The Game or The Chance (Two Friends)??

Two best friends. One murderous man. Maybe a series. not finished.rough, still everywhere.

The Game/The Chance
(Prologue)
It had happened once before. Oh, how he loved reproducing those moments, he thought to himself. He dwelled on the events of that night again and again in his mind. He remembered every detail—her fragile hands, the smell of the wet trees, and the sounds of every animal that passed by. He recalled losing control for a short period of time, which was unlike him. He had spent years learning about himself and how to keep a handle on things.

But the memories are not as vivid as they once were. He no longer feels the full-body excitement he once did when reminiscing about the woman—and the chase. That’s his favorite part: the catch. Pursuing the girl and wooing her. Making her trust him, love him. Then giving her the surprise she’s been longing for—till death do us part.

He knows what he needs to do. He must make it happen again. Who will the lucky girl be this time? He likes them in their twenties and fit. He likes them pale, with dark hair and light eyes. There are millions of them out there.
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(Chapter One)

It had happened once before. And oh, how he relished the idea of recreating it. The memory clung to him like mist in the woods—always present, always whispering. He replayed that night over and over in his mind, each detail etched into his thoughts like carvings in stone. Her delicate hands trembling in his grip. The scent of rain-soaked pine and moss. The distant rustle of nocturnal creatures moving through the underbrush, unaware—or perhaps indifferent—to what was unfolding nearby.

He remembered losing control, just for a moment. That wasn’t like him. He’d spent years studying himself, mastering restraint, learning how to keep the darkness tucked neatly behind a smile.

But the memory had faded at the edges. It no longer surged through him with the same electric thrill. The woman’s face had blurred, her voice lost to time. Even the chase—the part he loved most—had dulled. The pursuit. The seduction. The slow unraveling of trust. Watching her fall for him, believe in him. And then giving her the surprise she never saw coming.

Till death do us part.

He knew what had to happen. It was time again. Time to feel alive.

Who would be the lucky one this time?

He liked them young—mid-twenties, fit. Porcelain skin, raven hair, eyes like ice. There were millions of them out there. Cities full of possibilities. Parks, cafés, bookstores. All he had to do was choose.

And wait for the moment when the game would begin again.

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(Chapter Two)

His teachers and classmates began to look at him differently—no longer with curiosity, but with pity. The boy who lost his entire family in a tragic accident. The brakes had failed, they said. And of course, he was the only one not in the car. The whispers followed him like shadows down the school hallways.

“…think he had something to do with it?” “…look at him, he hasn’t cried at all…”

Girls would giggle as he passed, their eyes darting toward him before quickly turning away, whispering behind manicured hands. The boys were crueler—mocking his silence, his isolation, his lack of family or friends. They all had their own theories about what he was becoming.

In the small towns of British Columbia, people knew about his mother. They knew how she treated him—what she did behind closed doors. Even his father and brother knew, but they chose silence over confrontation. She would slip into his room at night, her voice a sickly whisper, her touch invasive and wrong. It began when he was eleven and didn’t stop until the night before she died.

He loved her still, in some twisted, aching way. But the contempt ran just as deep. All he ever wanted was to be treated like his brother. What made him different? Why was he the one chosen for her cruelty?

After high school, he left. Not far—just a province over. Far enough to escape the stares and the murmurs, but close enough to visit the graves when he felt the need. It was a quiet reinvention. A new name, a new rhythm. A place where no one knew his story.

Here, the world felt untouched. From his porch, he could see the jagged peaks of the Rockies, their snowcaps glowing in the morning sun. Deer wandered across his property like they owned it. Eagles nested in the tall pines, their cries echoing through the valley. The nearest neighbor was miles away. He had space. He had silence.

His shop sat behind the house, tucked between two towering spruce trees. He could spend hours there—welding, carving, restoring—without anyone asking questions. No one dropped by unannounced. No one lingered. He liked it that way.

Company made him uneasy. Putting on a performance in his own home felt hollow. But he was good at it. When people did visit, they always said the house felt warm, alive. The walls were painted in soft earth tones, the furniture carefully chosen. Just enough color to feel inviting, just enough order to seem normal. He’d spent a fortune making sure everything looked right.

It was all part of the façade. And he wore it well.

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(Chapter Three)

The store had been open for just over an hour when the morning rush began in earnest. The door chimed for the sixth time in ten minutes, each ring echoing through the cozy space like a heartbeat. A breeze drifted in through the open door, carrying the earthy scent of freshly mowed grass and the faint sweetness of dew-soaked petals. It was that scent—so familiar, so grounding—that made Chantelle turn around.

Sunlight filtered through the front windows, casting soft golden streaks across the polished wood floors and illuminating the rows of carefully arranged blooms. A few customers wandered among the display shelves, their fingers grazing the petals of lilies and carnations, murmuring over choices. But their attention, like hers, was drawn to the man who had just entered.

He stood near the entrance, framed by the doorway like a figure from a dream. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a quiet intensity that seemed to hush the room. Chantelle wondered how he’d even fit through the door. As she moved toward the counter to assist the waiting customers, her eyes kept drifting back to him. She searched for the cluster of freckles she remembered from the night before, but his hands stayed tucked in his pockets.

Crystin was in the back, prepping the morning’s arrangements, leaving Chantelle alone at the front. She greeted customers, took orders, wrapped bouquets—but her focus never strayed far from the stranger. His eyes were the color of grassy knolls in springtime, flecked with gold. A hint of grey threaded through his cropped black hair, catching the light like silver.

When the rush finally subsided, the shop settled into a gentle hum—the soft whir of the cooler, the rustle of tissue paper, the distant sound of Crystin humming to herself. Chantelle approached the man slowly, still trying to catch a glimpse of his hands. When she looked up, he was already smiling. It was the kind of smile that made her breath hitch—warm, confident, and just a little dangerous.

He’s going to be a heartbreaker, she thought.

“Good morning, sir. Are you looking for anything in particular today?”

“Actually, yes I am.” His voice was deep, with a rasp that curled around her spine and settled in her chest.

“Well, I’m here to help. What do you have in mind?” Her smile came easily, naturally—no customer-service mask, no practiced charm. Just her.

“I’m looking for you.” His eyes flashed when he said you, and she felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

“That’s very sweet, sir, but I meant a flower arrangement.” She gestured toward the display cases, trying to steady her voice. “We have arrangements for every occasion—weddings, birthdays, funerals, holidays, and even those just-because moments. Everything we have is just to your right. If you’re looking for something custom, we can special order it, but that takes an extra two days.”

She could feel his gaze on her cheek, and she did everything she could not to meet those eyes again—until she couldn’t help herself.

