Solomon slips onto a stool at the outdoor cabana bar, ready to tick down the hour until Tessie’s done with her yoga class. He orders a beer, because it’s five o’clock somewhere, and watches the bartender do prep work for the day. A musician plays steel drums, the bright sound enveloping the beach in island vibes.
As he’s taking his first sip of his beer, the door to the kitchen swings open and the chef pops his head out. The bartender turns, a grin on his face, and the two men fall into a rote bullshit banter. It’s a familiar sight, one that leaves Solomon with a hard knot of regret in his stomach.
It’s him and Howler. Years ago, in their bar. A dream they built; a dream he gave up after Serena died.
But now, with his son in the picture, he wants it all back. The camaraderie. His kitchen. Planning menus. Picking out local produce from the farmer’s market. Creating dishes he can share with his town, his friends, his family.
He wants to go back to work. He wants a purpose, that fire in his gut again. He wants his dream back.
Why? Tessie. The way she looks at him—she makes him want to be a better man.
She’s uprooted his world, and he likes it.
God, he fucking craves it.
Craves her. He’s obsessed with her. Can’t get the girl out of his head. The soft swell of her belly beneath the sheets. The earthy softness of her dark brown eyes. The long blond hair falling across her breast. She’s taking over every damn part of him. He’d go to war over this woman. Because he wants her. Wants her in his bed every night, wants to cook her favorite meal, to show her around Chinook. Wants to build Bear a crib with his own hands. Be a damn good father, but beside him, always, Tessie.
Whether she wants him is another question entirely.
Hell, for all he knows, he’s just a guy leaving her limp and satisfied at the end of the night.
Not to mention, she’s sophisticated, gorgeous as hell. The champagne to his beer can. She could marry an architect. Not some chef who lives in Alaska. She’s going places, and he’s stuck in Chinook.
All he can offer her is a busted bar. A mountain. A hound dog that farts in her sleep. But he wants to. Goddamn, does he want to try. He loves this woman, and the thought of leaving her in two more days? It’s a sucker punch to the chest.
Which means he has to sit his ass down and talk to her. There’s so much still left unsaid. His tendency to not show his emotions, to stay silent, is what bit him in the ass with Serena. He needs to communicate better. Like last night.
He should have told Tessie how he feels, not just about Bear, but about her. That he loves her. Wants more than the memory of Mexico—wants a future with her.
Before his thoughts can get away with him, Solomon’s pulled into the conversation happening between the bartender and the chef. The posole’s so oversalted it’s inedible.
Leaning up on his elbows, he says, “Add potatoes.” When they say nothing, their expressions confused, he clears his throat. “They’ll soak up the salt.”
The chef nods, a smile breaking out on his face. “Gracias, se?or.” With that, he ducks into the kitchen, a flurry of Spanish echoing as the door swings shut.
Hit by a surge of determination, Solomon pulls out his phone.
Howler answers on the tenth ring. Lazy fuck.
“I want to come back to the bar.”
“What? Fuck, man.”
A woman’s voice, a rustle of blankets, a bark from Peggy, and then a door slams shut.
“Don’t jerk me around.”
“I’m not,” he grunts, watching the clock tick behind the bar. He’s already annoyed at himself for checking it more than he should, knowing that soon Tessie will be done with her yoga class and back in his arms.
A triumphant hoot. “Goddamn! When were you thinking?”
“When I get back to Chinook.”
“Which is?”
His chest tightens. “Two days.”
“Man, that’s fuckin’ perfect. You come back. We’ll get the bar back in shape, then—”
“What happened to the bar?”
Howler’s exhale is long and pained. “Me and Jimmy tried to patch some drywall. Let’s just say we ended up with a few more holes than we started with.”
Solomon needles his brow. “Christ. I leave you alone—”
“For seven goddamn years.”
He flinches.
Though Howler’s voice is easy, it’s also laced with a tight sadness. Not only did Solomon distance himself from his family when Serena died, but he shut Howler out too. His best friend since stickball and sandboxes. Loyal as hell, Howler stuck around no matter how shitty Solomon was to him, but his friend still carries pain from the aftermath of Serena’s death.
He gives an apologetic grunt. “I know.”
“Well, you’re coming back. So.”
“What if I brought Tessie back?” The question rolls off his tongue. Feels right.
A beat of silence passes. Then a sigh. “Man, I ain’t sure. If that’s what you think you gotta do. . .”
His jaw flexes. “I do.”
“You’re not gonna marry her, are you?” Howler’s voice is dubious. “Just because you knocked her up.”
“No.”
Yes.
Fuck.
Just the thought has his ribs cinching, his heart doing the fast palpitation dance.
Marry Tess. Damn. That thought. Those words.
This fucking woman who tears him up inside has him wanting to make vows, promises, declarations he hasn’t uttered in years.
Why wouldn’t he marry her?
He’d be crazy not to.
Not because it’s easier this way. Not because he got her pregnant. But because with Tessie, he’s no longer sleepwalking.
He’s in love with this woman who’s blown up his entire fucking world. Who’s burned into every part of his broken soul. Who’s about to give him a son, give him a life he never knew he wanted.
Tessie—all the stars in the universe point to her.
“Sol?” Howler whistles. “You still there?”
He swallows the knot in his throat. “Yeah,” he chokes out. “Still here.”
“Get your ass back home,” his best friend says, genuine joy in his tone. “Your kitchen’s waiting.”
Solomon ends the call. His heart pounds in his chest. It feels like he’s rolling away the boulder from the entrance of a dark cave. Letting sunlight shine. And that sunlight, that golden ray of goodness, is Tessie. His Tessie.
It’s back to business, back to Chinook. Until this moment, he hadn’t realized how much he truly missed it.
His goddamn life.
A quiet smile overtaking his face, Solomon inspects his beer, drains the glass dry, then rubs his sweaty palms on the thighs of his jeans. Christ, he’s nervous, and he doesn’t get nervous, but this woman’s got a leash around his heart. And he wants to keep it like that.
Forever.
In his periphery, there’s a flash of terra-cotta and white. The signature uniform of the resort staff. A short bald-headed man steps up and offers a timid smile. “Excuse me, Mr. Wilder?”
He rotates on his stool to face the man.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but we’ve had an incident at the health club with your wife.”
“What kind of incident?” he demands, not even bothering to correct the man. He’s two for two here, and that’s how he’s keeping it.
“During her yoga class, she. . .she fainted, se?or.”
The words jerk Solomon off the barstool. “Where is she?”
The man backs up. “She is still there, sir.”
Panic twists in his throat like a knife. He feels like he can’t breathe.
“Take me there,” he finally manages to rasp. “Now.”
Five minutes later, Solomon’s pounding up the steps to the health club. His pulse unsteady in his ears. Guilt’s a record on repeat in his head: He should have gone with her. He should have gone with her.
The second he slams into the studio, his frame locks. A circle of yoga pant-clad women hovers, their arms crossed, soft whispers floating between them.
“Oh, that poor thing. She just fell over.”