Chapter 193

Stella:

The words landed somewhere I didn't want to examine.

"She taught me. Said it was romantic or whatever."

"Romantic." Zoe snorted, but it sounded forced. "You were what, seventeen?"

"Sixteen. And she had really long hair. It was a whole thing."

The dryer hummed to life behind me. I forced myself to keep moving, to keep up the pretense of being absorbed in my packing.

But I was hyperaware of every sound, every shift in the air.

Every breath Zoe took.

"Stella," Zoe said over the dryer's noise, and something in her tone made me tense. "You should stop flat-ironing your hair. It looks so good natural."

I glanced up, and for just a second, something warm bloomed in my chest.

Surprise? Pleasure?

I couldn't name it, and I definitely couldn't let it show.

"I don't flat-iron it," I said. "Not usually."

"Well, whatever you're doing, keep doing it."

I could hear the smile in Zoe's voice.

But I could also hear her watching me in the mirror. Tracking my reaction.

"The beachy wave thing suits you."

"I mean, objectively it's pretty versatile," Noah said, his tone carefully casual. "Natural texture usually is."

It was safer than what he'd almost said. I could hear the correction in his voice, the slight stiffness that came from catching himself mid-step.

But Zoe heard it too.

In the mirror's reflection, I saw her eyes sharpen.

"Okay, suddenly you're a hair expert?" Zoe said lightly, but there was steel underneath. "Focus on mine before you start a beauty channel."

Silence.

Just the hum of the dryer and the sound of my own pulse in my ears.

I needed to move. To say something. To do anything that would break this moment before Zoe's suspicion crystallized into certainty.

But I couldn't.

I just stood there, frozen, while Noah dried his sister's hair and pretended he hadn't just barely avoided saying something that sounded far too much like he'd been paying attention to mine.

When Zoe finally stood, I heard her stretch, heard the rustle of movement.

But she didn't move toward the door.

She stood there, in the middle of my cabin, looking around with that same assessing gaze.

Taking in the scene one more time.

The dryer. The bed. The space between Noah and me.

"Come on," she said finally, and her voice was light again. Too light. "Let Stella get ready in peace. You've been hovering long enough."

But the way she said "hovering" made it sound like an accusation.

Noah picked up the hair dryer, running it over his own damp hair for a few quick passes before clicking it off and setting it back on the dresser.

Zoe watched him the entire time.

I felt his gaze on my back, but I didn't turn around.

Didn't dare.

"See you at dinner, Dr. Morrison," he said as Zoe pulled him toward the door.

The formal address was perfectly pitched—respectful, slightly teasing.

And it landed like a brand against my skin.

But just before the door closed, I caught Zoe's expression.

She was looking back at me over her shoulder.

And she didn't look convinced.

The door clicked shut.

I stood there for a long moment, listening to their footsteps fade, and forced my lungs into a steady rhythm.

My hands were shaking.

I pressed them flat against my thighs, felt the silk of the robe slide against my palms.

That had been close.

Too close.

The way Noah had caught himself before saying something too revealing. The careful neutrality of his voice when he'd corrected course.

The split-second hesitation that had nearly given us away.

But worse—the way Zoe had looked at me at the end.

Like she was putting together a puzzle.

Like she already knew the answer but was waiting for me to confirm it.

I moved to the window, peering through the gap in the curtains.

Zoe and Noah had stopped halfway across the clearing. She was talking to him, her hands moving in sharp gestures. He was shaking his head, his expression earnest.

She didn't believe him.

I could see it in her posture, in the way she kept glancing back at my cabin.

My phone buzzed.

You okay?

I stared at the message, at the concern condensed into two words, and something in my chest cracked open.

No, I typed.

Then deleted it.

Define okay, I tried instead.

Three dots appeared immediately. Disappeared. Reappeared.

That was too close.

I know.

Zoe's suspicious.

I know.

Stella.

Just my name.

Nothing else.

But I could hear the weight in it, the apology and frustration and helpless want.

I'm fine, I lied. Get ready for dinner.

Tell me what you need.

The question undid me.

Because what I needed was impossible. I needed Zoe to never look at us that way again. I needed the fear in my chest to stop making it hard to breathe.

Space, I typed finally. I need space.

The three dots vanished.

For a long moment, nothing.

Then: You have it.

I set the phone down and stood, moving toward my suitcase with mechanical precision.

Jeans. Sweater. The good boots that Zoe always complimented.

I dressed like I was suiting up for battle, each layer another piece of armor between me and the truth.

By the time I emerged from the cabin, I looked exactly like I was supposed to: put-together, professional, the responsible friend who'd agreed to this weekend because Zoe had asked.

Not the woman who'd stood trembling in a bathrobe while a man she shouldn't want dried her hair with the tenderness of someone who'd done it a hundred times before.

Not the woman who was falling deeper every day, despite knowing exactly how badly this could end.

Zoe and Emily were already at the car, Zoe gesturing animatedly about something while Emily laughed.

They looked up as I approached, and I summoned a smile from somewhere.

But Zoe's eyes—

Her eyes were different now.

Sharper.

More focused.

"Ready?" she asked, and her voice was perfectly normal.

But I heard the subtext underneath.

I'm watching you.

"Ready."

Noah was leaning against the passenger door, scrolling through his phone with studied casualness.

He glanced up as I reached the car, and our eyes met for a fraction of a second before we both looked away.

"Shotgun," Emily called, already climbing into the front seat.

Which left me in the back.

With Noah.

Of course.

I slid in, careful to keep several inches of space between us. Noah did the same, pressing himself against the opposite door like I was contagious.

In the front, Zoe adjusted the rearview mirror.

And I realized—too late—that from that angle, she could see both of us perfectly.

Her gaze flicked to us once, twice, cataloging the careful distance.

The way we both stared determinedly out opposite windows.

The way neither of us relaxed even an inch.

Then she started the engine, and Fleetwood Mac filled the car, and we pulled out of the parking lot into the gathering dark.

But in the rearview mirror, I caught her eyes one more time.

And I knew.

She didn't have proof yet.

But she was looking for it.