Chapter 191: Reid
We pull under the neon VACANCY sign at dusk, the motel’s siding that weathered sea-green with white trim, doors enamel-red down the rail. The engine ticks as it cools. She twists in her seat, reaching back for her duffel but I take it before she does.
“I can carry it, you know,” she says.
“I know,” I say, already lifting it out.
“So give it to me.”
“No.” I flip it onto my shoulder and start walking.
Jake rounds the hood, winks at her like he’s been waiting to do it all afternoon. “Don’t waste your breath,” he says, falling in step with me.
She huffs, curls lifting in the wind, and follows us up the exterior stairs.
Inside, the lobby is cedar-warm and bright. A bell, a potted fern, a jar of taffy. The woman behind the desk smiles and slides over a plastic diamond key fob. “Up one flight, second landing, end unit.”
“Thanks,” I tell her.
We step back into evening air that smells like clean rain and pine. The walkway creaks under our boots. She slips between us, practically vibrating as we hunt numbers along the white rail.
“It’s… actually nice,” she says under her breath, as if the building might get shy.
I open the door. Beige carpet, two queen beds dressed in white duvets with a navy runner at the foot, a framed print of a lighthouse that’s never seen a storm. The AC hums low. We toe off our shoes at the entry mat without thinking—hers first, little white sneakers lined beside our boots, small and neat and devastating.
I set her bag on the nearer bed.
She frowns at it, then looks up at us. Mischief starts at her mouth and moves into her eyes, slow as a fuse. “You two won’t be comfortable sharing one bed,” she says, gaze skimming our shoulders like she’s measuring lumber. “You’re too big.”
Then she throws herself onto the other bed, starfish and smug, hair fanning over white cotton. “Meanwhile, I will sleep disgustingly well in this one.”
We chuckle. Then we move.
Prowling—slow, predatory—like the room just got smaller on purpose. She props on her elbows, that wicked smile still there, cheeks flushed from the road, lashes dark against skin. God, she’s beautiful when she teases.
We each catch an ankle—her socks soft under our palms—and draw her a smooth foot toward the edge. The duvet whispering under her, her gasp bright and involuntary, hands flying back to brace. My thumb finds the delicate notch of her ankle bone without trying; I circle once, savoring the shiver that runs up her calf.
“We’ve got a few nights here,” I say, leaning in, one hand braced beside her hip. “We’ll have to share.”
“There is no way I’m sharing a bed with this brute,” Jake says, pointing at me without taking his eyes off her.
“Ditto,” I say, deadpan.
She giggles—light—but the want in her eyes darkens, pupils wide, mouth soft.
“Kiss me, Madeline,” Jake murmurs.
She props herself higher on her elbows, that wicked little smile flickering—and leans in. Their mouths meet soft, then deeper, heat rolling off the two of them like the AC isn’t even on. I keep my hold on her ankle and trace slow circles over the delicate notch of bone, just to feel the tremor run up her calf as she kisses him like she means it.
Jake breaks first with a low, helpless sound, stepping back a couple feet, head tipped, breath gone. She turns to me, eyes bright. I can’t help the smirk.
“What are you waiting for?” I ask, voice gone rough.
She laughs against my mouth a second later, and then there’s nothing funny about it—just that clean, perfect pull of her, the taste of sugar and mint, the way her fingers curl at my jaw like she’s bracing for weather. I understand why Jake had to retreat. I need to. If I don’t, this room’s going to find out why the fuck we waited to get her alone.
I slide both hands to her face and lift my mouth from hers. “Food first,” I say, close enough that my breath fogs her cheek. “Then we’ll use this room properly.”
Color blooms high on her cheeks. “Okay.”
I step back, rub my jaw like it might cool anything. It doesn’t. I look at Jake. He gives one tight nod that says yeah, fuck, this is hard.
We toe into our boots—hers sneakers small and white beside our wrecking-ball leather—lamps humming, white duvets still creased where she threw herself down. I snag the red key fob from the table, Jake holds the door, and we step back into the blue hour, letting the night air hit our faces before the neon and pine swallow us whole.
We find a diner two blocks from the motel—neon cursive in the window, red vinyl booths, checkered floor that looks scrubbed with a vengeance. It smells like hot oil and coffee and the kind of sugar that never quite leaves a place.
“Northhaven’s cousin,” Jake says, holding the door.
Menus hit the table—laminated, sticky at the corners—and she’s already laughing. There’s a full page just for poutine. Another. And another.
“Oh my God,” she says, pointing. “Poutine with… hot dogs?”
Jake leans in. “Classic.”
She flips the page and laughs harder. “Fried eggs and bacon? That’s illegal.”
“Breakfast champions,” he deadpans.
She keeps going, giggles tripping over each new entry. “Pickles? No, that’s a war crime.”
“We should try one,” Jake says, eyes bright.
She snaps the menu shut, delighted. “Okay. Yes. Pick.”
We end up with Italian poutine—spaghetti sauce drowning fries and curds—plus mozza sticks and milkshakes because apparently restraint died in the storm. When the plates hit, the table smells like basil and salt and the kind of heat that fogs glass.
She can’t reach the shared plate without leaning, so she turns on her knees in the booth, one hand braced on the backrest as she scoops a perfect forkful, cheese trailing in a string that makes her grin. “This is going to be terrible,” she declares, and then she tastes it and goes wide-eyed. “Okay, but it’s actually so good?”
Jake steals a bite. “Blasphemy. But yeah.”
I try it; it shouldn’t work. It does. The curds squeak, the sauce is rich enough to count as a threat, the fries are exactly wrong in the right way. She hums like she’s found religion, then lunges for a mozza stick and blows on it, impatient.
“Careful,” I warn, amused.
“Ow,” she says anyway, laughing around it, and chases heat with a vanilla milkshake, straw bending, cheeks hollowing in a way that makes my pulse misbehave.
She keeps talking—about the sauce, the curds, the audacity of putting breakfast on fries—fork flashing, knees in the cushion, joy loud and unselfconscious. Lip gloss shines on her lower lip; a curl has escaped and keeps falling into her eyes; she pushes it back with the wrist that has her sweatshirt cuff swallowing her hand.
Jake catches my glance over the rim of his glass. We don’t say a word.
We just look at her, then at each other, and know exactly how fast we’re getting back to that room.