“I saw you last night at the bar with your friends,” he said. “I overheard you telling someone you worked here, and I thought… maybe buying you flowers would be a good way to meet you.”

Her eyes locked with his, and in that moment, she saw it—the hand she’d been searching for. The freckles. The memory of his arm around her shoulder, the scent of his cologne, the warmth of his presence—all of it came rushing back.

“I don’t know what to say. I think I’m impressed.”

“Well, let me impress you more on Friday night. Dinner. What do ya say?”

She couldn’t look away. His eyes held her like a promise. “Dinner? Yes… dinner. Friday night.”

They exchanged contact information, agreeing he’d pick her up at eight.

“I’ve got to get to work now,” he said, backing toward the door. “I’ll call you Thursday night to make sure you don’t change your mind. Talk to you then.”

She watched him walk away, her heart tugging as if she might never see him again. Just before he stepped out, he turned and smiled—and it felt like a spark catching flame.

Chantelle turned and hurried into the back room, her voice already bubbling with excitement. “Crystin, you are not going to believe what just happened…”

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(Chapter Four)

“Good thing he caught where you worked, huh?” Crystin’s voice was light, but the tension in her eyes betrayed her unease. Chantelle caught it instantly.

“You think it’s strange, don’t you?”

Crystin hesitated, fiddling with a ribbon on the arrangement she was working on. “To be honest, yeah. It’s a little weird. He didn’t talk to you last night, and he was eavesdropping to find out where you work. I’m sure it’s nothing—from what you’ve said, he seems charming. I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

She tried to soften her words, but the concern in her voice lingered like the scent of eucalyptus in the air. The shop was quiet now, save for the hum of the cooler and the occasional rustle of petals as Crystin adjusted a bouquet.

“Maybe he drank too much and didn’t want to sound like every other guy at the bar trying to pick someone up,” Chantelle offered, brushing a stray leaf off the counter. “I’ll call you before and after dinner so you know I’m okay. And if he comes in again, I’ll introduce you. It’s just one date.”

The door chimed, and Chantelle turned to greet a customer, her apron swaying as she moved through the soft light filtering in from the front windows.

Crystin returned to her work, but the nagging feeling in her chest wouldn’t let go. She’d learned to trust those instincts, even when they felt unfair. She didn’t want to be judgmental—but she also couldn’t forget.

She knew she was protective, maybe overly so. But she loved Chantelle fiercely. She’d been there through the worst of it—the bruises, the hospital visits, the sleepless nights. The memory of that 3 a.m. phone call still haunted her: Chantelle admitted with three broken ribs, a shattered collarbone, and a fractured pelvis. That night, Crystin had made her promise to list her as an emergency contact.

After leaving the hospital, Crystin had gone straight to Chantelle’s house. She packed every piece of clothing, every photo, every trace of her friend’s life from that place. Then she punched the bastard in the face and called the police. He got eighteen months for battery. Crystin walked away with a broken knuckle and no regrets.

Chantelle had stayed with her for nearly a year, slowly rebuilding. Even after moving out, she still came over for sleepovers—sometimes just to feel safe.

It had been two years since that chapter closed, and Chantelle was finally starting to bloom again. Crystin wasn’t ready to watch her wilt.

Feeling guilty for how she’d ended their earlier conversation, Crystin stepped out from the back, wiping her hands on her apron. She peeked around the corner and saw Chantelle standing at the counter with two salads and iced teas from the deli down the street.

“I was coming out to apologize for going full protective-friend mode on you.”

“No worries. I get it.” Chantelle smiled and handed her a salad. “Now let’s eat before the lettuce wilts.”

They sat together at the counter, the soft hum of the shop wrapping around them like a blanket.

“You taught me that if I don’t take chances, things will never happen,” Chantelle said, her voice quiet but steady.

Crystin looked up and saw the emotion flicker behind her friend’s eyes. Even now, Chantelle kept so much tucked away.

“You’re right, I did say that,” Crystin replied. “And I meant it. I guess I still have some healing to do too.”

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(Chapter Five)

He was at home, preparing for his date with Chantelle. The house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath his pacing feet. He’d laid out his clothes on the bed—dark slacks, a crisp button-down, and the jacket that made him look polished but approachable. A small overnight bag sat zipped and ready by the door. He’d booked a hotel in town. It was practical, he told himself. No long drive back. Just one night closer to her.

He moved like a man rehearsing a performance. Every step, every breath, calculated. He knew what this date meant. It wasn’t just dinner—it was the beginning of something. He needed to be charming. Normal. Calm. He couldn’t afford to scare her away. Not this one. She was the one. The one who would make his dreams come true—again.

He drifted into the kitchen, the dim light casting long shadows across the counters. The air smelled faintly of cedar and old whiskey. He reached into the cupboard for a glass, and as his fingers brushed the rim, a memory surged forward—uninvited but vivid.

Leaves had framed her face like a wreath, her body sprawled across the forest floor. Her clothes were scattered in the underbrush, her pale arms reaching toward him in the moonlight. His heart began to race. A smile crept across his lips. He placed the glass on the counter and opened the freezer. The ice was cold—biting. Like her skin. The memory sent a chill down his spine. It thrilled him. It almost scared him.

He poured the whiskey slowly, watching the amber liquid swirl around the ice. The clinking sound echoed in the silence as he walked into the living room. The curtains were drawn, the room dim and still. He sat down, the leather of the armchair creaking beneath him, and reached for the phone.

He pulled the folded Just Add Water stationery from his pocket, the ink slightly smudged from his fingers. He dialed the number, each ring stretching longer than the last.

Ring… Ring… Ring…

“Hello?”

“Hi, Chantelle?” He steadied his breath, forcing calm into his voice. Her tone was light, warm—alive. It soothed him.

“Oh, hello. Is this the call to make sure I’m not chickening out on our date tomorrow night?”

“Why yes, it is. Good guess.”

“I’m not going to chicken out. I was wondering where we were going, though. Do I need to wear something nice?”

“I made reservations for us at nine o’clock at La Maisonette. You’ll want to dress up a little.”

“Wow. Okay. That’s a nice place. I’ve heard great things. You’re trying to impress me, aren’t you?”

“I’m all about the impression. I’ll pick you up at eight. Be ready.”

She made it sound so simple. So easy. This might be easier than I thought.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Chapter six)

He was at home, preparing for his date with Chantelle. The house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath his pacing feet. He’d laid out his clothes on the bed—dark slacks, a crisp button-down, and the jacket that made him look polished but approachable. A small overnight bag sat zipped and ready by the door. He’d booked a hotel in town. It was practical, he told himself. No long drive back. Just one night closer to her.

