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Rescued By My High School Crush

Kassie Kline
Copyright © [Year of First Publication] by [Author or Pen Name]

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
 Contents

1. Chapter 1
~ Morgan ~
2. Chapter 2
~ Riain ~
3. Chapter 3
~ Morgan ~
4. Chapter 4
~ Riain ~
5. Chapter 5
~ Morgan ~
6. Chapter 6
~ Riain ~
7. Chapter 7
~ Morgan ~
8. Chapter 8
~Riain ~
9. Chapter 9
~ Morgan ~
10. Chapter 10
~ Riain ~
11. Chapter 11
~ Morgan ~
12. Chapter 12
~Riain ~
13. Chapter 13
~ Morgan ~
14. Chapter 14
~ Riain ~
15. Chapter 15
~ Morgan ~
16. Chapter 16
 ~ Riain ~
17. Chapter 17
~Morgan ~
18. Chapter 18
~ Riain
19. Chapter 19
~ Morgan ~
20. Chapter 20
~ Riain ~
21. Chapter 21
~ Morgan ~
22. Chapter 22
~ Riain ~
23. Chapter 23
~ Morgan ~
24. Chapter 24
~ Riain ~
25. Chapter 25
~Morgan ~
26. Chapter 26
~ Riain ~
27. Chapter 27
~Morgan ~
28. Chapter 28
~ Riain ~
29. Chapter 29
~ Morgan ~
30. Chapter 30
~ Riain ~
31. Chapter 31
~ Morgan ~
Epilogue
~ Morgan ~
Chapter
 Chapter 1

~ Morgan ~

I shift again, pulling off the scarf wound around my neck and unzipping my quilted jacket. I squirm to get more comfortable in
the body-heat hugging, glittery, plastic-covered booth at Coral’s Diner. I’d followed Cami’s directive to sit where a Reserved
sign was placed on the last table on the right. I glance at my phone screen and see she’s officially 7 minutes late.

I’m not aggravated, at least that’s what I tell myself, but she could text and let me know her ETA. I’ve really been looking
forward to having coffee with her. I’d been voted to visit the bakery to give her the once-over for our crew when she and
Kaiden became an item, and she quickly became my best friend. We usually grab lunch at least once a week, but she’s had some
large orders lately, and we haven’t seen each other as much as I’d like.

Maybe she’s just tied up with my boss. I chuckle, and my self-denied annoyance immediately dissipates. Maybe she’s literally
tied up! Those two are crazy for each other, and it is adorable to watch.

I squelch the bit of envy that rides alongside my amusement. I know it’s been brewing inside me. It seems like all my friends,
my sister included, have found their Prince Charming.

My twin’s love life happened in such a dramatic way. I still barely believe she and Lucius are together. I had gone out with the
hot as hell, ex-military guy from work a few times, and we’d become good friends. Even though I admire his work ethic, his
tight bod, and he’s hella fun to hang out with, there were just no sparks between us. When he looks at my sister, though, the
room almost catches on fire. And now they have a baby on the way!

I glance around. Coral’s family has renovated since I was here last, and it gives that 50s feel with black and white photos,
neon, and soda fountain-esque vibes. There’s even a jukebox tucked into the corner, although it’s modern equipment, connected
to an app you can download to pay and choose your song.

“Come on, Cami… at least text me to cancel if you’re not going to make it.” I stare at my phone, willing the “running late”
message to come through. Just then, I hear a body drop into the booth seat across from me.

I look up smiling. “Finally! What took you—” The rest of my words get caught in my throat when I see it isn’t Cami. He’s
striking. His dark hair is cut in a tight fade at the bottom, but the top is longer, delightfully tousled as if he’s been running his
fingers through it all morning. His dark beard is trimmed into an angle along his jaw line. Then my vision moves to the sea-
foam eyes that have haunted my dreams since high school. I know my mouth has dropped open in a mirror of his. Riain Conor
Kelley is sitting across from me.

“M-morgan? Wh-what are you doing here?” He stutters.

I swallow as so many emotions flood me. Lust is high at the top of the list. I remember the taste of his mouth as if it were
yesterday. Relief follows fast on its heels. He recognized me, which is better than any reunion scene I’ve imagined. Then
comes curiosity. Why is he back? Why is he HERE? Then the crushing anguish that became embedded inside me hits, followed
closely by the anger I nourished to survive the chasm his leaving created in my heart. “I live here, remember? I’m the one who
stayed.” Pent-up rage laces my words with a venom I can’t keep tempered.

Coral’s granddaughter, Jasmine, appears at the table with an empty cup and pours from the carafe she’d left at the table. She’s a
smart girl. She takes one look at my face and promptly exits the battlefield.

“I’m— I’m supposed to be meeting a friend here.” He’s stumbling, and I take a second to feel justified in his stunned reaction.
“She told me to sit int this exact booth— Oh, no.” Realization takes over his face, but I’m left still feeling confused.

“What?”

“She set me up! She kept gushing about this great friend of hers she thought I would hit it off with.”

Oh. The light is dawning now, and I can actually feel the color leaching from my face. “What’s your friend’s name?”

“Camilla. Her name is Camilla.”

Cami. She arranged an official blind date. Everyone in our group has been insistent lately that it was my turn to find love. It
seems to have become a mission to introduce me to all the single men they meet. I should have expected another awkward meet
up.

I believe in naturally letting these things happen on their own. Even as bizarre as Madison and Lucius’s meeting was, it still
came about in its own way. I despise the idea of being set up. And this… This is more like an ambush.

"What are you doing in Maine?” I struggle to ask, my voice icy. “Or did the high life in New York lose its appeal?"

Riain rakes his hand through his hair, and I’m transported back to a time when it was my hands tunneling through the thick mess
of curls. "It's not like that, Morgan. I needed a break, and my family—"

"A break? An escape?" I challenge, daring him to deny the memory of the singular time he’d landed back in our sleepy town
and used those exact words before he left again.

"It's not an escape, it's..." He sighs, looking down at his coffee. "My family needs me right now. And I missed home. I missed
Maine. And..." He swallows then looks up at me. "I missed you."

A bitter scoff escapes. "Missed me? How long has it been? Nine years? That’s a long time to miss someone.”

"You don't have to believe me, Morgan," he says, his eyes burning into mine. "But it's true."

I lean back in the booth and cross my arms to keep that wisp of hope from taking hold. "Then why haven’t you been back?"

Riain is silent for a few heartbeats. He keeps his gaze fixed on me, as if trying to read my thoughts. "I know I messed up, and I
know it’s a cliché, but I was young and stupid. At the time, taking the job seemed the most important thing I could do. I don’t
know what I expected from you, but I didn’t think our relationship would end. It’s the only thing I regret in life."

I raise an eyebrow. "And now?"

My question seems to surprise him. It takes him a few more seconds to answer. "I knew I’d run into you at some point. I’d
hoped to have a speech ready. I'm sorry, Morgan. Truly. I had to leave, but I never wanted you to be collateral damage."
I want to throw his apology back at him, but something in his eyes gives me pause. He looks... genuine. Maybe he’s gotten
smoother, or better at lying, but I can’t detect a hint of deceit at all on his face. That tell he used to have, when smoothly getting
us out of a jam with teachers, of lifting one edge of his mouth is nowhere to be seen.

No. I shake my head to halt those thoughts.

His alleged sincerity doesn't change the fact that he left me with hardly a goodbye. It doesn’t change our last encounter. It
doesn't change that I'm still hurt, that I'm still... angry. Is he only sorry because he knows he will be forced to face me? It will
be difficult for us to avoid each other in this small town. Maybe he doesn’t want to be seen as the bad guy when it comes to my
friends, since apparently Cami is now his friend, too. Or maybe he doesn’t want the bad press when the inevitable gaggle of
fans and reporters start following him. I was lucky to escape notoriety the last time.

"So, what?" I snap. "You think you can just come back into my life and expect me to forgive you? Just like that?"

"No, I..." He runs a frustrated hand through his hair again. "I don't know, Morgan. I just..."

He trails off, and I can't help but feel a small sense of satisfaction at his discomfort. It's petty, I know, but I don't care.

He deserves to feel like this.

If he knew how many nights my parents begged me to eat and listened to me cry into my pillow… How I couldn’t concentrate
on anything and almost flunked out of Anatomy and Physiology... How I walked around like a zombie with zero motivation...

Unlike him, who slid with ease into a new career and become one of the most popular male models in the US. Maybe even
internationally, who knows.

All I know is that Riain is back, and my life just got a whole lot more complicated. We aren’t old friends catching up over
coffee. I’m only here because Cami had me thinking I was meeting her.

"I'm not here for a vacation, Morgan," Riain begins, his voice heavy. "There's something else." He makes a show of pouring
some creamer and a couple of sweetener packets into his cup and takes a deep breath. "My Da... He's sick," he finally says,
looking back up at me. There's a pain in his eyes I haven't seen before. It taps against the iron walls I’m desperately erecting
around my heart. "I'm here to take care of him and run the pub until—." His voice breaks.

There's a moment of silence as I process his words. His father is sick. That means... "So, you're staying in town a while." I say
slowly, my mind racing. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. He isn’t here for a quick breather before returning to his
real life.

I had heard about Riain’s father being under the weather lately, but assumed it was something minor. It never occurred to me
that it might be serious. But if Riain is here for an unforeseeable length of time, that means that his father is a lot sicker than I
assumed.

“So can we?”

I snap out of my thoughts to look at Riain. He had been saying something to me, but I didn’t catch it. “Can we what?”

“Catch up? Morgan, we haven’t spoken in years. I’d love to hear about your life.”

“I don’t know, Riain. Or is it Conor now?” The tabloids I try to avoid at the supermarket call him by his middle name. Conor
Kelley in all caps and always a snapshot with this actress, that model, hanging from his arm. “I doubt you’d find it all that
interesting.”

“Morgan, please?”

