Prologue
Your stomach twists at the thought of that person.
The heart in your chest beats heavy and bright, nearly visible through your flesh and clothes. Your appetite and sleep are shredded. Every interaction spikes your blood with a dangerous kind of adrenaline. I had not expected to see Ethan Cole, the son of Jonathan Cole. But there he was, across the room, laughing with someone I assumed was Ryle, his distant cousin, Maddie's Fiancé in that same charcoal suit.
I quickly left the room and walked toward the hallway near the guest bathrooms. I tried to fix my lashes with my mascara brush, but my hands were shaking.
And then... I felt it.
That deep stare from behind me. We stare at each other like always closer than we've ever been. His irises are ringed blue black. His lashes lower, and he looks at me with an expression that tastes like regret. We can't both hold back the feelings. Before I know it, I kiss him and we're kissing like we're drowning and the other person is air. His teeth catch my bottom lip in a faint bite, and goosebumps spread across my arms. My nipples pinch. My toes curl inside my shoes. I accidentally touched him with my tongue when I checked for damage, although it didn't hurt. It was too soft. Too careful.
My brain is whirring hopelessly with explanations for what's happening, but my body starts holding on like it already knows. It feels like I might come down with an aneurysm.
He spreads my legs apart, and I gasp as I feel his fullness inside me. He moves torturously slow, groaning softly into my ear as his grip tightens on my thigh.
"Oh, fuck," he growls his mouth covering mine, silencing my cry. I felt his orgasm soar, the blinding, scalding pleasure as he trembled inside of me.
We're both breathing hard, not looking at each other. I smooth my dress down with trembling fingers. My mascara is smudged. My heart is racing, but it feels like it's running from something. sigh quietly, close my eyes and lean my head against the stucco wall behind
"We shouldn't have done this," I whisper.
He doesn't answer. Just stares at the wall, like maybe it'll swallow him whole. I don't know what I expected. An apology? A promise? Maybe next time?
Instead, he apologizes and leaves me there lipstick faded, legs shaking, guilt already settling like dust. I stare at the closed door after he walks out. One thing is clear. This didn't mean anything to him. But it did mean a lot to me.
Chapter One
Claire Monroe had always been the kind of woman who left an impression. Petite at 5'4" with warm hazel eyes and dark brunette hair that fell in soft, effortless waves around her face, she was the type of beautiful that didn't shout but lingered. There was something in her quiet confidence, the way she carried herself, that made people lean in. Maybe it was the poise she had learned in front of a camera, or maybe it was the emotional distance that gave her a certain mystique.
Either way, people noticed her. At twenty-eight, Claire was already a rising star in journalism. Working for Skyline News, one of New York's most prominent national TV networks, she had quickly made a name for herself as a talented and fearless reporter. She could walk into chaos with a microphone and come out with a story that had people glued to their screens. Claire didn't fall in love easily and when she did, it didn't last. Her first real heartbreak had left a scar deep enough to make her wary of anything real. Since then, her love life had been a string of flings, casual hookups, and late night texts that led to warm bodies, scattered sheets, but cold mornings.
She'd had sneaky links and situationships, but nothing solid. Nothing that felt like home. Every time something started to get serious, she pulled back afraid of being left again. It wasn't that she didn't want love. She didn't trust it. She hadn't been back to Maple Hollow, the quiet Vermont town she once called home, in nearly seven years, not since the breakup that fractured her from the inside out. It wasn't just a heartbreak. It was the kind of ending that made you question everything your judgment, your worth, your ability to ever love again. So she left. She poured herself into her career and built a new life out of city lights, deadlines, and control.
The first thing to know is that I am Claire Monroe, a badass journalist and reporter in New York and I also have a cute baby sister, five years younger than me and the human equivalent of sunshine, soft, loud, chaotic and completely unfiltered. Maddie always reminded me of who I used to be before my heartbreak, before my career had hardened my edges. So when Maddie called amidst excitement, almost breathless to announce that she was engaged, I didn't hesitate. I had to return to Vermont, nine days wouldn't kill, I had constantly reminded myself. Nine days back in the town I had tried to forget, nine days with family and friends that I missed so much. Nine days of pretending that I wasn't terrified to see the man that had broken my heart. But I would do anything for Maddie, because even if I no longer believe that love existed, I still believed that Maddie deserved every bit of it.
The cold hit me the second I stepped out of the rental car.
Not the biting, bitter cold of November, but the kind that crept beneath your coat and curled around your spine. The kind that whispered, winter's coming. Late autumn in Vermont didn't believe in soft landings.I tightened my scarf and looked around, adjusted my sunglasses, eyes skimming the familiar shape of my childhood home, the porch swing still creaked in the breeze, and someone had left a half empty mug on the railing. Probably my sister, Maddie. Always in a rush, always moving too fast. I had not been home in almost three years. My parents were always bothered about my work schedule, they would constantly plead with me to come back for the holidays, thanksgiving and even Christmas. Ever since I left for New York with two suitcases, a shattered heart, and a job offer I couldn't turn down. Skyline News now gave me a purpose, routine, control. Things that would not disappoint me. Unlike people. I stepped onto the front porch, suitcase in hand, when the door swung open.