He moved like a man rehearsing a performance. Every step, every breath, calculated. He knew what this date meant. It wasn’t just dinner—it was the beginning of something. He needed to be charming. Normal. Calm. He couldn’t afford to scare her away. Not this one. She was the one. The one who would make his dreams come true—again.

He drifted into the kitchen, the dim light casting long shadows across the counters. The air smelled faintly of cedar and old whiskey. He reached into the cupboard for a glass, and as his fingers brushed the rim, a memory surged forward—uninvited but vivid.

Leaves had framed her face like a wreath, her body sprawled across the forest floor. Her clothes were scattered in the underbrush, her pale arms reaching toward him in the moonlight. His heart began to race. A smile crept across his lips. He placed the glass on the counter and opened the freezer. The ice was cold—biting. Like her skin. The memory sent a chill down his spine. It thrilled him. It almost scared him.

He poured the whiskey slowly, watching the amber liquid swirl around the ice. The clinking sound echoed in the silence as he walked into the living room. The curtains were drawn, the room dim and still. He sat down, the leather of the armchair creaking beneath him, and reached for the phone.

He pulled the folded Just Add Water stationery from his pocket, the ink slightly smudged from his fingers. He dialed the number, each ring stretching longer than the last.

Ring… Ring… Ring…

“Hello?”

“Hi, Chantelle?” He steadied his breath, forcing calm into his voice. Her tone was light, warm—alive. It soothed him.

“Oh, hello. Is this the call to make sure I’m not chickening out on our date tomorrow night?”

“Why yes, it is. Good guess.”

“I’m not going to chicken out. I was wondering where we were going, though. Do I need to wear something nice?”

“I made reservations for us at nine o’clock at La Maisonette. You’ll want to dress up a little.”

“Wow. Okay. That’s a nice place. I’ve heard great things. You’re trying to impress me, aren’t you?”

“I’m all about the impression. I’ll pick you up at eight. Be ready.”

She made it sound so simple. So easy. This might be easier than I thought.

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(Chapter Seven)

The drive to the restaurant was brief, winding through quiet streets bathed in the soft glow of streetlamps. The city was settling into evening, and the sky had turned a deep indigo, dotted with the first stars of the night. As soon as he parked, he was out of the car and around to her side before Chantelle had even gathered her coat.

“Thank you. You’re quick,” she said, her smile lighting up the shadows around them. That smile, he thought. This might be harder than I imagined.

He reached for her hand, helping her out with a gentle touch. They walked together up four wide stone steps, each one edged with low lanterns casting golden halos on the path. A lush garden flanked the walkway—roses, hydrangeas, and climbing jasmine perfumed the air. The double oak doors of the restaurant loomed ahead, polished and grand.

He stepped forward and opened one of the heavy doors, letting her pass through first.

Inside, the restaurant was a haven of elegance. Soft piano music drifted through the air, mingling with the quiet clink of silverware and the low murmur of conversation. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling like frozen fireworks, casting a warm glow over velvet-lined booths and candlelit tables.

The hostess greeted them with a practiced smile. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Yes, at 8:30. It’s under ‘First Date.’”

She scanned the chart, then smiled. “Right this way, Mr. and Mrs. Date.”

They exchanged a glance and a quiet laugh, following her through the maze of tables to a cozy corner booth framed by sheer curtains and a flickering wall sconce.

They settled in, menus in hand, the intimacy of the space wrapping around them like a soft blanket.

“Red or white?” he asked, meeting Chantelle’s eyes. They sparkled like the wine glasses in front of them.

“I prefer white, if that’s fine with you.”

He nodded and turned to the waiter. “We’ll have your best white, please.”

The waiter gave a polite nod and disappeared into the cellar.

“This place is gorgeous,” Chantelle said, her voice full of wonder. “I’ve never been here before, but I’ve heard amazing things.”

“I’ve been once. The service was flawless, and the food—unforgettable. I thought it would be perfect for a first date with an absolutely ravishing woman.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she looked down with a smile. “That was the reaction I was hoping for,” he added, grinning.

The waiter returned with a chilled bottle of Lailey Chardonnay, presenting it with a flourish. “Is this alright, sir?”

He read the label and nodded. “Perfect. Thank you.”

The cork popped with a soft thunk, and the wine was poured into delicate stemmed glasses. The bottle was placed in an ice bucket beside the table, and the waiter took their order.

“I’ll have the lobster special,” he said. “And she’ll have the steak, medium-rare.”

With their meals on the way, they leaned into the quiet hum of the evening and decided to play Twenty Questions.

“Your favorite animal?” he asked, watching her as she scanned the room, thinking.

“It’s a tie between big dogs and koalas,” she said finally, her eyes drifting to a painting of a forest on the far wall.

“What about you?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re forgetting the rules—you can’t ask the same question. Pick another.”

She smirked, her eyes gleaming with mischief. He could see the moment the question formed.

“Do you make a habit of randomly hugging strangers and not letting them see your face or talk to you?”

Her playful tone made him laugh.

“No. That was a first. I wanted to talk to you, but you looked like you were having way too much fun with your friends. I heard you mention ‘Just Add Water,’ and figured I’d find you there.”

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(Chapter 8)

The candle between them flickered, casting soft shadows across her face. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, eyes never leaving hers.

“I don’t think you realize how magnetic you are,” he said, voice low. “It’s not just your beauty. It’s the way you listen. The way you speak. The way you make silence feel like a conversation.”

Chantelle felt her breath catch. Compliments were often loud and empty—this one felt like a whisper to her soul.

“I think I’ve spent so long trying not to be noticed,” she said quietly, “that I forgot what it feels like to be truly seen.”

He reached across the table, gently brushing his fingers against hers. “Well, I see you. And I’m not looking away.”

The moment hung between them, delicate and electric. The restaurant around them faded into a blur of clinking glasses and murmured laughter. For now, it was just them—two people finding something rare in the middle of an ordinary night.

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(Chapter 9)

The drive felt longer than forty-five minutes. Time stretched and twisted with every mile. Chantelle stared out the window, her fingers clenched tightly in her lap. The morning sun, once warm and promising, now seemed too bright—almost intrusive.

Crystin glanced over, her voice soft. “He’s strong, Chantelle. He’s going to fight.”

Chantelle nodded, but her throat was tight. Her mind raced through memories—her father teaching her how to ride a bike, his laugh echoing through the house during movie nights, the way he always called her “kiddo” even when she was well into adulthood.

When they arrived at the hospital, the sterile scent and fluorescent lights hit her like a wave. She rushed to the front desk, barely able to get the words out.

“My father—he was brought in this morning. ICU.”

The nurse checked the chart and gave her a gentle nod. “Room 3B. He’s stable for now, but the doctor will speak with you shortly.”