The images of all the different women make me want to push myself away from the table. I’m having a hard time imagining
holding a pleasant conversation with this man, pretending everything is alright when it isn’t. My heart vacillates from anger to
the too familiar verge-of-breaking just being across from him.

I’m questioning karma because what the hell have I done? Hell, I’ve even accepted my sister and Lucius’s relationship and
pregnancy with nothing but love in my heart.

So why is this happening to me? Of all the people Riain could meet, why did it have to be my very best friend? And leave the
impression on her that we’d be good together?

I scold myself over that ridiculous line of thought. Of course, Cami doesn’t know Riain is my ex. She probably just thinks she
knows my type. Unfortunately, Riain is every bit my type.

I should probably leave…. But part of me wants to hear him out. Maybe I can get the closure I never received when it came to
our breakup. Why hadn’t our love and plans we made for a future together been strong enough for him to stay? Or to take me
with him?

“Fine. We’ll see how this goes.”

 Chapter 2

~ Riain ~

I see the turmoil in her eyes as she reluctantly agrees to stay. The air is thick with unsaid words, and I feel a lump forming in
my throat. I'm not sure why she decided to stick it out, but I'm grateful she did.

She is still so beautiful. I can still see her thoughts swirling, always moving, assessing, predicting, responding. Her intelligence
and wit still shine from her caramel eyes, even if they’re stormy right now. I’ve never seen her with her hair short, but the
bouncy curls match her energy, and the almost coppery lowlights bring out the strawberry in her blonde.

If I told her how much I’ve thought about her over the years, would she believe me? I’ve met other women, held them, used
their bodies and occasionally admired their brains, but I’ve never loved them. Maybe because I’ve never stopped loving
Morgan. It’s a strong word, but it’s the only one that fits.

I continue to stare at her as the server approaches our booth again.

"Morgan, your usual? Sir, have you had a chance to look at the menu?" the server asks with a reserved smile. She’s looking
back and forth between us, waiting with patience. I want her to leave.

"No," I say at the same time Morgan says, “yes.” She looks at me in surprise, then back at the server.

"We’ll both have the Kitchen Sink, Jasmine." Morgan adds, and the server nods and disappears without writing anything down.

The silence returns. It's both familiar and foreign at the same time. I take a deep breath and decide to break it. "Morgan, I..."

"Hold on, Riain," she interrupts, her hand on the table clenching into a fist. "I need you to be honest with me today. Was leaving
really worth it to you?"

I can see the hurt in her eyes, and I'm instantly taken back to the moment I chose my career over her.

"I was barely out of high school, Morgan, being handed a life-changing opportunity. Well, you know that already," I begin. "I
was hardly an adult and I needed to make a very grown-up decision that affected a lot of lives."

Her eyes express a mixture of sadness and curiosity as she asks. "But was it worth it, Riain? Was it all worth losing us?"

I look down, grappling with the weight of my decision and what words to use. Then I look back at her. "If I had a do-over, I’d
make the same decision. I know I didn’t spend enough time thinking about the consequences. I was naïve enough I thought I
could come back and fix it. That we could have a long-distance relationship or that I could convince you to move to New York
eventually." I admit as I lower my head, my eyes focusing on the shiny pink and teal flecks in the table. "I’ve always wondered
how I could’ve handled that better, so we could have had our chance."
So many emotions cross her face. "Our chance?" she questions, her voice barely a whisper.

"Yes, Morgan. Our chance," I say. "I never wanted to lose us."

I see the barest hint of tears, and for a moment, she looks at me the same way she used to. Like I hung all the stars in the galaxy.
"Riain," she starts, her voice shaky, "it's been years. We can't just..."

"I know, Morgan. I'm not asking for us to go back. But I would like a chance to mend things. Or at least be friends. I don’t want
to feel like we’re enemies every time we bump into each other. And I’m going to guess I may see you a lot more if we share a
friend now."

I hold my breath as she thinks it over, her eyes never leaving mine. The silence is deafening, but I know I owe her this moment
of contemplation. It's the least I can do after the sudden exit I made from her life years ago. And the bigger mess I made trying
to come back to fix it.

Morgan finally gives a reluctant nod and I feel grateful she’s at least considering it.

I change the subject, hoping to lighten the intense mood. "So, what’s exciting or interesting in your life lately?"

She looks at me, her eyes searching mine before she sighs and says, "Well, I guess I could mention that Madison is back. She’s
splitting time between here and New York. And she’s pregnant."

“Madison is here? Wow, that is a surprise. She was so in love with New York. Our paths crossed a few times, and she always
said she never wanted to come back to Maine. Last I checked, she was married to her career. Who’s the lucky father?”

"Well..." she hesitates, her cheeks reddening slightly. "That’s a little awkward, but it's a guy from work. He and I were actually
kind of dating when they met..."

The absurdity of that situation hits me all at once. I can't help it. I chuckle. Out loud. "That's one hell of a plot twist, Morgan."
In my head I’m wondering who could move on from Morgan at all, much less to her sister. It’s always been weird to me how
they’re identical twins, so they look exactly alike, but while Madison is super attractive, it’s in a very cool, statuesque way.
Morgan is all warmth and motion.

She doesn't join my laughter. Instead, her eyebrows furrow, and her luscious mouth turns down at the corners. "Riain, it isn’t
funny," she says, her voice tight. I kinda thought she was joking, but I can tell she’s annoyed.

"I'm sorry, Morgan," I say, trying to reign in my amusement. "That’s a soap opera waiting to happen. You’re kidding, right?"

Morgan crosses her arms tightly. "This is complicated for me, maybe even a little embarrassing," she responds with a soft tone
that doesn’t match her scowl. "I didn't expect you to find it so hilarious."

I can suddenly sense the tension building. "I apologize, Morgan." I know I’m still grinning, which would minimize my words in
her eyes. So I clear my throat and let my amusement over the ridiculousness settle. "I didn't mean to downplay the situation."

She lets out a frustrated sigh, clearly not finding any humor in it. However, her rigid posture relaxes slightly. "Riain, haven’t
you learned to consider the impact of your responses? Not everyone shares your twisted amusement."

Despite her warning, I can't help but let out another chuckle. "Fair enough, Morgan," I reply, biting back any additional
laughter. "I'll try to be more mindful in the future. This really affected you, didn’t it?"
“You know, Riain," she says thoughtfully, her voice deceptively soft. "I remember reading a gossip magazine in the grocery
store line a couple of months ago. Something about your glamorous A-list model girlfriend leaving you for a foreign prince.
Seems that's kind of a soap opera plot twist, too, huh? And plastered all over the news…"

I blink, taken aback by her cutting comments. Any trace of my previous amusement vanishes, replaced by a wave of
embarrassment. "That... That was different," I stammer, my voice barely audible.

"Oh, was it?" Morgan retorts. "How is your situation different from mine?"

Her words are barbed, and I get her point. I may not have loved my ex-girlfriend, but she announced our break-up AND the
new boyfriend to the paparazzi before she even told me.

I see how I hadn't considered how much hearing the words out loud could sting. "Morgan..." I start, my voice shaky, but she
interrupts me.

"No, Riain." Morgan snaps at me, but I hear unshed tears in her voice. "Keep your apology.” She slips out of the booth, walking
quickly toward the door. The young server picks that moment to return with our plates, and I wave a finger at her, motioning I’d
be right back. She gives a nod of understanding, and then I’m rushing right behind Morgan.

The door closes in my face, and I can see Morgan shrugging on her vest. I push out after her, beating myself up at the same time
for laughing at the wrong moments. It happens often enough that I feel like a jerk about it.

I’m two steps behind Morgan, and I see she’s winding her scarf around her neck, stepping out to cross the street.

Right into the path of a Jeep full of hooligans racing a sedan in the other lane.

Oh, my God.

Seconds tick by in slow motion.

I see my hand reaching out to grab her.

Too slow.

Too far.

I’m too far away to catch her.

The wind picks up in that second, and I watch it toss the edge of her scarf straight at me.

My hand clutches the soft scrap of tangerine fluff, and I pull back with everything I have.

Morgan gasps as she tips backwards into my arms. The force of her weight hits me just as the vehicles scream by, and I fold
her into me, holding her upright.

I support her for a moment, then she stands on her own and turns to me. One hand reaches up to cover her mouth, and I see it
start to tremble at the same time I realize I haven’t taken a breath. My knees weaken and can’t seem to hold me, so I sink down
onto the sidewalk.
The tears I’d heard in her voice have spilled over and now stream down her cheeks. She takes a gulping breath. Her scarf still
connects us, crumpled between my fingers. I renew my grip and tug it just a little more without even thinking, and she kneels
between my legs.

“Fuck, Morgan,” I breathe out, and she launches onto me. Her arms wrap around my neck, and her face buries into my shoulder.
My arms come up around her and I hold her while she shudders in silence.

Then there’s the sound of bells as the diner door is shoved open and people rush out to surround us, demanding to know if
Morgan is hurt. She sits up and rubs at her eyes, wiping away all traces of tears. Just the pink tip of her nose is the only
evidence anything happened. I stand up and hold out my hand for her. I feel good that she doesn’t hesitate to take it.

She disappears momentarily into the group of people, then reappears by my side. “I’m… I’m going to go,” she whispers.

I just nod and watch her check the road for traffic this time. Then she unlocks a bright, lime green hatchback, and crosses to
open the door. The car suits her, I think, and I watch until she pulls out and her taillights disappear.

Inside the diner, I find our ticket was comp’d, and the server won’t accept payment for it, so I leave her a tip that includes the
price of our meals. A few almost-familiar faces stop me on my way out and thank me for saving their girl. They ask if I’m back
to stay, so they clearly know who I am even though I can’t dig their names from memory. I mumble some platitudes, but my
mind is still standing on the edge of the sidewalk with terror rushing through me, knowing I was too late.

I don’t ever want to be too late again.

