Chapter 40: Madeline
By the time I pull on my fleece and boots the next morning, the motions feel automatic. Jeans. Warm socks. Coffee scalding my tongue as I sip it too fast. Northhaven is seeping into me, one routine at a time.
But then I remember.
There are two of them now.
Twins.
And my stomach drops like I’ve swallowed a rock.
I fall into step with the others, the crunch of gravel and the smell of brine carrying us down toward the harbor. The morning fog hasn’t burned off yet, a pale veil stretched thin across the water.
“So…” I clear my throat, feigning nonchalance and failing. “Is Jake… the same as Reid?”
Liam nearly trips over his own boots, grinning so wide it’s suspicious. “Way nicer. You’ll see. Reid’s like winter. Jake’s more like—late spring.”
“Still cold,” Finn mutters.
Sloane lets out a sharp laugh, but it’s humorless. “Don’t buy the act. He’s smoother, sure. Talks softer. But underneath? He’s got the same Anderson streak. Don’t mistake that for kindness.”
Her tone is so pointed it could cut glass. My brows lift, but before I can reply, Charlie loops in, her voice gentler.
“They balance each other out,” she says. “Usually. If one digs his heels in, the other talks him down. But if they’re on the same side?” She exhales a small laugh. “God help whoever’s arguing against them.”
That thought chills me more than the fog.
I side-eye Charlie. “You sound like you’ve… spent a lot of time with them.”
Her steps falter. Just for a beat. Then she gives a little shrug, cheeks tinting pink. “I work in admin. I end up in their office a lot. It’s not hard to notice things.”
That doesn’t sound like the whole truth, but I let it go. For now.
She adds, almost too quickly, “I’ll be working with Jake today anyway. He asked me to help on a couple of files.”
Liam leans closer to me, smirking. “Translation: she’s trying to make sure you don’t get eaten alive.”
“By which one?” I mutter.
“Both,” Sloane says without hesitation.
Nobody laughs.
The wind whips in off the water, carrying salt and gull cries, and I focus on the uneven cobblestones beneath my boots. Every step closer to the harbor feels heavier, like I’m not just walking toward the boats but toward something I’m not ready to name.
Two of them.
Balancing each other out.
Or breaking me apart.
Charlie veers off toward the diner, waving her coffee like a flag, and suddenly it’s just me, Liam, Finn, and Sloane walking the rest of the way down to the harbor.
The air thickens with every step. Diesel. Salt. Fish guts. Rope tar. It clings in my throat, sticky and sharp.
And then I see them.
Both of them.
The Anderson twins lean against the hull of the boat like they were carved into it—shoulders broad, heads tipped close, the low rumble of their voices vibrating in the air. From a distance they’re indistinguishable, one storm split into two.
But the second we get close enough, they stop talking. Both pairs of eyes turn toward us. Toward me.
Liam leaps up first, easy, tossing a “morning” as he goes. Sloane follows with her clipped stride, ignoring everyone like she always does. And just like that, it’s me and Finn, bringing up the rear.
He flashes me a grin as he steps past, then pauses just long enough to press his hand against the small of my back. Warm. Steady. His way of saying good luck without words.
The touch is small. Harmless. Nothing.
Except it isn’t.
Because they clearly notice.
At the exact same time, both heads swivel. One twin’s jaw ticks. The other’s eyes sharpen. And then, perfectly in sync, they drag their gazes back to me.
It feels like they’ve just taken note of the contact and filed it away for later use.
Finn bounds up the gangplank, still grinning, oblivious. And now I’m alone on the dock.
And God, it’s unfair. Them above me, watching from the deck. Too tall, too sharp, too much. I feel small under it, like a kid at the principal’s office. They must sense it, because in eerie unison, they step down from the boat. Boots slam against the pier.
It doesn’t help. Even face-to-face, I’m still craning my neck. They’re what—six-three? Six-four? They feel taller than that.
I force myself to study them. Same smirk, sharp as a blade. Same hair, windswept in a way that looks intentional. But then—I catch it. A difference.
One pair of eyes darker, colder. Piercing in a way that feels deliberately unkind. Reid.
I cling to the certainty, because the alternative is unthinkable.
So I turn to the other one. Jake. “I finished analyzing yesterday’s data,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I gave it to Charlie. She’s waiting at the diner with the reports.”
Then I pivot. Cross my arms. Lock eyes with Reid. “So. Am I allowed on the boat today?”
His smirk sharpens, widening just enough to feel like a blade being turned. There’s defiance in his gaze. A dare. He doesn’t answer.
Jake does. “Yes,” he says evenly. “You can. Reid will be there to assist.”
Relief floods through me, but it doesn’t ease the weight of Reid’s stare.
The two of them stand there, side by side, both of them watching me with a quiet intensity that makes my skin too tight. Like they’re not just seeing me—they’re dissecting me, measuring every breath, every blink.
I glance at Jake, murmur a clipped, “Bye,” and spring onto the boat.
My chest heaves. My heart thrashes.
And thank God—
I was right.
Relief and nerves churn in equal measure, but I don’t dare let it show.
Something makes me glance back—just once, quick.
And I catch it.
Jake leaning toward Reid, lips close enough that it’s clearly a whisper. Reid’s jaw ticks, eyes flicking past Jake to me. Then Jake straightens, turns, and walks away down the pier without so much as a look over his shoulder.
And Reid—God, Reid—moves.
He hops onto the boat like it’s nothing, like six-foot-three of storm and bone weighs as much as air. Effortless. He swings the gate shut at the stern with a heavy clang that vibrates through the deck. Then he looks up. Straight at me.
I freeze.
Those dark eyes pin me in place, heavier than the clang of metal, sharper than the wind slicing in from the harbor.
And I break first. I only have so much courage in one morning. I drop my gaze, fumbling with the zipper of my canvas bag like it suddenly holds the secrets of the universe. Notes, pens, binoculars—anything to keep my hands busy, anything to avoid those eyes.
Because if I keep looking, I’ll forget how to breathe.