Crystin stayed behind as Chantelle walked down the hallway, each step heavier than the last. She paused outside the room, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.

Her father lay in the bed, pale but breathing, surrounded by machines that beeped and hummed. She moved to his side, took his hand, and whispered, “I’m here, Dad.”

His eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, they locked eyes. He gave her a faint smile—weak, but unmistakably full of love.

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she held them back. She wanted to be strong for him. She wanted to be the daughter he’d always believed in.

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(Chapter 10)

This could get complicated. She was beautiful, effortlessly charming, and had a laugh that lingered in his mind like a favorite song. What am I going to do if I fall for her? He shook the thought off quickly, as if it were a fly buzzing too close. Love wasn’t something he let himself tumble into. Not anymore. He needed a distraction—something tangible, mechanical. Something that didn’t smile like Chantelle.

He stepped out the back door and into the crisp morning air. The sky was a soft gray, the kind that hinted at rain but hadn’t committed. His property stretched out around him—an acre of solitude tucked away from the noise of town. The grass was freshly cut, the scent of clippings still lingering. Hedges stood in neat rows, trimmed with precision. The wraparound deck creaked gently beneath his boots, and the slate path leading to the shop glistened faintly with dew. Lilies, carnations, and daisies flanked the walkway, swaying gently in the breeze like silent sentinels.

Chantelle would love this yard. No. No, don’t go there. He picked up his pace, brushing past the blooms and reaching the bay doors of the shop.

Inside, the air was cooler, tinged with the scent of motor oil, sawdust, and steel. The space was organized chaos—three vintage cars in various stages of resurrection, a pair of old motorcycles leaning like loyal dogs, and a woodworking bench cluttered with chisels and half-finished pieces. On the left, his welding station stood ready, surrounded by metal scraps and the ghost of past projects.

He turned toward the 1967 Barracuda, its hood propped open like a challenge. The engine needed attention, and that was exactly what he needed to give. He wasn’t planning to call Chantelle until tomorrow night. If he didn’t stay busy, he’d end up dialing her number before lunch.

He grabbed a notepad and began listing parts—gaskets, belts, filters. Whatever he didn’t have, he’d order. But for now, he had enough to keep his hands occupied and his mind distracted.

Soon, the rhythm of work took over. The hum of tools, the clink of metal, the satisfying ache in his shoulders. Chantelle faded from his thoughts, replaced by torque specs and grease stains. He swapped out a few components, cleaned others, and felt the familiar calm settle in.

Then his phone rang.

He glanced at it, hesitated. Voicemail can handle it.

He finished up with the Barracuda, wiped his hands on a rag, and headed inside. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that made you notice the ticking clock and the hum of the fridge.

After washing up, he flipped open his phone. One missed call.

Chantelle.

His heart gave a subtle flutter, like a bird testing its wings. He pressed pound and held the phone to his ear, bracing for the sound of her voice.

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(Chapter 11)

“Come on, pick up. Ring, ring. Great—voicemail.”

Chantelle sighed, her voice soft but strained as she left the message. “Hey, it’s me. I said I’d call to let you know how my week’s shaping up. Well... it’s not great. My dad’s in the hospital. I’m here now. Just... call me when you can. Okay. Bye.”

She ended the call and turned to Crystin, who stood nearby, her expression etched with concern.

“I think I’m going to stay here tonight,” Chantelle said, her voice steadier than she felt. “If he wakes up, I don’t want him to be alone.”

“That’s understandable,” Crystin replied gently. “Do you want me to stay?”

“No, no. I’ll be alright. I’ll need a ride home tomorrow though—I’ll call you.”

“Okay. Keep me posted.”

Crystin gave her a quick hug and headed out, her footsteps fading down the corridor. The hallway was hushed, lit by dim overhead panels that cast long shadows across the polished floor. Nurses moved quietly from room to room, their voices low, their movements practiced and calm.

Chantelle walked slowly back to her father’s room, the silence pressing in around her. He’d been moved out of the ICU earlier, but the monitors still beeped steadily, and the tubes running from his arms told her everything she needed to know—he wasn’t out of danger.

She pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down, gently wrapping her fingers around his. His skin was cool, his grip slack, but she held on tightly.

“Hi, Dad. I’m back,” she whispered. “You don’t have to worry—I’m right here.”

Her eyes scanned his face, pale and still beneath the soft hospital light. Machines hummed quietly around them, and the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor was the only reassurance she had.

“Dad... remember when Mom passed? She told you to take care of me. I need you to keep that promise. I need you to wake up. I can’t lose you.”

She leaned forward, resting her head on their clasped hands, her shoulders sinking as the weight of the day settled over her. Her thoughts drifted to simpler times—sunlit afternoons playing tag in the yard, the sound of cartoons and cookie jars opening, the way his eyes lit up when she walked into a room. The silly voices he used when reading bedtime stories. The way he always made her feel safe.

Wrapped in those memories, she closed her eyes. The hum of machines, the scent of antiseptic, and the quiet pulse of love filled the room as she slowly drifted into sleep.

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(Chapter 12)

He stepped into the hospital room quietly, the door easing shut behind him with a soft click. The sterile scent of antiseptic hung in the air, mingling with the low hum of machines and the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor. Fluorescent lights cast a pale glow over the room, but it was the sight of Chantelle that stopped him cold.

She was curled in the chair beside her father’s bed, her head bowed, fingers still wrapped around his hand. Her posture was weary, but her grip was firm—anchored in love and fear. The image stirred something deep in him, unearthing memories he’d buried long ago: his own father lying motionless in a hospital bed, the funeral that followed, and the moment he stood beside the casket, refusing to sit. He’d held his father’s hand through the entire eulogy, unwilling to let go of the man who had shaped him.

He moved quietly around the bed, careful not to disturb the tubes and wires. Gently, he loosened Chantelle’s fingers and slid into the chair beside her. With slow, deliberate motion, he pulled her into his arms. She stirred, her body instinctively leaning into his warmth, her breath soft against his chest.

He looked down at her face, framed by loose strands of hair and shadowed by exhaustion. She’s even more beautiful when she’s sad, he thought, not because of the sadness itself, but because of the rawness it revealed—unfiltered, unguarded.

Her eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep, and met his. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice trembling. “You didn’t have to come all the way here.”

“Yes, I did,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “This isn’t a time to be alone. I just wish someone had done this for me when I needed it.”

She gave a faint nod, her eyes already drifting closed again.

“Try to get some rest,” he murmured. “I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

He cradled her gently, letting her head settle against him as sleep reclaimed her. Outside the window, the sky was beginning to dim, casting long shadows across the floor. Inside the room, time seemed to pause—held in the quiet between heartbeats, in the space where grief and comfort met.