I know I have always had a knack for finding the wrong things funny, and the typical, brash New York attitude has certainly
rubbed off on me. In fact, I know my sense of humor has darkened if anything.

But I’m not in that world anymore.

I’m back home in Maine…. Where I’ve once again hurt the feelings of the only woman I’ve ever loved and who still has my
heart.

How can I fix this? Because losing Morgan again is not an option.
 Chapter 3

~ Morgan ~

Cloud Nine Bakery is usually my go-to place for comfort, with the aroma of fresh pastries and coffee, and the cozy atmosphere,
soothing my troubled mind. And, of course, my best friend being the owner, who is always there for me.

Except when she's trying to set me up on blind dates!

But today, even the sweet, cinnamon-tinged air fails to lift my spirits. Sunlight streams through the tall windows, casting long
shadows over the seating area. I spot Cami behind the counter, her dark, wavy hair casually looped into a loose bun, arranging
pastries in the display case with a well-practiced smoothness.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Cami remarks when she lifts her eyes to my face. Her hands continue to move effortlessly,
placing a tray of tiny, fruit-topped tarts next to the morning's scones. “Did yesterday not go well. Or did it go too well?”

I’m grateful she isn’t trying to pretend she didn’t set me up. "Ugh, Cami. Your new friend, Riain? He's my ex-boyfriend from
high school." I know I sound bitter, but his name lingers like the taste of cotton candy that’s just disintegrated on my tongue, and
I tell myself I hate it.

Cami freezes, surprise evident on her face. "Conor?”

Right, she would know him by his career name. I nod. “Oh, wow! What are the odds?" She exclaims in surprise. "He seemed
like your type and, hey… Guess I was right."

I breathe out a big sigh. "Seeing him again was... Hard.” Gracie, Cami’s right-hand-man, well, woman, slides a steaming cup
across the counter to me. I take a careful sip and let the cherry-almond flavor swirl inside my mouth for an extra second. I
marvel for probably the ten thousandth time at how she remembers everyone’s favorites.

Cami pulls several popovers onto a plate and motions me to the table closest to the kitchen she always keeps reserved for
friends and family. I sink into a seat and let my bag slide off my shoulder and clunk to the floor. She perches on the edge of the
opposite chair, “Tell me about it,” she says softly.

“I had been prepared to bump into him every now and then over the years in case he came back to town. You know, for visits or
holidays. But after one disastrous trip, he never did. He always flew his parents to the City instead." My hands grip the ceramic
mug, warmth seeping through my fingers, offering comfort amidst the coldness in my heart. "I've always resented him for
leaving, but a part of me always wondered 'what if'.”

"Could you see yourself giving it another chance?" Cami pulls a popover in half, shoves one part into her mouth and hands the
other to me. As a reflex, I reach out and take it. Then I look down, surprised to see I’m holding it. “Savory,” she says quickly.
Cami knows by now I always want to know what to expect before I take a bite.
I push the half into my mouth, and I’m instantly surrounded with flavor. Butter and thyme dance on my tastebuds in a light,
sensual melding. “Oh, god.” The words stretch into an almost-moan. “This makes me almost forget how that breakup shattered
me. Cami, this is orgasmic.” I pluck another from the plate and rip it in two.

Cami is silent for a moment, while we both luxuriate in the buttery goodness.

"I didn't know, Morgan," she confesses, her voice gentle. With the mingled scents of baking bread, coffee, and sugar wrapping
around us like a hug, her voice is a salve to the almost-healed wound that has just been ripped open. "I had no idea about your
history. I'm sorry."

I sigh, feeling the tension inside me dissolve into exhaustion. A soft melody from hidden speakers fills the gaps in our
conversation and provides a soothing backdrop for my thoughts to settle into. "It's not your fault, Cami. He left for New York
right before Mads did. I tried to erase him from my mind. But I completely failed at that.”

Cami's sympathetic eyes meet mine. "Maybe he's changed. People grow up. They learn. They make amends," Cami suggests.
She’s the most forgiving person I know.

"Maybe," I force myself to be noncommittal. Deep down, I almost believe it’s possible. But I can’t let that hope bubble to the
surface again. I tell myself that for now, Riain will have to remain a memory I try to forget.

As if cued by the devil, the door chimes ring, and I turn to look. My heart skips a beat at the sight of Riain. He strides in,
dressed casually in tight, dark jeans, a Bobcat Alumni sweatshirt, and work boots. His hair is sticking up in places he probably
doesn’t want it to. My mouth waters.

This is more the style I remember him having before seeing his body bared to the world in underwear ads, covered in
expensive business suits, and then mostly naked again in the smallest swimwear he could possibly squeeze into. Not that I’ve
been paying attention. It’s just been thrown in my face for years. Hometown hero and all that baloney.

His expression shows he’s as surprised as I am. But not Cami’s. She slides behind the counter while Gracie pours a cup of
coffee for him. How long has he been in town that she knows his order already?

Cami pulls Gracie to the back. "Come help me fill those orders." Her voice is a little too cheerful, too enthusiastic. And then
we’re alone. Riain staring at me with those light green eyes that have always reminded me of the rippling colors at the edge of
the surf on a sunny day.

"May I join you?" His question hangs in the air, filled with both anxiety and hope.

With a sigh, I nod my acquiescence. Riain slips into the chair Cami vacated, the grace of his movements magnetizing. We sit
across from each other, both waiting.

Then we both speak at once.

"I owe you an apolo—”

“I haven’t thank—”

We both stop.

He starts again and this time his voice steady. "I’m sorry, Morgan. I was caught off-guard, and I didn't handle yesterday well. I
shouldn't have laughed about your situation with Madison and.. And the guy she's with now."
I cross my arms over my chest. "I shouldn’t have gotten mad. I was surprised, too, and reacted poorly." I try to make my
apology come out as firmly as his, but my voice shakes. I take a breath and continue. “Thank you. For coming after me. For
pulling me back when I wasn’t paying attention.”

Riain swallows. "Kids have always taken the road from the docks too fast. I did it, too. Back then." he admits, his voice
trailing to a whisper. "I was terrified, Morgan. I didn’t think I could reach you in time."

I see it on his face. The aftermath of the panic he had to have felt. I take a sip of my coffee. The silence between us is heavy,
filled with years of unspoken words and unresolved feelings. I reach for another popover, letting it almost melt in my mouth, a
temporary distraction from the emotions whirling inside me.

"I still care about you, Morgan," Riain confesses, his voice still trembling. “So much.”

My eyes jump to his, surprised by his honesty. "I'm not the same person I was then, and circumstances have changed. Can we
—” He takes a deep breath. “Can we start over? At least as friends?"

His words linger in the air, a plea for another chance. I realize the “friends” is added to try to make me comfortable, but I know
we will never be able to be just friends. It will be the same as it’s always been for us. Everything. Or nothing.

I study his face, searching for… Well, anything really. What I see is regret. And hope. Still hope.

That hope is a knife blade sinking into my stomach and twisting up and up into my lungs. I can’t breathe. I remember what it
was like to live on that hope, constantly watching for emails and texts that came fewer and farther between every week until
they just stopped. WE just stopped.

Since then, I’ve built a life that I love. I love my job as the primary emergency medical responder for the FreeDivers, a private
search and rescue team run by the head of the Amato Corporation as a personal project to assist the local Coast Guard and
other emergency services. I love the friends I’ve cultivated. I love the remaining family I have here, and the memories around
every corner of the ones I’ve lost. I love being an integral part of the community. I don’t want that tarnished by a man who is
going to leave.

"I'll think about it," I say when my breath kicks back in. I offer up a slight smile as apology for the words that grate against
everything I ever wanted. "For now, let's stick to coffee."

His shoulders drop, but I see him process and accept and then steel himself. I’m a little surprised he allows me to see all of
that on his face, in his posture.

He seems to settle into his seat, and he asks about my job. That’s something I’m always excited to talk about, so it’s easy to
have that conversation. He asks questions here and there and it’s obvious he’s interested in knowing about what we do.

I ask about the modeling world, and he gets a little distant when he talks about it. "It has its moments,” he says. “The runways
in Milan, photoshoots in Paris... It's been a whirlwind.”

"But?" I sense he has more to say. His eyes hold no enthusiasm, his tone flat.

"But," he sighs, "the lack of privacy always gets to me. Reporters lurking around every corner. Having to always be camera-
ready. Not just that, though. I know I was raised in this town where everyone knows everyone’s business. But here, everyone
tries to help each other. Even an injured cat on the side of the road gets taken to the vet. No one is seeking out weaknesses for
exploitation. But in the city? I’ve seen muggings in broad daylight, and my agent would hold me back from helping. They had a
big none-of-my-business policy written into my contracts. Most people I’ve met are so... Superficial. And rude. Just out for
what they can get."
"That doesn’t sound like a peaceful life to live," I murmur. Riain just shakes his head,

"So, you're here because your dad is sick? I’d heard he was under the weather." I ask, pulling off another piece of bread.
Surprised at how much easier it is to talk to him now that we’ve put the whole “friends, but not really friends” thing between
us.

"Well, yes and no," Riain begins, but then hesitates, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. I just wait. I want him to decide what he
wants to tell me without any pressure. He sips his coffee absentmindedly and reaches for a popover. "Dad's illness was
definitely a catalyst, but there's more to it."

"More?" I decide to prompt him anyway. I’m curious now.

He takes a deep breath. “I've had enough of the glamour life, the constant scrutiny, the fake smiles. I know it’s what I signed up
for, but I miss having a place where people don’t gawk at me whenever I’m out. Where people treat me like a human, not like
someone whose job it is to line their pockets with gold."

I blink with shock. He isn’t leaving?

He puts the whole popover into his mouth. His eyes widen, and he nods, “Mmm.” He sucks his fingertips when he’s finished,
and suddenly I’m salivating again. I watch his tongue lick the crumbs still clinging to the edge of his thumb and my mind is
imagining he’s licking other places.

