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To me, October Brambilla is made of compassionate things. Romantic things. Everlasting, affectionate, loving things.
She’s all heart. And I know very fucking well that hearts can break. Mine was in pieces after I left town. After I left her.
I know she feels. I know she cares.
Yet, she thinks she’s dead already. A ghost. Maybe there’s no more damage I could do, and that just sends a shockwave of hurt cascading through me. What happened? What the fuck happened?!
I want to scream those words.
Shake her.
But I know it won’t do any good.
She’s a fortress.
She always has been. Yelling and shouting won’t get her to open up.
I have to maneuver this differently. If only so she can see that she doesn’t have to be a ghost the rest of her life. I now have two very important reasons to be in Mistpoint Harbor.
Task #1: Help my brother.
Task #2: Make October Brambilla come alive again.
I lick the remaining powdered sugar residue off my fingers. “So I’m technically not supposed to be telling you my cover story.”
October rolls her eyes. “Parry?” She guesses correctly.
“I think he’s just trying to lessen the casualties. He told me that if I get hurt while I’m out here, it’ll be his fault.”
“He’s not wrong about that.” She looks me over, eyeing my face for too long. “You have a little something…” She motions to her own lips.
“Here?” I rub my arm against my mouth, dirtying my black turtleneck with dusty white.
I must not do a good enough job. October steps so much closer, tensely—only an inch or so away from me, and I watch her soft fingers rise to the corner of my lips.
I inhale.
“It’s right here,” she breathes and then thumbs the corner. Her gentle, teasing touch flip-flops my heart. Melts me.
“Powdered sugar?” I ask like an idiot. What else would it be?
She has a smile in her eyes that turns more desirous, and I think, just do it, October. Just kiss me.
Please.
She suddenly retracts. Hand dropping. “You’re going to get sick. You should’ve slowed down.”
Slowed down? Us? Is that even doable?
She’s not talking about us. This isn’t some metaphorical, figurative convo. It’s literal, and she pops the lid back onto the empty box. Yes, I ate all the cookies.
No regrets.
“Your cover story,” October says. “Will you tell me even if Parry said not to?”
“You know I will.” She’s my exception. And I end up explaining how I’m telling locals that I’ve returned to write a book about the town.
With each word out of my mouth, October’s face morphs into pure horror.
When I finish, she says, “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“Like I said, if people are pissed at me then they won’t ask questions. It’s a win-win.”
“I will be sweeping up your corpse from the town square and mopping up the blood, Zoey. They’re going to kill you.”
I frown. “Not like actual murder though.”
“Someone will probably send you a message. And it won’t be wrapped in a bow.”
I think about this for a second. “Is it weird that I’m not scared?”
She lets out a heavy breath. “I don’t know. Probably not. We’re all raised to not be scared of terrible shit happening to us. And you…” She pauses for a beat. “You more than anyone had to be strong to survive this town, but I wish you would be a little frightened this time.”
“I’m not.”
She groans and runs a hand down her cheek. “Alright. Alright. I’ll just have to keep my eyes open. If you really insist on this ridiculous cover story, you’re going to need me now more than ever.”
My first thought: I’ve always needed you.
But I let that one drift.
We have too many rules. Only one exception. And it doesn’t involve me falling for her ever again.
I unzip my suitcase. Flinging out some wardrobe options since I’ve been wearing the same turtleneck and jeans I wore on the plane. I was so tired, I slept in them too.
“Do you want to take a shower before we go to the lighthouse?” October asks me.
My brows knit together. “Won’t your aunt murder me?”
“The town council had an early meeting this morning. She’s already gone.”
A shower in October’s bathroom? It’s tempting, but I check my phone for the time. “Shit. I don’t think we’ll have time for that.” I yank off my turtleneck. Changing fast. “Parry said to meet him at nine, and it’s already eight-thirty.” When I pick up my long-sleeved shirt, I brave a glance at October.
Her eyes drift over my bare skin and my bra that does a pretty bad job at pushing up my cleavage. I have no boobs in comparison to October, and I would’ve said that I’d rather our positions be swapped—me in a heart-flipping wreck as I watch October strip down to nothing—but I wouldn’t trade seeing exactly how she’s staring at me.