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(Chapter 13)

She jolted awake to the shrill, unrelenting sound of machines flatlining. The room, once quiet and dim, was suddenly filled with panic. Her heart leapt into her throat as she sprang from the chair, her father’s hand slipping from hers. She burst into the hallway, her voice cracking as she shouted for help.

Nurses appeared almost instantly, their movements swift but composed. One gently touched her arm and asked her to wait outside. The door closed behind them with a soft but final thud.

Chantelle pressed her face to the small glass window, her breath fogging the pane. She strained to see past the silhouettes moving inside, but the doctor stood directly in her line of sight, blocking everything. Her pulse pounded in her ears. She didn’t know what was happening—only that something was slipping away.

Then—arms. Strong, familiar, and grounding. They wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her into a firm, steady embrace. She didn’t need to look. She knew it was him.

They’d only shared one evening together, but here he was—holding her like he’d known her forever. Like he understood the weight of this moment without needing words.

She felt a pang of guilt for how safe she felt in his arms. Her body trembled, and tears threatened to spill. She inhaled sharply, and the scent of his cologne enveloped her—warm, woodsy, and achingly familiar. The same scent her father used to wear when she was a little girl.

“Just let it out, Chantelle,” he whispered, his voice low and steady. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.”

She collapsed into him, her sobs breaking free. The pain, the fear, the helplessness—all of it poured out in waves. She clung to him, her fingers gripping his jacket like a lifeline.

She couldn’t remember the last time she cried like this. Not even when her mother died. This was deeper. This was the sound of something breaking.

The door creaked open behind her. She turned slowly, wiping her face with the sleeve of her sweater, and met the doctor’s eyes. His expression said everything before he spoke.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Huntington,” he said gently. “There was nothing more we could do.”

She stood frozen, her breath caught in her chest.

“He did have a moment of clarity,” the doctor added. “He asked me to tell his little girl that he loved her more than anything in the world… and that he’ll be watching over her.”

Then he turned and walked away, leaving her with a tear-streaked face, a shattered heart—and her father’s final words echoing in the silence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Chapter 14)

I shouldn’t have gone to the hospital. I shouldn’t have promised not to let go, he thought, pacing the length of his living room for what felt like the hundredth time. The hardwood creaked beneath his boots, the morning light filtering through the blinds in fractured slats across the floor. His thoughts were a storm—restless, relentless, and all centered on Chantelle.

I can’t get too attached. What is it about this woman? His jaw tightened. He could feel the heat rising in his chest, not anger exactly—more like frustration tangled with fear.

He poured himself a drink, the amber liquid catching the light as it filled the glass. Then he grabbed the bottle of Crown Royal and headed out the back door toward the shop. The air outside was sharp, biting at his throat as he inhaled deeply. The sun was just beginning to crest over the treetops, casting a pale gold wash across the yard, but it did little to warm the chill in his bones.

Dew clung to the lock on the shop door, glistening like tiny pearls. As he fumbled with the key, his glass slipped from his hand and shattered against the slate path. He stared at the shards, the bottle still clutched in his other hand. Five long minutes passed—silent, motionless—before he sighed and stepped over the mess, deciding to clean it up later. He took a long pull straight from the bottle.

Inside, the shop was cold and quiet. He lit a fire in the small wood stove at the center, the flames crackling to life and casting flickering shadows across the concrete floor. The scent of smoke and old motor oil filled the space, grounding him in the familiar.

He turned to the Barracuda, its hood propped open like a waiting confession. The car had always been his sanctuary—metal, grease, and purpose. A place where things made sense.

It had been a week since Chantelle’s father passed. They’d spoken three times. Her voice had been calm, composed. She said she was doing all right, that the funeral was beautiful. She’d asked him to come, and he’d declined—politely, citing a packed work schedule.

But the truth was simpler. He couldn’t bear to see the grief in her eyes. That quiet ache behind her smile—it stirred something in him he wasn’t ready to face.

So he buried himself in the Barracuda. In the hum of tools, the sting of whiskey, and the heat of the fire. He let the rhythm of work drown out the noise in his head. Piece by piece, bolt by bolt, he disappeared into the engine—trying to forget the woman who had made him feel too much.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Chapter 15)

“Thank you for everything, Crystin. And those flowers…” Chantelle’s voice trailed off as she looked around the softly lit room, filled with blooms in every shade of comfort—lilies, roses, baby’s breath. “You outdid yourself.”

Crystin gave a gentle smile, her eyes tired but warm. “It was a beautiful service. Now your father can watch over you from above.”

Chantelle turned to her, her voice quiet but firm. “Us, Crystin. He can watch over us.”

The two women stood in the quiet aftermath of the funeral, surrounded by the scent of fresh-cut flowers and the lingering hush of shared grief. Crystin had closed her shop for the entire week, pouring herself into helping her best friend navigate the storm of arrangements and emotions. She’d dipped into her savings without hesitation—it was the least she could do.

Mr. Huntington had been more than a father to Chantelle. He’d been the only father figure Crystin had ever known. Her own dad had passed before she was born, and from the moment she met Mr. Huntington, he had welcomed her like blood. In his will, he’d named her as a daughter. Everything he owned—his home, his savings, his legacy—he left to the two of them. Together, they’d decided to save most of it and breathe new life into Just Add Water, the flower shop that had become their shared dream.

“Chantelle,” Crystin said, her voice suddenly tinged with excitement, “there’s something I want to give you. It was supposed to be a surprise, but I can’t wait anymore. Come with me.”

They walked into the back room, where the light was softer, filtered through lace curtains that danced in the breeze. Crystin reached into her purse.

“Oh no, Crystin,” Chantelle said, half-laughing, half-serious. “You’ve already spent way too much. Put that thing away.” Her eyes shimmered with gratitude and sorrow.

“Relax, Chan. I’m not giving you money.” Crystin pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to her. “I’m giving you this.”

Chantelle raised an eyebrow. “Paper?” she teased, smirking.

She unfolded it—and froze. Her breath caught in her throat.

“It’s the deed to the flower shop,” she whispered. “With both our names on it.”

Crystin nodded, her smile soft and proud. “It’s been our store all along. Now it’s official.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Chapter 16)

When they reopened Just Add Water, the shop was quiet but full of warmth. Fifteen messages blinked on the answering machine—each one a voice of comfort, customers offering condolences and memories of Mr. Huntington. Chantelle listened to them one by one, her heart swelling with gratitude. It was a reminder of how deeply her father had touched people’s lives—and how much the community cared.