“Miracle.” I manage to croak out. “Cami is a miracle in the kitchen.” I preach to myself about gutters to stay out of, and I’m
glad for the distraction when Riain’s phone blares a Metallica song. “Come crawling faster…”

Rian picks up his phone from where he’d set it on the other chair and hits the decline button. “And that’s my agent,” Riain
mutters.

“I take it you haven’t told them the news?” I ask. I hate how much I want to know the answer, want to know how dedicated he
is to his decision to stay.

“Oh, I have,” Riain insists. “It just isn’t something she wanted to hear, so she’s blowing up my phone, telling me to get my ass
back in the city. I'm so ready for calm, coffee mornings, friendly neighbors, and the rhythm of life away from chaos."

There is a note of determination in his voice, but it’s also very clear his life is calling him back to it. My brain takes hold of
that latter thought like it’s a life preserver.
 Chapter 4

~ Riain ~

It is so cold today. I’d layered a thermal under a t-shirt under my coat, and it still isn’t enough. The damp air on the docks is
seeping down my coat sleeves, up the back of my coat, down my collar. I should have brought a scarf. And gloves. I drive my
hands farther into my pockets. I’m walking from the pub down to the FreeDivers station house.

I don’t know what to do when I get there. I have no plan, really, except to try to tempt Morgan into joining me for lunch.

It’s been a few days since we ran into each other at Cloud Nine Bakery. We’d sat together for another half an hour swapping
stories. Her filling me in on local happenings, and me telling a few wild tales of my travels. We’d parted ways on a good note,
I think.

I open the door to the office, and a slight young man jumps up from his desk and slides the headphones from his ears down to
his neck. He just looks at me. I guess I’m supposed to state my purpose. “I’m looking for Morgan?” I don’t know why it comes
out like a question, but he’s making me more nervous than I already was.

“Morgan’s in the galley.” A soft southern voice comes from a side door I hadn’t noticed, and a tiny figure peeks around the
edge, hair the soft shade of hot cocoa with toasted marshmallow highlights swings around hiding her face for a moment.
“Steven,” she addresses the young man. “You g’on and monitor the radio now. I’ll take care of him.” Steven seems startled for
a moment but then slides the headphones back on, re-seats himself in his chair, and is immediately lost in the world between
his ears.

“We don’t get many visitors,” the woman comes fully into the doorframe. “You startled us both.” She peers past me to the door
I’d firmly closed behind me. At first, I assume she’s making sure the weather is left outside, but she seems nervous. Almost as
if she was expecting some other uninvited guest.

I stammer an apology, but she waves it off. “C’mon back,” she says and leads the way back through the door, though another
office, and into a kitchen with a long table covered in stack after stack of clear storage bins. Each is stuffed to the brim with
collections of different supplies. I catch a glimpse of Morgan’s short strawberry blonde curls as she leans over a bin that’s
open on the floor, but it isn’t her hair getting my attention. It’s her delicious ass being caressed by a form-fitting, leathery
covering.

Moran obviously hears us and straightens immediately, but that image is burned into my head. She has clearly grown into the
body I’d remembered as a little gangly, all legs and arms. I’d seen the muscles flexing in her glutes and thighs and it’s taking
everything I have to keep the image of her naked, bent over my mattress, from assuming command of all my parts.

“Riain?” I look up. Had she asked me a question while my dream-self was pounding into her from behind?

The top of the long-sleeved suit is unzippered, giving me plenty of opportunity to admire the basic exercise-type bra, and the
not-so-basic shape beneath. She definitely didn’t have all of that in high school!
She pulls the zip tab up and I realize she saw where I was focused. Her cheeks are flushed now, and I find myself with a wide
grin at the bashful look on her face.

“Trying out the new wetsuit,” she mumbles, and I almost don’t catch it.

“I put on a pot of Da’s stew,” I told her. “Under very close supervision. I thought maybe you could use some warming up.”

Morgan glances up at the clock. “I can always use some of Mr. Kelley’s famous winter stew!” She nods to the dolly in the
corner. “Can you wheel down some supplies while I change?”

I’m curious, but I don’t question her while she’s saying yes to me. I stack up the bins she directs me to and tip the dolly back to
push them out. Steven eyes me as I reach the front entrance, but he doesn’t get up. I give him a little wave and a smile, and he
lifts one super straight palm about an inch above the top of the desk. Then he reacts to something on his headphones and types
into a keyboard like a whirlwind. It’s like watching a movie that’s sped up to the point of blurring. I’ve never seen anyone type
that fast!

I’m still debating whether I should go ahead back to the pub with the dolly when Morgan comes out pulling a coat over jeans
and a well-worn t-shirt that says, “Divers do it Deeper.” I laugh and she looks down. “Oh,” she whispers, but then she laughs,
too. I remember again how much I used to love making her laugh. Loud, like she didn’t care who was listening. We’d gotten
called out for that more than a few times in school.

There was one very specific time in the library when we’d gotten sent to the “quiet room” together. It was supposed to be a
punishment. Instead, she was still laughing so hard and then she stood on her tiptoes and kissed me on the mouth for the first
time with no warning. Then she ran to the other side of the table. We had played chase until I “caught” her and kissed her again.
That scene has played over and over in my head for all the years I’ve been gone. She had been wearing the light-colored jeans
she loved, and they had a worn patch just to the right of the seam between the back pockets. When she moved just right, I could
tell what color her panties were. Knowing that secret had thrilled me.

She extends something out to me, and I reach for it. “I noticed you didn’t have any with you.” I look down. She brought me a
pair of gloves. I get a warm feeling in my stomach that I first think is embarrassment over being caught unprepared, but then I
realize it’s something else. She noticed what I was lacking. And she filled the need. She does still care. I beam at her, and tug
on the gloves.

She holds the door while I pull the dolly over the threshold, and we head back toward the pub. We don’t try to talk over the
sound of the tires bouncing on the boardwalk and the chatter of people scurrying into shops to get out of the cold. She keeps
pace next to me and then hurries a little ahead to grab the pub door.

I follow Morgan to The Ballroom. In reality it was just an extra warehouse-type storage space my parents had painted and then
rented out for events, but as a kid I thought if you hung a fancy light in the middle of an empty room, it was immediately a
ballroom. Ma had a sign wood-burned with the title and hung on the wall next to the double doors. It was still there, and I run a
finger over the polished shine of the dark wood for at least the tenth time since I’ve been back.

I place the bins on the waiting tables lining the edges of the room as Morgan directs and leave the dolly just inside the room.

She is about to pull out a barstool when Ma comes out of the back. “Morgan! Dia duit!” Ma projects across the room, and
rushes around to envelope Morgan into a grand hug. “We don’t see you often enough, lass.” Ma gives Morgan’s cheek a soft
pinch. “Ri told us what happened outside Coral’s!” She tsks, “those damn kids!”

“Ma!”

“Don’t you ‘Ma’ me. I am past the age where I care what people think.” She puts a hand on either side of Morgan’s face and
pulls her down to kiss her cheek. “We’re blessed that you’re well.” She looks at me. “You’re wanting a snug, then, or to sit at
the bar?” I looked toward Morgan who had already chosen the bar.

“Right here is fine, Mrs. Kelley,” Morgan answers.

“Oh, just call me Ma. I’ve been telling you for years.” Ma gives Morgan one more squeeze. “Let me get you some bowls and
bread. Riain here made the stew today! He’s still a catch!” She gives us both a grin and a wink as I groan with embarrassment.

I shake my head and pull out a stool for Morgan then round the bar and pour us each a cider from the tap. “It doesn’t matter that
I have a very successful career, or that I’m an upstanding person who pays his taxes and donates to charities.” I roll my eyes. “I
made a stew. That’s Ma’s idea of a catch!”

Morgan laughs. “Well, it IS a valuable skill! Right up there with Class Vice President and leading the debate team.”

I scoff. “You know Ma never cared about those things. She made sure I could make Barmbrack and Boxty, and that made her
happy. Da always wanted me to join the football team, though.”

“I’ve seen you play with your cousins. I’m sure you would’ve been a great quarterback. You were always so fast.”

“Those boys were big! Damn, they hit so hard. I figured out early that I didn’t see the point of taking that beating on purpose. I
had to be fast! You always had great cheer chants. What was that peanut butter one?”

“Peanut butter, Reece’s Cup, Don’t Mess with us, We’ll Kick Your Butt,” Morgan chants out.

I clap, and she does a little bow from her stool.

Ma slides steaming bowls of stew across the bar along with a basket holding a loaf of soda bread. She pats me on the shoulder,
“Bless us with good food, the gift of gab and hearty laughter. May the love and joy we share be with us ever after.”

“Amen,” I answer automatically. I give her a quick hug before she heads back to the kitchen. I take the stool next to Morgan,
and we both dig in. In between bites, we reminisce with stories of mischievous adventures when we were younger. There
seems to be an unspoken agreement to steer clear of mentioning any romantic times. It reminds me that we were friends long
before we hit puberty and things changed between us.

When the last drop of stew is sopped up from the bowls and our ciders are drained, I finally ask about what’s happening in The
Ballroom. She tells me about some of the winter events her team sponsors. CPR training, swim lessons at the Community
Center pool, blood donation drives. This week’s particular event is a basic first aid lesson for elementary school students
during the slow week before their winter break. Apparently, several months ago Ma and Da had offered The Ballroom if they
had enough volunteers to keep the children out of the kitchen, and the tap room.
 Chapter 5

~ Morgan ~

My volunteers start to filter in as Riain and I finish our lunch, and I wave them into The Ballroom.

“Thank you for lunch, Riain. Don’t tell your dad, but your stew is as great as his.” I hop down from the stool and gather my coat
and scarf. “If he asks, I’m telling him you still have things to learn from him.”

Riain laughs. I’m glad we got through this without any hurt feelings. I don’t believe for a minute he’s sticking around, but for as
long as he does, we need to be able to have a conversation without me dissolving into tears or either of us getting offended.
The warmth of his hand on my lower back as he walks across the room with me is not giving me a just-friends type of reaction,
and it proves that I’m lying to myself if I think I can settle for that.

