Page 17 of Our Bay Will Come

"Okay," I agree. "Tomorrow morning, then."

"Text me when you leave," she says. "I'll send you my address."

After we hang up, I stand in my living room, heart pounding like I've run a mile. I'm going to see Prue tomorrow and spend the night with her.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Prue: For the record, this doesn't mean anything. Just two adults enjoying each other's company. No expectations.

I smile, recognizing the self-protective tone I'm coming to know well.

Me: Of course. Just two adults. Who happen to be very attracted to each other.

Prue: Exactly.

Me: And who can't stop thinking about each other?

There's a longer pause before her reply.

Prue: Don't push it, Carmichael.

Me: Wouldn't dream of it, Griffin.

I set my phone down, still smiling. Tomorrow can't come fast enough.

CHAPTER FIVE

FOX

The next morning, I'm up before dawn, throwing clothes into an overnight bag and checking my phone every five minutes like a teenager waiting for prom photos to drop. I keep my expectations firmly in check—this is just a casual visit, no pressure—but my hands still shake slightly as I lock up the cabin and load my truck.

The drive to Seattle passes in a blur of pine trees and coastal views, broken only by the occasional rest stop. I send Prue a quick text when I cross the city limits, and her address pops up on my phone moments later, along with a message: *Door's unlocked. Let yourself in.*

Her place is in one of those old Seattle neighborhoods where character trumps convenience—narrow streets lined with quirky bungalows nestled between towering evergreens. I find her house easily, a mid-century gem with clean lines and large windows. The landscaping is immaculate, not a leaf out of place. It's so perfectly Prue that I have to smile.

I hesitate at the front door, suddenly nervous. What if this was a mistake? What if the chemistry we had in Cedar Bay doesn't translate to her world? But before second-guessing myself further, I turn the handle and step inside.

The interior is even more impressive than the exterior—it's an open concept with warm wood tones, carefully curated furniture, and pops of color in just the right places. It's stylish and comfortable, like something from a design magazine that people want to live in.

"Prue?" I call out, setting my bag down.

"In the kitchen!"

I follow her voice through the living room, past a wall of built-in bookshelves, and find her at a sleek kitchen island, arranging fresh berries on two plates of what looks like homemade waffles.

She's wearing tiny denim shorts and a loose white T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. There isn't a hint of makeup—just Prue—and she's breathtaking.

"You made breakfast," I say, suddenly aware of my hunger.

"Don't look so surprised." She glances up with a smile that makes my chest tighten. "I occasionally cook for guests who drive three hours to see me."

"Is that a common occurrence?"

"You're the first." She slides a plate toward me. "Coffee's in the pot."

I pour us both a cup and join her at the island. There's an easy silence as we eat, broken only by the occasional compliment on the food. I watch her movements, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear and the slight furrow between her brows when she concentrates on cutting her waffle.

"So," she says finally, setting down her fork. "You drove all this way. What's your plan?"

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