"Claire!" Maddie squealed, flying out in a blur of knitwear and perfume. Her engagement ring caught the light, almost blinding me.
"You're here!
Oh my God you look amazing. Big city reporter vibes and all."
"Hi, Maddie." I replied with a warm hug
What I didn't say: I'm here for you. Not him. I won't let nine days ruin everything I've built But Vermont had a way of unburying things. And Ethan Cole was still somewhere in this town. We're all seated in the living room, surrounded by old photographs and the smell of home. Sausages and scrambled eggs sit on a chipped floral plate in front of me. Honestly, I missed the food. There's something about the seasoning here, something unpretentious and warm. We catch up and we laugh at things that weren't funny back then but are now.
"How's New York, sugar?" my mum asks, voice too sweet and too sharp. Like a knife dipped in honey. She's busy feeding my dad scrambled eggs as she rubs his head like they're some love sick puppies.
"Claire", me almost pleading with my eyes not to go there. Not today. Then she drops it.
"Ethan is going to be the best man."
I blink. My grip on the fork tightens.
"You don't have a problem with that right?" she adds quickly, already sensing it. A pressure climbs into my throat. My sinuses burn. I open my mouth to say anything to give a half truth, a polite protest.
But she cuts me off.
"He's a distant cousin to Ryle. It's only suitable that he covers as the best man. Pretty please??"
My mouth is dry. I can't swallow.
"Okay," I say.
"It's fine."
She smiles like she's just ironed over a wrinkle.
"And you, my darling sister, will be my maid of honor."
Perfect.
Ethan Jonathan Cole. That's his full name. It's kind of a tradition all the men in the family are given Jonathan as a middle name. There are three cousins with the same setup. They were all named after Jonathan Cole, one of the richest men in the North-South region.
Whatever that means now. But I'd rather prefer if the J in his initials stood for Jackass instead.And just then, Ethan Cole walks in. Together with his cousin, Ryle Jonathan Cole. Ethan is currently leaning against the doorframe like he owns it. Like nothing happened. His body fills most of the doorway tall, broad, aggravatingly perfect. I see all of this through the reflection on the glass photo frame near the wall. I hear a husky, soft laugh. Familiar and dangerous and I try to rub my palms down my forearms to flatten the tiny hairs that I notice has risen without my permission. I will not turn my head to see properly. He'll catch me. He always does.
I push myself up suddenly.
"Excuse me," I mutter.
No one really hears. No one needs to. I've rehearsed this moment for three months ever since Maddie announced her engagement. Ever since I knew I would have to come face to face with him again. With Ethan. Not because I knew he was going to be Ryle's distant cousin, and I was going to see him even sooner that I had predicted but because he still very much lived in the city where I had left in order to mend my broken heart. Ethan Cole didn't just play in real estate he owned the damn board, flipping high rises like poker chips and turning every square foot he touched into a gold mine. He had become one of the wealthiest businessmen in the city, and honestly, I can't say I'm surprised. He must have taken after Jonathan Cole the same relentless ambition, the impossible work ethic, the kind of hunger that didn't stop once it was full. The enthusiasm,the drive, the polished charm, it all paid off. Well. I'm glad it worked out for him.I rush into the bathroom, and face the mirror.
My mascara has smudged, of course. I pull out my little brush from my purse and start reapplying it.
He walks in like the ghost of a past I can't bury. We stare at each other like always like two people trying to solve a puzzle that used to be whole. Closer than we've ever been.
"Hey," he says." Maddie said I could find you here". His voice penetrates past my ears and reverberates through my body. And just like that I'm bamboozled. Not just by his voice but by the ostentatious display of his complete Ethan-ness. He made me fall in love with him with his creative genius. With his stupid charm. With his sexy vulnerability. And those ridiculous, traitorous eyes. He took my V-card then practically vanished. Ghosted. Only to pop up with another girl like I was just some casual milestone to check off. So why am I looking at this man like I don't hate him?It's quite bizarre. I wish I could say he's ugly now.
I wish time had punished him. He should be short. Fat. A troll with a cleft palate and watery eyes. A limping hunchback.But he isn't Ethan Cole is tall, broad shoulders fill out his designer suit like it was sewn directly on his skin, and his black hair trimmed just enough to stay neat but long enough to curl at the ends falls perfectly to the base of his neck. That squared jawline, those dark, unreadable eyes that could freeze a volcano, and lips that I used to be obsessed with. Still might be, not that I'd ever admit it. He smells like spice and heat something expensive and devastating, maybe Tom Ford's Black Flame, and those curls that I used to run my hands through when he was deep inside me or when his tongue swiped the entirety of me and kissing the insides of my shaking thighs whispering things he never meant. Ethan's jaw ticks like he's about to say something else, probably to offer another half hearted apology. I uncap my mascara yet again with a soft click, and the silence between us stretches thick, heavy, suffocating. And I can see him watch me carefully as I apply yet another fresh coat with surgical precision, like his presence has no weight, like his voice dissipated into the air the moment he walked in. Like he never meant enough to linger.