I leave the doors to The Ballroom propped open, so we’ll be able to see when the students start to arrive, and I start doling out
tasks to the volunteers.

Throughout the afternoon, I try to ignore Riain's presence as he tends to pub matters. In a few rare quiet moments, I can hear
him talking to his parents, or on his phone. His voice sends tingles throughout me, and I find it difficult to refocus.

A volunteer accidentally knocks over a glass during a particularly rowdy demonstration, and Riain responds with a broom and
dustpan without being summoned. "I've got it, Morgan," he says with zero amount of annoyance in his voice over the broken
glass or having to sweep up. I use that as a segue into handling tips, which launches into a much-exaggerated discussion of
proper safety gear with a clever suggestion made by one astronaut-minded 10-year-old.

Riain helps pack up the remaining supplies after all the munchkins march out with their very own first aid kit they assembled
themselves with the help of the volunteers. Our hands brush as we reach for the same box of Batman band-aids, and I snatch my
hand away with my heart pounding and my cheeks heating.

My workday ends with the two of us standing in the ready-for-dinner-service pub, silence hanging heavily between us. I can
tell Riain wants to say something, but he holds back.

"Thanks for your help today," I say, breaking the silence without looking at him.

"No problem," he replies, his voice low, almost a whisper.

He walks me to the front doors and gently takes my scarf out of my hands. He loops it around my neck and then zips up my coat.
I’ve been nervous about this good-bye all day, not knowing what he’ll say or do, but he just reaches around me and pushes the
door open.

“See you soon, Morgan.”

The doors close behind me, and I feel the disappointment set in. He didn’t even try to kiss me. I should be glad he isn’t pushing
the issue. But I’m not. I’m actually starting to feel irrationally angry. He’s been the one asking for another chance, and he didn’t
even take it when it was right there.

He isn’t stalking me. It’s just that it’s a small town. But he’s in line at Cloud Nine the same time I am on most mornings. I learn
that he takes his coffee black, but I watch him drop two packets of sweetener in it. He waits and holds the door for me the one
morning he beats me there, and I can feel his body heat as I brush by. It makes me shiver.

He asks about the gym where Lucius and I work out in the mornings, and he signs up for a membership. Now he’s there lifting
weights while I’m on the treadmill, on the bikes while I do a spin class. His muscles shift and flow like waves under his skin. I
catch myself pausing my workout to watch him move.

We bump our carts into each other’s at Hannaford’s and end up pushing them together down the aisles. Riain makes up crazy
recipes for each ingredient I add to my cart, and I’m in hysterics by the time we check out at side-by-side registers. When we
reach my car, he presents me with a lavender rose surrounded by baby’s breath and tied off with a bit of lace. I‘m stunned, and
I can’t figure out where he picked that up. By the time I can react, he has all my groceries loaded into my car and is waving a
quick good-bye.

I’m picking up swim lesson sign-up sheets from Mr. Harold at the copy shop when Riain pushes in the door. The wind barrels
through behind him, lifting the flyers and swirling them around the small lobby. I spin to try and snatch them from the air while
Riain and Mr. Harold laugh at my antics. Once the papers settle, Riain and I scramble to pick them up, but I bump into him and
end up sprawled across his lap. Mr. Harold gives us a standing ovation when Riain smashes a kiss on my forehead and helps
me up. I curtsey, and I’m still laughing when Riain slides my now-boxed flyers on top of his box of pub menus Mr. Harold
refused to take payment for. “Just let Brian know he’s missed at Wednesday night poker,” he says with a sad smile. Riain walks
me out to my car, and hands over the box. His low “See you later” rings in my head for hours.

I start to watch for him everywhere I go, and I feel a ridiculous twinge of disappointment every time he doesn’t appear. Even
though I constantly remind myself he’s a leaver, I still find myself looking for him. It’s making me a little crazy.
 Chapter 6

~ Riain ~

I’m standing at the back of The Ballroom watching Morgan divide up her trainees into groups and get them started with CPR
dummies. She’s everywhere all at once. Making an announcement one minute, on the floor demonstrating the next, then gently
correcting another group, and on to consulting with her volunteer for the refreshment table.

This is what earned her the nickname Hurricane Morgan in high school. Her limitless energy and her ability to conquer
everything in record time is also, of course, one of the reasons I fell in love with her. Watching her leaves my lungs begging for
air, and the front of my jeans more than a little tight.

She’s shed her outer clothing layers and is in a tee with the FreeDivers logo and jeans. The dark denim barely contains her
curves, and when she leans over, I can’t help but imagine being behind her with my hands on her hips pulling—. I startle when
Ma clears her throat beside me. “She’s a keeper, that one,” she says. I mumble something, but I’m embarrassed to have been
caught ogling Morgan. I’m relieved when Ma just asks me to help my Da into the Jeep for his appointment.

I’m grateful for the distraction, but even more grateful to be here to help. I know Ma would manage on her own, but as I steady
Da while he steps into the car, I think about what could happen if he fell while Ma was trying to support him. He’s so weak
these days from the treatment, he can barely hold himself upright to shuffle across the room.

I offer again to go with them, but Ma declines as usual. She’s told me before there’s always someone at the office door to
assist. I know it’s hard enough on Da’s ego to allow this small assistance, so I acquiesce.

I know I should put in some desk time and go over some bills and inventory reports, but I find myself pausing at the open door
to The Ballroom. The group is lingering over tea and muffins, chatting in twos and threes. I head in and start folding up the
chairs that were pushed against the walls. By the time I’m done, Morgan is ushering the last of the trainees out the front doors.

She turns back, sees that we’re alone for the first time, and hesitates in the doorway.

I have to break the silence. "Do you remember the time we got stuck in the elevator during that power outage at school?" I ask,
a smile tugging at my lips.

Her mouth turns up, too, as she remembers. "How could I forget? We were stuck in there for hours with Ms. Fenton’s trash. I
don’t know how that woman could eat tuna every day. I don’t know what else she put in there, but it always reeked. And you
still managed to make me laugh the whole time."

"I miss those times. When things were simpler."

Her eyes soften. "I miss them too, Riain," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper.

My heart is beating so fast in my chest. I know if I make a move now, I’m going to spook her. So instead, I start clearing the
refreshment table. She pitches in, and we move in an instinctive rhythm. Each of us following up after the other like steps we
know by heart.

As we finish up, she looks around at the clean room, the chairs neatly stacked against the wall. I watch her eyes take in
everything, making sure there’s nothing we missed. I’m too close when she turns back toward the door, and she holds out a
hand to stop herself from running into me. Her fingers are like branding irons I feel through my sweater, through the thin
undershirt. And suddenly I can’t take it anymore. I’m finished waiting for her to figure things out, I’m done being patient.

I cup her elbow and pull her toward me. There’s no resistance when I slip my arm behind her back and lower my head toward
hers. I pause for the briefest of seconds to give her a moment to move back. But she doesn’t.

Our lips collide as I press her body fully against mine. I step forward, moving her back until the edge of the table stops her. As
much as I’ve daydreamed about the taste of her I remembered, nothing compares to Morgan now. A forcefield of warmth
surrounds us, sealing us away from the rest of the world. Her lips part as soon as my tongue swipes across them, and I’m inside
her, and damn! She’s smoky nutmeg and cinnamon melting for me. She’s fire, and the flames are licking at my soul.
 Chapter 7

~ Morgan ~

I can’t breathe. I don’t want to breathe. Breathing is now unnecessary. All I need to live is Riain’s mouth on mine.

I feel his hands burning through my jeans when he cups my ass and pulls me up to table height. I wrap my legs around him, my
brain somehow registering that the table we used for refreshments would probably not support my weight for long. I cross my
ankles behind his back.

He’s moving one hand up my back to my neck and pressing my face into his, his other hand pulling the rest of me as tight against
him as I can be. I feel his hardness against me and the heat of us together is incredible. I know I’ve soaked through my panties,
and he can most likely feel the wetness through my jeans. He grinds against me, and I want to rip off all the layers between us.

My hands are holding the collar of his flannel shirt so hard, my fingers ache. He breaks away, leaving my mouth feeling empty
and cold, and I see the question in his eyes that I can’t answer, won’t answer. But I drag his head back down to warm my lips
again, and he takes that as answer enough and lifts me completely off the table.

His tongue is in my mouth as he carries me out of The Ballroom. His lips flutter down my neck as we head down the hall and
past the kitchen and the restrooms. His mouth suckles the spot at my shoulder that elicits an involuntary moan from me when
we’re well into a storeroom. My ass bounces a little as he walks, and with each step forward his erection is rubbing the seam
of my jeans against my clit. I’m barely aware of where we’re heading until he reaches the narrow steps.

Only then do I lean back and whisper, “Your parents…”

“Out,” he mumbles with his mouth still hunting for more of me to devour. He pushes my back against the wall of the stairwell,
and one hand slides my shirt up. His fingers leave a trail of burning sparks on my skin, and I duck my head through the tee when
he lifts it.

The need to have him touching me is beautiful and excruciating at the same time, and I hear myself whimper when he finally
pulls my bra away enough to cover me with his hand. When he dips his head and takes my nipple in his mouth, all breath leaves
my body. My legs lose the strength to stay gripped around him and slide down.

I’m surprised to hear my boots clutter on the step. It jars me, and for a second, I’m very self-aware. I move a hand to push him
back so I can think for a minute, but then he’s twining our fingers together, bringing my hand to his mouth. His lips trail up my
arm, back to my neck, and I’m lost again. I push his sweater over his head instead, wanting his skin pressed to mine.