After lunch, Crystin left to meet with the contractors about the renovation, her clipboard tucked under her arm and her usual determined stride leading the way. Chantelle stayed behind, the shop bathed in soft afternoon light filtering through the front windows. The scent of fresh blooms lingered in the air—roses, peonies, and lavender arranged in neat displays. It was a slow day, so she settled behind the counter with her favorite book, the pages familiar and comforting.

Then the bells above the door chimed.

She looked up, placing her book face down on the counter. A single red rose appeared in front of her, held out by a hand she recognized instantly.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, her voice catching slightly. “It’s beautiful.”

“No,” he replied, his voice low and warm. “You’re beautiful. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the service.”

His smile was gentle, and his eyes held a sincerity that made her chest tighten.

“It’s alright,” she said softly. “Thank you for being at the hospital with me. What brings you to this end of the city?”

He leaned on the counter, his gaze steady. “I figured it was about time we went on that second date.”

The word date lit up his eyes, and something inside her melted. She wanted to fall into that look and never climb out.

“I think that sounds great,” she said, her lips curving into a smile. “What did you have in mind?”

His grin widened, playful and full of promise. “I was thinking it’s been way too long since I’ve been to a funhouse. There’s a carnival in the next town over. I plan to win you a giant stuffed animal and get you home at a respectable hour. What do you say?”

His eyes sparkled with mischief and excitement. How could she possibly say no?

She giggled, stepping out from behind the counter. As she approached, his hands found her shoulders with a gentle touch, grounding her in the moment. He looked into her eyes, and the world seemed to pause.

“I was also thinking,” he said, voice softer now, “we could get something out of the way. You know, to take the pressure off.”

Before she could respond, he lifted her chin with a tender hand and leaned in. His lips met hers in a soft, lingering kiss—unrushed, full of quiet emotion.

“Now we can both stop wondering what it’ll be like,” he whispered.

She stood there, stunned and breathless, her knees weak and heart fluttering. And just like that, he turned and walked out of the shop—leaving behind the scent of rose petals, the echo of a kiss, and a promise to return at six.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Chapter 17)

It was like stepping into a page torn from City Life Magazine—a kaleidoscope of color and sound. Carnies called out to passersby with exaggerated flair, their voices rising above the hum of laughter and music. Stalls blinked and flashed in every shade imaginable, casting neon reflections on the pavement. Children darted between booths, arms overflowing with oversized plush toys and sticky cotton candy, their joy infectious.

And there she was—hand in hand with a man who looked like he’d been sculpted by charm itself.

“This was a great idea,” she said, her voice warm with gratitude. “Thank you for bringing me.”

“Not bad for a second date,” he replied, grinning. “Now let’s go find that funhouse.”

His voice carried the giddy thrill of a kid let loose in a candy store, and when she looked at him—really looked—she felt herself falling just a little further into whatever this was.

She’d agonized over her outfit earlier, finally settling on khaki shorts and a plain white tee. When he arrived wearing nearly the same thing, she’d laughed out loud. It was the first time she’d seen him dressed down, and somehow, it made him even more irresistible. The carnival lights danced in his eyes, adding a shimmer that made the sharp lines of his face seem even more defined, like a painting brought to life.

They entered the funhouse, fingers still intertwined. The black lights buzzed overhead, casting a surreal glow that made their shirts—and his teeth—luminescent. She burst into laughter, pointing at his glowing grin. He laughed too, the sound echoing off the mirrored walls.

They wandered past warped mirrors, their reflections stretching and shrinking in hilarious proportions. She paused to admire one that made her look seven feet tall, and he leaned in, pretending to be intimidated.

Then, just ahead, another couple appeared. She noticed a flicker of something in his expression—brief, unreadable—before he gently tugged her into a shadowed alcove.

“Do you know those people?” she asked, curious.

“No,” he said, eyes softening. “I didn’t even realize there were other people. I just couldn’t stop thinking about kissing you. I thought I’d pull you in here and ravish you.”

She blushed, her heart thudding in her chest as she stepped closer, letting his arms wrap around her waist.

“As long as it’s alright with you, that is.”

She looked up into his eyes and saw it all—restraint, vulnerability, longing. No words were needed. She reached up, closed the space between them, and gently pulled his head down to hers.

Their lips met in a kiss that was tender, deliberate, and full of promise. Outside, the carnival roared on—but in that quiet corner of the funhouse, time stood still.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Chapter 18)

She woke with a smile already forming, her heart light and her thoughts tangled in the memory of last night’s kiss. She floated from room to room, humming a tune she didn’t recognize, twirling once in front of the mirror just because she could. It had been years since she felt this way—since that note in her high school locker, scrawled in messy handwriting, asking her to the dance.

She couldn’t wait to see Crystin and spill every detail.

She arrived ten minutes early, practically skipping into the café. The scent of roasted coffee beans and warm pastries wrapped around her like a hug. It was her turn to buy, so she grabbed their usuals and settled at the table by the window, sunlight spilling across the wood grain.

Then, a woman approached.

She was striking—long, straight blonde hair that shimmered like silk, eyes a piercing green that seemed to see too much. Her pale pink dress clung to her figure, elegant and deliberate, the color soft against her fair skin.

“Hi,” she said, her voice smooth but edged with something sharper. “I’m Sahara Madrid. I saw you last night at the carnival… with your boyfriend. This might sound strange, but… did he grow up in B.C.?”

Chantelle blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, hi. I’m not sure. That was only our second date. Why do you ask?”

Sahara’s expression shifted—her gaze darkened, her lips pressed into a thin line. “If it’s who I think it is, you should be careful. He killed his entire family when he was just a kid. Who knows how messed up he is now.”

Before Chantelle could respond, Sahara turned and walked away, heels clicking against the tile like punctuation marks.

Chantelle sat frozen, her coffee cooling in her hand. The warmth from earlier had vanished, replaced by a chill crawling up her spine. She stared at the door Sahara had exited through, trying to make sense of what she'd just heard.

Then she spotted Crystin weaving through the crowd, and raised a shaky hand to flag her down.

Crystin slid into the seat across from her, eyebrows knitting together. “I’m guessing the date wasn’t great, judging by that look on your face. What happened?”

“No, the date was amazing,” Chantelle said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just… this woman came up to me. She said he killed his entire family when he was young. She told me to be careful.”

Crystin’s face went pale, her eyes wide with disbelief. “That’s ridiculous! She’s probably some crazy ex. There’s no way that man killed his entire family.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Chapter 19)

He’d tasted her kiss, felt the warmth of her body against his, and now he couldn’t stop. Chantelle haunted him. Her face lingered behind his eyelids every time he blinked. Her scent—soft, floral, unforgettable—seemed to cling to his skin. He could still feel the imprint of her laughter in his chest.