"Claire"
He calls my name again. Like a man reiterating a prayer he's long since desecrated. I don't turn. God, he used to cackle when I said something clever.I still remember almost everything about him. He would say, still breathless from laughing, eyes crinkled at the corners,'
"how does that wicked little brain of yours work?"
And I would pretend to roll my eyes, feign annoyance, but the truth? I relished it.I loved being the one to pull that sound from him and I loved that he didn't hold back with me. Now look at us draconian non-disclosure level strangers.
"I didn't come here to reopen anything," i say coolly. "And I didn't come here for you." My words sufficed. Final. Brutal in their simplicity.But then, he called again this time softer
"Birdie."
My hand falters mid stroke. Just for a second.
Of course he would use that nickname the one that used to make my heart race, the one only he ever called me. "Birdie, because you look so calm but you're always ready to fly away. But I know how to hold you still, Claire. You're safe with me." He had told me one rainy night , when I was curled into his chest, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on my back. He said I reminded him of a wild thing that never let itself be caged, but somehow with him stayed.I blink once, twice. The mascara has smudged again. My mouth is a hard line.
"I didn't come here to reopen anything," i say again flatly but with finality my voice clipped and brittle. "And I didn't come here for you." That sufficed. I walk past him, shoulders squared, heels clicking with practiced grace. I don't relish the look he's giving me now that dumb expression of regret because I'm jaded, and his guilt is long overdue. Let him drown in sensationalism and good suits. Birdie doesn't stay caged. Not anymore. For seven years I have on equal fronts feared and anticipated our reunion even rehearsed it in my mind. I would run into him on a hot afternoon in the South of France at the Cannes Festival. I would have a flute of champagne in one hand and Micheal B Jordan's bicep in the other. I would be in a silk dress that accentuates my curves draped like water and whispered expensive. He would spot me from across the rooftop terrace, his jaw tightening in that way it always did when he was trying not to show emotion. I would turn, toss my hair over one emotion. I would turn, toss my hair over one shoulder, and say something impossibly smooth, like Oh. You still exist? But instead, our paths crossed in the guest bathroom of a vineyard-themed wedding venue in freaking Maple Hollow, Vermont with my mascara halfway smudged and my stomach full of scrambled eggs.Not quite the cinematic reunion I'd envisioned.When the doors closed, i exhaled for what felt like the first time.A not so great cinematic reunion to the then man of my dreams that even today leaves me misty. But just when I resolve to stop sulking and focus on more important things like not spontaneously combusting from awkward tension I see him again. He's returned to the dining table, settling into the seat directly across from mine, smiling from eye to eye at Maddie. He had always been fond of her, maybe even more so than I ever understood.
And somehow, despite the wreckage of what we were their bond remained untouched. I wonder, not for the first time, how our separation never managed to unravel theirs. Ethan's large and expressive eyes are as I remember them, clear and piercing and swoony. They lock with mine.Okay, so we're really doing this. I wonder what he sees now asides from a woman who has carved a name for herself in her career. For one I have defined the curls in my brunette hair since the time we last saw each other, it's now shinier, sleeker, not quite the wild waves he used to lazily run his fingers through on quiet mornings. But appearances aside what does he really see?
Does he still remember the girl with the sharp mouth and stubborn spine the one who wasn't afraid to challenge him, match his wit for wit.
"Do you remember that Christmas Ethan slipped on the icy stars and then dropped the entire pie?"
Maddie asked no one in particular, "Claire would not stop laughing" Maddie said grinning
"I still maintain it was karma for mocking my choice of boots."I say smirking without looking up
"They were furry. Purple. You looked like a cartoon character. "He replied, his eyes crinkle at the edges, their own version of a smile.
"And you looked like someone who thought 'drizzle' didn't warrant caution on stairs. And yet here we are." shoots out of my mouth before I can stop it. Still, I'm fighting a smile. It's like we are two teenagers making stilted small talk in front of our giddy, scheming moms.
"Ahh, the glory days of passive aggressive flirting"
Ryle declares raising his glass
"New York's been good to you, Claire. You look settled. Mum says gently, trying to shift the mood.
"It's been a ride. Skyline keeps me on my toes. I swallow a bite of my sausage
" I watch your segments sometimes, when I catch them." Ethan adds
"I'm surprised you remember how to turn on a TV" I reply finally looking up
" Claire" Maddie elbows me playfully
"No, really. I'm touched. You watching me do something that doesn't benefit you directly? "Growth." He regards me for a moment, the corner of his mouth tipping up just a fraction as his eyes sweep from my face to my hands and back up again. Flames lick across my exposed skin under the magnifying glass of his undivided attention.
Okay. So wedding playlist, Maddie says casually pulling me out of my heat spiral.
We're thinking a romantic 60s classic for the first dance.
A saxophonist playing Stevie wonder's " My Cherie Amour"
"Darling" I drawled with a grin
And just like that the past slipped in wrapped in melody, memory and Merlot.