He unzips my jeans and gives them a shove down enough to squeeze his hand in. His fingers brush over my clit, and I almost
orgasm with that barely-there touch. Then he’s farther down, swiping through the juices pooled just inside my lips. He slides a
finger inside me. Out, and then in again. A second finger joins the first, and my world explodes. Waves crash over me and I’m
swimming in circles of sparkling lights.
He swoops me up and jogs the rest of the way up the stairs. My head is still spinning when he drops me onto a bed with a
bounce, and he’s pulling my jeans the rest of the way off. I feel his mouth on my ankles moments before he circles them with his
hands and pulls me to the edge of the mattress, pressing between my legs. His mouth is pillaging mine, his hands tunneling
under me to pull me closer.

“Tell me you want me…” he whispers in my ear. I feel him at my entrance. So close to being inside of me. I gasp at the
electricity that shoots through my body.

I don’t speak.

I can’t speak.

My words are trapped in my throat.

I’m forced to find my voice when he grinds against me, sliding back and forth through the evidence of my orgasm. Somehow I
know he won’t give me what I want if I don’t answer. If he isn’t inside me three seconds ago, I swear I’ll break down and sob.

“I want you,” the words are shaky, but they’re out there. “So fucking bad,” I admit.

He doesn’t move.

Oh, my god.

Why?

“I’m on the pill,” I sputter out. Is that why he’s hesitating? I open my eyes to see him staring like he’s trying to memorize me in
these few seconds.

“Okay, thank you.” He blows out a breath. “I mean, it’s okay. If you weren’t we’d... We’d do something different. Be safe.” His
voice is trembling, and I’m not sure if it’s nervousness or passion. But then he pushes into me.

Slowly.

Too slowly.

Inch by fucking inch.

Much too slowly.

“So tight.” He breathes out the words and thrusts harder to fill me with the rest of him all at once. “The only pussy I’ve ever
wanted in life.”

His words cause the tiny hairs on the back of my neck to stand up. His grip on my hips tightens as his thrusts become stronger. I
hear the legs of the bedframe scratch against the wooden floor from the force. He plunges in and out of me, and the pressure
builds higher and higher inside of me with each stroke.

The tip of his tongue trails the outside of my ear, making me shudder. “I’ve never stopped loving you.” His words come out in
jagged breaths. “I can’t let you go now. I swear. Not after this. Not after you’re taking it so fucking good for me.”
Chills ripple across my skin at his words. I shiver from the intensity I feel surrounding us, filling us, and overflowing. I close
my eyes and stars shoot across my eyelids. I didn’t think it was possible, but he picks up speed. I don’t realize I’m crying out
until I hear my own voice ringing in my ears.

My hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in as my pussy clenches his cock even tighter. Riain pushes into me so hard, I
feel him pound against my cervix. That sweet bit of pain biting into the pleasure tips me over the edge and I’m falling into a
maelstrom.

“Fuuuuuuck!” He growls out as he slams into me, filling me up with all of him until I feel drips of our combined moisture
slipping out and down my ass to the blanket beneath me.
 Chapter 8

~Riain ~

Morgan stirs against my side and makes a sleepy sound that shoots straight to my cock. She drifted into slumber as soon as I
tucked her next to me. I wonder briefly if she’s getting enough sleep at night, but when she slides her leg over my thigh, I lose
that train of thought.

She feels warm and smooth. Her muscles flex under my hand... And strong. I think about all the times lately I’ve sneaked peeks
at her at the gym. She can lift almost as much as I can, and I’m impressed as hell.

Her face burrows against my shoulder, and the softness that hits my heart is almost as strong as the need to be inside her again.
But only almost.

I slide my body away from hers, rolling her gently onto her back. I try not to wake her while I shift her legs apart and nuzzle the
smooth spot between her legs with my nose. There’s nothing keeping her from my view. I slide my tongue between her lips and
the taste of her on my tongue makes me hungry. I lick at her clit and she stirs.

I give it a suckle and she murmurs my name. Fuck if that doesn’t sound like the best music in the world... I’d give a lot to hear
my name from her lips this way for the rest of my life.

I push one finger inside of her, and I feel her hands tangle into my hair. Good. I have her attention now. She’s still soaked in
both of our orgasms, but when I pull again at her clit and give a slight scrape with my teeth a fresh wave of wetness drizzles
down my chin. Damn, my cock is so hard against the edge of the mattress. I can’t help but grind against it just a little, but I want
her to cum before I sink into her.

I slide another finger inside her and set a rhythm. She says my name louder this time, and I pick up the pace. Her hips move into
me, pressing hard against my knuckles. I feel her walls flutter and tighten around me, and I curl my fingertips, searching for the
sweet spot. Two passes is all it takes, and she grinds against my mouth and screams. I disengage my fingers and use my tongue
to flick against her clit until she screams again and almost twists off the edge of the bed.

I smile as I let her rest a few seconds, but I need to dive into her like I need air to breathe. I push my body between her legs and
press myself to her entrance. I give a couple of shallow strokes to make sure I’m coated enough to slide in, and then I push fully
into her with a long, hard thrust. “Fuck, Riain,” she breathes out the words.

When I look down, her eyes lock onto mine, and I feel myself sinking deeper. I want to reach all the way inside of her, take up
all available space. I want her heart. Fuck, I want her soul.

I try to keep my strokes steady because I want these moments to last forever. But when her eyes close and I feel her sweet
pussy gripping me harder, I know she’s about to cum. I give in and push as hard and as fast as I can. I feel her whole body
tighten, and her nails scrape over my shoulder blades, sending me straight over the edge. My release pulses into her as she
quivers in my arms.
I drop my forehead to hers while we both exhale ragged breaths.

“Riain?”

I hear my name floating up the stairs and Morgan’s eyes fly up to mine. Crap! My parents are back, and Ma probably needs my
help.

“It’s ok,” I tell her and ease out of her and off the edge of the bed. I’m pulling my jeans on as she scrambles around for her
clothes. We remember at the same time her shirt is still on the stairs. “Fuck,” I curse and I see her cringe, surely not at the
words, but probably at the thought of Ma coming around the kitchen at any second.

She follows me, hopping a little while she pulls on one boot and then the other.

“Riain?” Ma’s voice sounds again. Closer this time.

“I’m coming, Ma!” I shout as I jog down the steps, scooping up Moran’s shirt as I go. I toss it up to her, and she catches it,
pulling it over her head in one smooth movement. She ducks back just as Ma peeks around the corner.

“I stopped at Coral’s and she had Jasmine run some sandwiches out for us,” Ma tells me. I come into the kitchen as she’s
setting a couple of takeout bags on the counter.

“Ma, I would’ve cooked. Or I could’ve ordered something. You didn’t need to do that. You have enough on your plate.”

She pats my face and pulls me in for a hug. “I just wanted something quick,” she says. She walks with me to the front doors.

I’m holding the door for Ma and Morgan appears from the hall with her coat over her arm. She’s tucking her hair into a beanie I
haven’t seen before, her face is flushed, and I know she doesn’t want Ma to see her. I prop the door open and Ma heads to the
Jeep she’s pulled up to the doors.

“Riain Conor Kelley,” Ma exclaims. “Put on some shoes before you come out in this weather." She turns to Da, fussing over
getting his coat buttoned up, and his scarf around his neck.

I motion to Morgan, and she tiptoes out the door. I grab her close for a moment and press a quick kiss to her forehead and she's
gone, rushing toward the docks. I wonder briefly where she’s headed and assume she’s going back to the FreeDivers’s office.

When I look back to the Jeep, Da’s eyes meet mine. He seems tired but sharp and aware, and his slight grin tells me he didn’t
miss Morgan’s hurried exit. I know there will be a private conversation over the next few days when he’s feeling better, but he
doesn’t seem at all upset about it.
 Chapter 9

~ Morgan ~

I knock on The Starlet’s door after yelling from the edge of the dock before boarding. I know Madison and Lucius are here
since the nursery is being painted and Lucius has been overbearing about bubble-wrapping Mads. His brother, Andreu, usually
docks the boat farther south during the winter, but he’s graciously left it for the happy couple until they get things settled with
their house.

Madison opens the door with a smile and ushers me in with a quick hug. Her smile drops, though when she examines my face.
“What happened?”

“I slept with Riain.” I blurt it out before I can deliberate with myself. I walk to the wall of windows at the bow where there are
tons of shopping bags piled on one side of the sectional.

“Was it that awful?” Madison asks, and I turn.

“Oh, God! It was fabulous,” I tell her. “It was better than I remember it ever being between us.”

Madison laughs. “Well, he has had some time to gain expertise. I may need details later.”

My laugh comes out more as a scoff.

“Cami told me she set you two up on a date and it didn’t go well. She feels so bad about it. I can’t believe he had to pull you
out of the road, though. You need to pay more attention, Morgan; I can’t lose you! This baby needs her auntie.” She rubs her
barely-there baby bump, and I feel myself soften for a moment.

This pregnancy was not planned, but Lucius has been more than supportive, and Madison is surprisingly tolerant of his need to
pamper her. I was shocked at first, but now I’m pretty happy about it. She’s worked so hard to have her name out in the fashion
world, she needs someone to help her with having a real life. I also love that he’s keeping her tethered in Maine.

“So why the face then?”

I pace back and forth as Madison settles herself on the couch with her slippered feet primly crossed at the ankles. “Ugh, I don’t
know. He’s freaking famous?”

She laughs. “He does have a very successful career. I’ve tried to tempt him to walk a show for me a couple of times, but he has
an iron-clad contract.” Her head follows my pacing, and I would normally find it comical, but I’m super stressed.

“His agent called him at least four times during that ‘date’,” I tell her. “Seems like they’re desperate to get him back to work.”
“I assume he didn’t take the calls while he was out with you, or I’ll lose respect for him. But why is that a problem?” Trust
Madison to ask the hard questions. Not to mention, she is blending her own two worlds like she's a pro.

I toss my beanie onto the coffee table and bury my hands in my hair. “H-he left,” I stammer out. “He came back once. We
fought, and it was horrible. Then he never showed his face again.”

“Did he say how long he’s staying now?”