I need to see her again, he thought, pacing the kitchen. Maybe I’ll swing by her shop. Bring lunch. Something simple.

His phone rang. He didn’t even need to check the screen—he knew it was her.

“Good morning, beautiful. How’d ya sleep?”

“Fine, thanks. And you?” Her voice was clipped, tight. Something was wrong.

His pulse quickened. Please be okay. You’re the one I need.

“What’s bugging you?”

She hesitated. “Wow, you’re good. Alright, I’ll get to it. Do you know someone named Sahara Madrid?”

His stomach dropped. Careful. Don’t lose her now. “Yes. Why?” he said, keeping his tone even.

“She saw us at the carnival last night. Then she showed up at Café Del Sol this morning. She said something… disturbing.”

He braced himself.

“She said you killed your entire family. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to say it so harshly.”

Silence. Then a slow, measured breath.

“What?” he said, voice low. The heat rose in his chest, but he forced it down. “My family died in a car crash. I wasn’t even with them.”

His jaw tightened. He could feel the old pain stirring, the ache he’d buried deep. She has to believe me. It was an accident. A horrible, senseless accident.

“I’m so sorry,” Chantelle said. “I didn’t want to ask. I knew it couldn’t be true, but when someone says something like that… you have to find out.”

“No, it’s alright,” he said, swallowing the bitterness. “It happened a long time ago. I don’t blame you for asking. I’d have done the same.”

He clenched his fists, willing himself to stay calm. It’s not her fault. Don’t get mad. Don’t ruin this.

“I’m sorry again,” she said. “I’ve got to get back to work. Bye.”

The line went dead.

He stared at the phone, then slammed it down on the counter. His breath came fast, his thoughts spiraling.

That bitch. How dare she put that in Chantelle’s head? She’ll regret this.

He began pacing, the shop door in sight, the bottle of Crown Royal still on the table. The fire inside him wasn’t grief—it was fury. And it was growing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Chapter 20)

“You were right! I’m such an idiot,” Chantelle groaned, dropping behind the counter and burying her face in her hands. “I shouldn’t have called. She’s just an ex-girlfriend. His family died in a car crash—he wasn’t even there.”

The words spilled out fast, tangled in frustration and relief.

Within seconds, Crystin was beside her, her hand resting gently on Chantelle’s shoulder. The touch was grounding—familiar and full of quiet reassurance.

“It’s the only way to stop it from eating at you,” Crystin said softly. “And don’t worry—you didn’t mess anything up. That man really likes you. I can see it in the way he looks at you.”

Her voice was calm, the kind of soothing tone that always made Chantelle feel like everything would be okay.

“You know me too well,” Chantelle said, lifting her head with a sheepish smile. “You’re right. And if I did mess it up… then maybe it wasn’t meant to be. But if it is, it’ll find a way.”

She stood and gave her head a little shake, trying to clear the fog of doubt. She’d needed to ask him. She’d even hovered over her keyboard, tempted to Google it—but she knew that rabbit hole could’ve made things worse.

She headed into the back room and began filling orders, letting the rhythm of work drown out her thoughts. The scent of fresh blooms and the hum of the cooler filled the space, grounding her in the present.

So much so, she didn’t hear Crystin approach.

“Hey, lunch is here,” Crystin called from the entryway.

Chantelle jumped, nearly dropping a bouquet. “Oh my God, you scared the crap outta me. I didn’t hear the door. What are we having?”

“I don’t know,” Crystin said with a grin. “Your boyfriend brought it. He came in, dropped it off, and said he’d call you later. Looks like you didn’t mess anything up.”

Crystin led the way to the counter, where a brown paper bag sat waiting. Chantelle opened it, pulling out neatly packed containers—and an envelope with her name written in bold, familiar handwriting.

“What’s this?” she asked, curiosity blooming.

“Maybe it’s a love note,” Crystin said, eyes twinkling with childlike excitement.

Chantelle unfolded the paper—and her breath caught.

“Nope… it’s the name of a restaurant. And a time.”

Crystin clapped her hands together. “Oh, how romantic!”

They both giggled, hearts lighter, the air around them buzzing with possibility. The flowers, the food, the note—it all felt like the beginning of something beautiful.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Chapter 21)

“Can I help you, ma’am?” the host asked, his voice polite and practiced.

“Yes. I’m a little early—I’m meeting someone here at eight,” Chantelle replied, glancing at her watch. 7:38.

The host scanned his list. “Chantelle?”

“That’s me.”

“Right this way, please.”

He led her down a softly lit corridor toward the back of the restaurant. The ambiance was exquisite—walls painted in deep red and slate grey, accented with brushed silver sconces that cast a warm, ambient glow. Each table was tucked into its own alcove, adorned with red and white roses in crystal vases, flickering candles adding a touch of intimacy. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and roasted garlic, and the quiet hum of conversation gave the space a sense of calm sophistication.

She fell in love with the place instantly.

“Here you are, ma’am,” the host said, gesturing toward a booth three tables down.

Her date stood waiting—tall, composed, dressed in a tailored suit and tie, a single red rose in hand. The sight of him made her breath catch.

“You’ve really outdone yourself,” she said, sliding into the booth. “And you look incredible.”

He leaned in and kissed her cheek, his touch gentle, reassuring. “I wanted to show you that everything’s fine. I figured you might still be wondering after our conversation this morning.”

He placed the rose on the table between them, its petals velvety and rich. Then he looked into her eyes—deep, unwavering, full of quiet strength.

“And you,” he said, “look absolutely stunning tonight.”

She blushed, her heart fluttering. “Thank you,” she murmured, watching as he poured the wine with practiced ease.

“I’m sorry if I was out of line asking,” she said, her voice soft. “It just… worried me.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” he replied. “Any sane person would’ve asked. I would’ve.”

His gaze held hers—calm, steady, sincere. And in that moment, something inside her settled. Her breath slowed, her shoulders relaxed. She felt it in her chest, in the quiet hush between words: this man wasn’t hiding anything. He was the one she’d been waiting for. The one who made her feel safe, seen, and cherished.

He was, without question, the man of her dreams.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Chapter 22)

“That was a wonderful meal. Thank you,” Chantelle said, her voice soft and full of warmth.

The glow from the side lamp bathed her face in golden light, casting delicate shadows that danced in her eyes. She looked radiant—like something out of a dream. He watched her, heart steady but full, and thought, I knew she was the one. How could there ever be anyone else?

“I think I’ve fallen in love with this restaurant,” she said, glancing around. The walls were a rich charcoal grey, accented with deep red velvet and silver trim. Each table was adorned with fresh roses and flickering candles, the air perfumed with hints of vanilla and spice. “How did you find it?”

“I googled it,” he replied with a smile, refilling their glasses. “It had great reviews.”

