoulder. His gaze lingers, and I swear the temperature in here just kicked up a few degrees.

Then, he says, “Come here.”