“No, but he LEFT!” I’m on the verge of crying. As usual, Madison is so, so calm and I’m a wreck. She gives me a look like a
patient parent waiting for their kid to make the right choice. “What?”

“Honey, that was a long time ago,” Madison says softly. “You were both young and figuring out who you were.”

This is the point where I realize I’m talking to the wrong person. In this moment, she is not my sister. She’s the other person
who left for the bright lights of the city, while I stayed and made a home, and took care of the people I loved. Alone.

But she’s still talking. “...can ask him what his plans are, so you can set your own expectations.” I know she means well, and
she loves me. There’s just no way she can see my side since she is also a leaver.

“Thanks for the pep talk, sis.” I pull my beanie back on and head for the door.

“Morgan, wait.” Madison leaps up and puts her hand on my arm. But I turn and push back out into the wind.

***

Thankfully, no events are scheduled today, and I’m especially glad to get off work early. Lucius has been eyeing me all morning
like Madison said something to him about last night.

Normally, I’d be fine dumping my woes on his very wide shoulders, and things have not really changed much between us since
he and Madison fell in love. We still grab a beer after work sometimes. We still push each other at the gym with friendly but
competitive jabs. We still predict each other's movements with accuracy at work. There is actually more of an ease between us
since the underlying question of us being anything other than friends has been resolved.

I’m not sure why it’s still bothering me that he thought Madison was me when they met, and she allowed him to believe it. I’m
happy for my sister and for my friend that they found their Person. It had been years since we twin-swapped, but it was always
something we delighted in. I know there was no malice in it. So I fight that nagging edge of unwarranted bitterness, but I still
don’t divulge the thoughts nose-diving in my brain to Lucius.

I skip Thursday lunch with the ladies. I just... Can’t. I can’t face Madison. I can’t face the questions or sympathetic looks from
my friends.

On the drive home, I pick up a takeout order from Coral’s, which I don’t feel like eating. I see I’ve missed a couple of texts
from Riain, a call from Madison, a text from Cami, and I have a voicemail from the nursing home where Mom is. I listen to the
voicemail long enough to know it isn’t an emergency and hang up. I press the power button and throw the phone into the bag
sitting open on the floorboard.

Once I’m inside my little apartment, I flop onto the couch with a blanket, playing scenes from yesterday over and over in my
mind. Monster Miss wriggles her fluffy white body onto my shoulder and purrs until she falls asleep. Evening brings the
darkness, but the flashes of heat and skin continue on repeat.
 ***

My whole body jars awake, and I sit up. Monster Miss hisses when she’s jolted from her comfortable spot on my shoulder. I
look around... Ugh, I fell asleep on the couch. I rub my face with both hands.

A knock on the front door sounds, and I wonder if that’s what woke me. Emotions rush back into me, and I can’t breathe for a
second. Then I wonder which one of my friends got voted to come check on me.

I look out the peep hole.

Fuck.

It’s Riain.

I can’t ignore him. My car is in plain view in the drive.

I crack the door open about an inch, and I’m instantly surrounded by the aroma of cheese and tomato sauce and sizzling meat. I
knew I was going to forget to eat lunch!

My mouth waters. Suddenly I want food so much more than I want to wallow and pout. I fling the door open wider and motion
him in.

“Good to see you’re alive,” Riain jokes. “I was about to call in the FBI!”

I ignore him and go straight to the important part. I lift the lid of the top box with my index finger before he can even close the
door. My eyes roll back in my head in sheer delight, and I pluck out one fat piece of cheese and bacon loaded carbohydrates. I
raise it to my mouth and moan when it hits my taste buds. It is so delicious that I do a little spin of happiness while I flip on
lights on my way to the kitchen to grab drinks and napkins.

I pop the tops off a couple of beers, and hand one off to Riain who is making himself comfortable. I see he’s taken my couch
blanket and folded it into a neat nest on the arm that Monster Miss has deemed her new throne. She’s peering at him with
curiosity, or evil plotting. I can’t be sure which. Her head is tilted sideways and her white whiskers twitch; her bright blue
eyes tracking his every movement. I start to warn him of her penchant for pouncing but decide to let nature take its course.

The boxes are both open on the coffee table now, and I snag a piece topped with multiple meats and veggies. I let myself plop
to the couch and tuck my toes under my legs. I practically inhale the piece of pizza.

Riain grabs a piece of his own and brings it to his mouth, closing his eyes as he takes a bite. I watch his face as he chews. The
structure of his face has always been perfect symmetry. Perfect except that one tiny scar on the left of his chin that I never see in
his close ups. They must use makeup to cover it or airbrush it away in Photoshop. I don’t know. But I remember when it
happened.

It was a camping trip our freshman year. Mr. Kelley had chaperoned us along with Dad. Madison and I had shared a tent with
two other girls. She hated every minute of it, but she kept up an entertaining, gossipy conversation on our walk to the waterfall
and then found a rock to perch like a mermaid on. The boys were doing flips into the water and pushing each other back and
forth. Three of them tangled up together and tumbled down the rocks and I’d held my breath until we knew they were all okay.
They were all banged up and showed off their “battle scars” for weeks until we were all annoyed and not at all impressed.
Riain was left with only a very small scar, which he complained about for longer than anyone wanted to hear.

I see Monster’s paw reaching out for Riain’s pizza. He senses the movement, and his head turns toward her just in time to see
her snatch a ball of sausage right off the top. She grabs it in her mouth and leaps into mid-air as I reach for her. She dodges my
hand and tears off into a dark corner of the apartment with her prize. I lose my balance and Riain catches me with his free hand,
keeping me from falling onto the coffee table.

We collapse back on the couch, giggling like children. I'm amazed neither beer toppled, and he’s still holding his pizza slice. I
make a toast to his skills, we tap our bottles together, and then chug until they’re empty.

Then the laughter settles, and Riain’s expression turns serious.

“Mads called me at the pub,” he says quietly. “I called you a few times to make sure you were ok, too. I guess your friends
couldn’t reach you either.”

I sigh and shake my head. “I turned my phone off. Then I fell asleep on the couch.”

“Morgan, are you okay? With... With what happened between us yesterday?” Riain asks. He doesn’t look at me. His eyes watch
Monster Miss slowly emerging in her stalker persona. She slinks low to the ground, one slow step at a time, as if we can’t see
her. I wonder for a quick second if he’s nervous about my answer.

The memory of his mouth against my skin floods me. The dark heat of his tongue lingering, the air cooling the trail as he travels
down and down...

“Morgan.” He brings my attention back to the face-the-music conversation. “Say something, please?”
 Chapter 10

~ Riain ~

I’m holding my breath, waiting for Morgan’s response.

“I-It was...” Morgan stutters, and I feel my heart fall into the dark pit of my stomach. She’s obviously thinking about what to
say. It must be bad.

“Amazing,” she finally finishes.

I breathe out, and it sounds harsh although that isn’t my intent.

“Fuck, Morgan. I’ve been wanting to touch you that way since I got back. Well, since I left, actually.”

Her beautiful face goes slack. “Why didn’t you come back for me?” she whispers.

“I tried,” I whisper back. “I tried, but you only wanted me to be here, and I had to work.”

Her eyes shimmer, and I know she’s remembering the fight we had on my one visit home. The way we yelled at each other and
smashed everything in the room. I can see the storm clouds gathering in her eyes, reflecting the hurricane of emotions I once
knew so well. Her voice barely audible, she murmurs, "That agent. She offered you the world..."

With a heavy sigh, I nod, my throat tightening with gratitude, regret, and uncertainty. "It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."
My voice tinged with bittersweetness. "I had to go back to New York. I had to sign the contract. I had to take it. I didn’t fully
understand the consequences. I didn’t understand how drastically my life would change. But I had to do it."

"You chose fame," Morgan nods like she understands, coldness edging her voice. The warmth and acceptance that sparkled in
her eyes last night have been replaced by anger and hurt. My heart sinks.

"Morgan, no. It wasn't like that," I start out, even though I hate my pleading tone. She interrupts me.

"You chose fame over love, Riain." Her voice is calm, but the hurt underneath is undeniable. "You left everything here. You left
me. For that blinding spotlight. Now you want to step back into this life for what? A few months to help your parents? A
BREAK from the flashing lights?"

I flinch at her sharp words. I know she’s referencing my unfortunate request the last time I was here.

“It isn’t an excuse, Morgan, but we were both so young. There were things I didn’t feel I could talk to you about. I know I
should have reached out. I didn’t mean to abandon you. There was such a whirlwind of events, photo shoots, training, and time
became unmanageable. I know it’s cliche, but by the time I realized it, it had been so long I assumed you’d forgotten about me.”
I make up my mind to explain it to her… If she lets me.

I reach out to her. I know my hand is trembling. My heart is begging her to bridge the growing chasm between us. "Morgan,
I…" My words falter, but I take a deep breath.

Then she does it. She covers my hand with hers, and I suddenly feel like I can take on any task as long as she doesn’t let go.

"My family was struggling. We were about to lose the pub. You remember that fancy new restaurant that opened across the
street around that time?"

Morgan nods slowly, "Yeah, 'The Classy Clam'. It didn't last long. Maybe a year or two."

"Exactly. The owners sold it and left town after they realized they couldn’t keep up with the high-end menu and still offer
competitive pricing. Right then, though, we were on the verge of closing. Ma and Da wouldn’t talk about it, but I heard the calls
with vendors. I saw our inventory dwindling. They laid off all the staff. I felt helpless, watching them struggle, watching my
father working day and night to keep our doors open. When Shannon... When the agency approached me with the offer, and a
hefty paycheck... Well, it was my chance to save us."

"You should have told me, Riain," Morgan says. "I would have understood your decision a lot better and not think you left so
selfishly."

"I know," I sigh. “I know you would have understood.”

"I would’ve done what I could to help them out. I would’ve gotten the community involved. You didn't give me a chance. You
made the choice and expected me to just be okay with it."

