Chap­ter 9 begins with a word—whirlwind—and that’s the only way to describe how things with Eddie have moved. But every time I think it, I remem­ber Bea, who once described falling for Eddie the same way. Maybe that’s just his pat­tern: sweep­ing women off their feet so fast they don’t real­ize they’ve been picked up until their feet no longer touch the ground.

I’ve giv­en him anoth­er shot, but it’s on my terms. No fan­cy din­ners in Moun­tain Brook, no let­ting Thorn­field gos­sip cir­cles catch wind just yet. I want the truth about us to emerge when I’m ready, when I’ve become untouch­able in that world. Until then, secre­cy gives me power—a kind of silent own­er­ship over the best sto­ry in town.

So we date in tucked-away spots with menus I pre­tend to under­stand and wine I pre­tend to like. Our knees brush in movie the­aters, our laugh­ter lingers in parks as we walk. His hand always finds mine, his voice always low­ers when he speaks to me. It’s heady, this feeling—not of being cho­sen, but of want­i­ng him back just as much. And I do.

Desire wasn’t new. I’d want­ed things all my life—rings in vel­vet box­es, soft sweaters on sale racks, a place that felt like it was mine. But I’d spent years swat­ting away leers and side glances from men who saw want as weak­ness. That’s why this is dif­fer­ent. Want­i­ng Eddie makes me feel pow­er­ful.

The first time he kissed me, the side­walk was slick with rain and the air smelled like rose­mary from a near­by planter. His mouth tast­ed of wine, and his hands were gen­tle, cup­ping my jaw in a way that made me feel seen. I’d pulled back, sure, but it wasn’t rejection—it was strat­e­gy. Tim­ing mat­ters. I wasn’t going to be just anoth­er quick sto­ry for him.

So for now, it’s only kiss­es and hands that linger just long enough to leave goose­bumps. I can feel how much he wants more, and I like that ten­sion. Let him earn it. Let him wait.

But it’s not just the heat between us that keeps me drawn to him. It’s the way he remem­bers things—the way his atten­tion turns toward me like it’s some­thing sacred. One after­noon over sand­wich­es, I tell a half-truth about a child­hood mem­o­ry involv­ing cream soda, mask­ing my real past with the phrase “my dad” and leav­ing the rest unsaid. I didn’t expect to say it. It slipped out.

The next day, his fridge is stocked with that same soda, in glass bot­tles and with a label so ele­gant it might as well have been import­ed. He nev­er asked for more details. He just … heard me. And that alone felt more inti­mate than a thou­sand con­fes­sions.

John has noticed some­thing, of course. His eyes fol­low me through our apart­ment like a hawk cir­cling prey. I let him won­der. Let him stew. It’s not his busi­ness any­more, and soon it won’t even be his reality—I’m slip­ping from that world with every pass­ing day.

And then it hap­pens.

While drop­ping off Bear, I hear it—Mrs. Reed’s voice float­ing from the kitchen. “Eddie is dat­ing some­one.” My heart kicks. I’ve been wait­ing for this moment. For the neigh­bor­hood to begin whis­per­ing, unsure who she is, nev­er sus­pect­ing it’s the girl who hands over their leash­es and picks up after their dogs.

I beam as I hand her the leash. She tries her usu­al rou­tine, casu­al curios­i­ty with a sug­ar-slick smile, try­ing to draw out any­thing I might’ve seen or heard. “Have you noticed any­one new around the Rochester house?” I shrug, offer a bland “I don’t think so,” and walk out like the secret doesn’t belong to me.

The sec­ond I’m out the door, I text Eddie to con­firm din­ner at his place. And when I show up, the table is set, can­dles flick­er­ing low, wine already breath­ing in glass­es. Whether he cooked it or not doesn’t matter—he’d planned for me. That’s enough.

After­ward, I sip wine slow­ly while he lingers in the kitchen, pour­ing him­self whiskey. We kiss again, his mouth warm with oak and smoke. And when he leans into me, I feel some­thing unspo­ken click into place, like the sto­ry we’re build­ing just found its next page.

I turn away from him slight­ly, just enough to catch our reflec­tions in the glass doors. “This has been the loveli­est night,” I say, not meet­ing his eyes. “I’m real­ly going to miss this place.”

And I mean it. Not just because the house is stun­ning, not just because it smells like cedar and cin­na­mon and safe­ty. But because for the first time in a long time, I want to stop run­ning. I want to stay. I want this sto­ry to last.