She met his gaze, her eyes curious but gentle. “If you want… you can tell me what happened between you and Sahara. It might help me understand why she said what she did.”

Her voice was sultry, inviting—not demanding. He appreciated that.

“It’s simple, really,” he said, leaning back slightly. “We were engaged. I got cold feet and canceled the wedding two weeks before the ceremony. I knew she wasn’t the one for me.”

He smiled, watching her reaction. I have stronger feelings for you than I ever did for her, he thought. I love the way you blush—the way your nose crinkles when you’re flustered.

“Wow,” she said, her tone soft and sympathetic. “Thank you for telling me. I can understand why she’d be angry. I know I would be.”

“Now you have an idea of why she’d say something like that,” he said. “It doesn’t excuse it, though.”

He paused, his voice dropping lower, more somber. “I was thirteen when my family died. I was at home doing schoolwork. The brakes failed on the car. The police said they were cut, but they never found any proof of foul play. I guess I’ll never really know what happened.”

He looked down into his lap, letting the silence speak for the ache he still carried. The candle flickered between them, casting shadows that seemed to echo the weight of his words.

After a few moments, Chantelle reached across the table, her fingers brushing his. “I think I’ve had too much wine to drive home,” she said, her eyes sparkling with something more than anticipation—trust.

“I’ve got it all covered,” he said, his voice warm again. “I booked a room at the hotel down the street. I even brought you a toothbrush.”

Her smile widened, full of affection and surprise. “You really do have it covered.”

She stood, and he rose with her. As they walked out together, the soft hum of the restaurant faded behind them, replaced by the quiet promise of the night ahead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Chapter 23)

They walked hand in hand down the quiet street, their footsteps soft against the pavement. The evening wrapped around them like a velvet curtain—no wind, no noise, just the hush of twilight settling in. The sun was slipping beneath the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of lavender and gold, while the first stars blinked into view overhead like distant promises.

Chantelle glanced up at him, her heart fluttering. “So… I guess this is a good night to take things to the next level. Do you agree?”

Butterflies stirred in her chest, delicate and insistent. Please say yes.

He turned to her, his smile slow and sure. “I think you’re right, Chantelle. I don’t think we could ask for a better night. You’ve been on my mind all day.”

She looked over and saw the light in his eyes, the way his face softened when he said her name. I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s been thinking about this all day.

They walked the rest of the way in a comfortable silence, exchanging quiet smiles and stolen glances. The world around them faded—just the two of them, suspended in a moment that felt like it belonged to no one else.

At the hotel entrance, he held the door open for her, and they stepped into the warmly lit lobby. The scent of polished wood and fresh linen lingered in the air. He approached the desk with casual confidence.

“Hello,” he said to the clerk. “I reserved two rooms under ‘Could This Be Love’—but it looks like we’ll only be needing one tonight.”

He turned and winked at her, and she felt her pulse quicken. Her heart danced as she watched the clerk slide the key across the counter. Her mind was already spinning with what the night might hold—possibility, tenderness, maybe even something more.

“Here are your keys, sir. Room 217. Second floor, third door on the right from the elevator. Enjoy your stay with us.”

He took the key and turned to her, reaching for her hand again.

“Are you ready, Chantelle?” he asked, his voice rich with joy and anticipation.

She met his gaze, her smile blooming. “More than ready.”

They stepped into the elevator together, the doors closing behind them with a soft whisper, sealing them into the quiet thrill of what came next.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Chapter 24)

He was getting nervous. The bathroom door had closed behind her, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the quiet hum of the hotel room. The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast long shadows across the walls, and the silence felt heavier than it should.

Stay in control. You can’t lose it. Just breathe. Maybe another drink.

“I brought some wine,” he called out, trying to steady his voice. “If you’re interested.”

“That would be lovely,” she replied from behind the door, her voice warm and inviting. “I’ll be right out.”

He peeled the plastic wrap from the hotel cups and poured two generous glasses. The wine glinted in the light, deep red and promising. As the bathroom door opened, he turned—and froze.

“Oh wow. You look fantastic.”

She stood there in a black nightgown that hugged her curves with effortless grace. The fabric shimmered slightly, catching the light in all the right places. He couldn’t help but let his eyes travel the length of her figure, admiration written all over his face.

“I’m glad you like it,” she said, her smile playful. “Crystin picked it out. I slipped it into my purse… just in case.”

He set the glasses down and stepped toward her, his hands finding her hips with instinctive ease. Her scent enveloped him—shampoo, lilies, and a whisper of lavender. It was intoxicating.

He kissed her deeply, slowly guiding her backward toward the bed. The sheets rustled as he gently laid her down, then paused, hovering above her, eyes locked with hers.

She was breathtaking. No makeup, no pretense—just her. And that was more than enough.

“I never thought I’d feel this way about someone,” he said, voice low and sincere. “And I couldn’t be happier it’s you.”

Before she could respond, he leaned in again, this time with more urgency. Their bodies pressed together, her hands sliding up his back, her legs wrapping around him. The moment was electric, charged with emotion and anticipation.

Stay in control, he reminded himself. Focus.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Chapter 25)

Morning crept in like a whisper, the sunlight slipping through sheer curtains and painting soft gold across the hotel room. Chantelle stirred beneath the warmth of the sheets, the scent of lavender and wine still clinging to her skin. She blinked slowly, adjusting to the light, and turned to find him already awake—propped on one elbow, watching her with a quiet, contented smile.

“Good morning,” he murmured, voice low and velvet-soft.

She returned the smile, her cheeks still tinged with the glow of the night before. “Morning. Did you sleep?”

“Not really. Didn’t want to miss a moment of this.”

She laughed gently, stretching beneath the covers. “You’re impossible.”

“I know,” he said, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “But I meant every word.”

A hush settled between them, the kind that doesn’t need filling. She sat up slowly, wrapping the sheet around her, and glanced toward the small table by the window. A tray waited—coffee, croissants, and a bowl of fresh fruit.

“You ordered breakfast?”

“I figured you’d need something to recover from last night,” he said with a wink.

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the flutter in her chest. He was thoughtful in ways that caught her off guard.

They ate slowly, conversation drifting between playful teasing and quiet confessions. She asked about his favorite childhood memory. He asked where she’d go if money didn’t matter. They laughed over flaky crumbs and slightly burnt coffee—but none of it mattered. It was perfect.

Eventually, she rose and walked to the window, gazing out at the city stretching into morning. He joined her, arms slipping around her waist from behind.

“I don’t know exactly what this is,” she said softly, “but I know I don’t want it to end.”

He kissed her shoulder, tender and sure. “Then let’s make sure it doesn’t.”