"It was a family thing, Morgan. They were so private with their financial situation. They wouldn’t even talk to me about it.
They wouldn’t have wanted other people to know. I didn't mean to hurt you. I was making the best decision I could at the time."

“I get it, Riain, I do,” Morgan says.

My phone rings in my pocket, and I pull it out. “Ugh, Shannon.” I mutter and hit the decline button. I look back up at Morgan
and her eyes are downcast. I can’t see her expression. The phone rings again immediately.

“Just take your call, Riain,” she says. She picks up a toy from the floor that looks like a plastic wand with feathers and ribbons
hanging from it. She shakes it, and I hear jingle bells under the sound of my ringtone. The cat comes running to bat at the
feathers. She stands on her hind legs and attacks the ribbons as Morgan shakes the toy.

“Ok,” I say. “If you’re sure.” Morgan just continues playing with the cat, so I step to the front door and answer the call.
“Shannon.” I hold the phone away from my ear as my agent launches into a loud litany of all my recent transgressions. I step out
and pull the door behind me. “I know. I hear you.” I say, interrupting her. “But we’ve had this conversation several times.”
 Chapter 11

~ Morgan ~

I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. But Riain didn’t close the door all the way. I could hear him arguing with his agent about a shoot
she wanted to schedule. It sounded like he was saying no, but there was too much back and forth for it to be definitive.

I want him to say no.

I want him to stay here in Bearberry Bay.

I want him to stay with me.

I gather up the pizza boxes, napkins, and beer bottles and take them to the kitchen counter. More so I stop listening than any true
need to clean up.

I’m standing at the sink with the water running trying to decide how I feel about this new information when I feel his hands at
my waist. I feel the heat of him against my back moments before he pulls me into him. His breath brushes down my neck before
I feel the almost rough edge of his trimmed beard against my skin. It reminds me of the roughened patch on my inner thigh
where that beard rubbed while he was— I squeal at the slight nip of his teeth on my ear lobe.

He turns me in the circle of his arms and we’re facing each other. At least we are once he tips my chin up with one finger.
“Whatever you’re thinking, Morgan, we should probably talk about it instead of you stewing over it.”

“I’m done with thinking today, Riain.” I tell him, suddenly feeling how exhausted my brain is from worrying about him leaving
at any moment.

He steps back and I’m disappointed with the chill that creeps in where his warmth had been. “Text your sister, Morgan.” His
voice is gruff. “Let her know you’re alive, so she doesn’t show up here while I help you continue to not-think.”

My breath hitches. Does he mean what I think he means?

I step around him to head back into the living room, and his hand cups my ass in a soft smack that turns into a caress as I move
by.

By the time my phone powers on and multitude of notification pings stop, my panties are drenched, and my hands are shaking.
Was he really announcing his intent to... I shiver. Damn.

My thumb stumbles trying to scroll through the messages to Madison’s. I skim though her apologies and pleas to call and force
myself to focus on a message.
“I’m okay, geez.” I hit send.

“Oh, thank God!” Her reply comes in so fast I wonder if she’s been waiting right by the phone. “You throw your phone off the
dock?”

“No, silly, I’m using it now.” I send a laughing face emoji. “I took a nap. And Riain showed up with pizza.” I send.

“Good. You eat? We were worried.” She asks like a protective big sister, and it warms me that she still tries to take on that
role with her whole two-minute age gap.

“Yeah, a beer, too.”

Riain pulls the phone from my hands, taps out a message, and powers it off again. “You were taking too long,” he growls at the
surprise on my face.

And then his mouth is on mine. One hand is tunneling into my hair, and the other is on my back, pulling me almost roughly
against him. His tongue tastes like beer and the slight tang of tomato sauce, but then I lose conscious thought and it’s all about
feeling.

The rasp of his moustache against my lip, the texture of his tongue against mine. The heat of his chest under my hands. My heart
pounds out a beat I swear I can actually hear, and my blood pushes through my veins in a rush that makes me need his touch.
Everywhere.

His hands are under my sweater, leaving a path of flames in their wake. I barely register he’s unhooked my bra until he’s
cupping one breast and running his fingers over the hard nipple of the other. He gives a soft pinch and more moisture seeps
through my panties. He increases the pressure of his pinch, and I moan into his mouth. He pushes up my sweater, and I strip it
off not caring where it lands. Then his mouth is trailing down my neck, across my collarbone, between my breasts. My breath
catches in my throat when his lips finally latch on to one nipple while his fingers tease the other.

He takes his hands and mouth away, leaving frost where heat had been. The suddenness is painful, and I hear a whimper escape
my lips.

Then he’s pressing his naked chest against mine, and I sigh in relief. His mouth is back, hot and wet, and the pulsing need has
me pulling against his belt. It slips easily enough without looking, and I reach in before I even undo the zip. He’s already
straining against the fit of his slacks, but when my fingers slide in between his cock and his belly, I feel him twitch and grow
even harder.

Fuck, he needs to be inside of me.

I fumble with the zipper with my other hand until his hand covers mine and pulls it down with ease. I feel more than see or hear
the corduroy of his slacks slide down his legs and he’s pushing off his boots with one hand and stepping out. I grab at the
waistband of his boxer briefs and push them down his hips and my hands now have room to cup and stroke and give a gentle
tug. My hunger for him ebbs for a moment while I’m fascinated with the weight of him, the shape, the way he moves when I
touch just there.

Riain spins us, disentangles my hands, and settles down on the couch. I pout at the loss of my plaything, but he has my jeans and
panties shoved down my legs before I know it and is sliding them over my socks, one foot at a time. I move to touch him again,
and he pulls me down until I’m straddling his lap. I can feel his cock pressing between my legs and play time is over.

I move my hips to exactly the right spot and the head of his cock is nudged between my lips. I feel his gasp where his face is
pressed to my neck. His response is enough to encourage me to shift a little farther down, then I pull up and slide down even
more.

“Fuck, Morgan,” his words are crushed against my skin, but I still hear them. The fog of desire that had muffled everything
except the feel of him before has dissipated into sharp, clear notes that scream power.

I force myself to slide slowly up and back down, and I feel his teeth grind together. It sends a rush of exhilaration through my
body I’ve never felt before.

His hands go to my hips to push me down, but I grab them and lace our fingers together. He curses as I set a slow pace, not
quite settling as far as he can go, and it makes me smile. In this moment, there is zero doubt that he wants me. I want this to last
forever. If I can just keep this pace, I can keep him here, tethered to my body.

But the friction makes me hungrier, and the slower I go the more I want. I feel pressure building inside of me. My pussy gives
an involuntary squeeze and I’m shocked to feel him grow even harder. I release his hands to tunnel my hands through his hair,
bringing his mouth back to my nipples. His hands hit my hips as soon as I’m grinding onto him. He lifts and then pushes me
down so hard, so fast, I’m at the edge of climax.

I’m not ready to cum yet. I let my eyes wander the wall, and try to pull my focus from the way he’s taken control, but I can’t
quite. His hips rise up to meet my down stroke and I feel the head of his cock hit me as far in as he can go. We’re almost
fighting each other with the strength of each stroke. I’m trying to make it last, and he’s determined to fill every space there is.

My whole body starts to tremble, and I know I’ve lost the battle. I can tell from his growl he feels it, too. “Cum for me,
Morgan.” I barely hear the words, but there’s a demand in his whisper that washes away every bit of fight there was, every bit
of power I’d gained, into a spiraling explosion of lights behind my closed lids, sparks dancing from the core of me straight out
through my skin. A convulsing torrent of the storm sweeping through me has my hands wrapped around his hair, my nails
digging into my palms and my head drops to his shoulder with a bite, trying to hold onto my sanity.

My body loosens enough to realize he isn’t done. He’s still rocking me back and forth. My pussy is still pulsing, and I see the
effect on him each time in the way his grip tightens just a bit, the way his legs are starting to shake. Our eyes meet and he gives
me back all of the power he took from me and more as I meet his thrusts and pull every ounce of cum he has into me.

We sit like that for a few minutes, staring into each other, our breath slowing. Then he pulls me gently back against him, his face
buried between my breasts. There's a slight tightening of his arms like a hug, then he kisses my chest, my neck, and pulls me
down until our foreheads touch.

There are emotional words hanging in the air between us, both of us silent. Then I feel our combined juices slipping down, and
I become gravely concerned about the status of my couch cushions. Riain sees my face and gives a chuckle. I follow his eyes
down and see that he had the foresight to throw his tee shirt beneath us as he sat down. Still... I feel his grip release me, and
we’re both laughing as I get up slowly, as if that helps. I make a quick step to the washroom to clean up.

By the time I come out, he’s pulled his slacks on, and he’s holding out my underwear. I gratefully accept them and the gift of not
having to fumble around bent over to retrieve them, although he would probably find some delight in that.

“I brought dessert.” He says as I’m tugging my panties up.

I blink. “You did,” I murmur. “You did, indeed.”

He laughs out loud, and my eyes jump to his. God help me; he’s even more beautiful when he laughs. I’m so doomed.

“I mean real dessert,” he says.

My eyebrows go up in a question.

“Blueberry cheesecake slices.” He cocks his head to the side like a curious pup. “From Cloud Nine.”

I feel myself salivating. “Oooh.” Cami would’ve guided him to that choice. She knows how much I love that cheesecake, and
she only rarely bakes it.

“I’ll make you a deal...” He’s watching me pull up the straps on my bra. “If you don’t put that on, I’ll run out to the truck and get
the cheesecake.”

I look at his naked chest and his feet in just socks. “In just that?” I up the ante.

“Sure,” he grins that same mischievous twelve-year-old grin I remember so well. It’s even better than his laugh, and I
physically feel the hook sink deep into my chest and tug the thread between us tight. Fuck. I was trying not to let that happen.

I can’t resist that face. I drop the bra and watch his eyes light up. He gives me a scorching, very not-twelve scan and heads out
the door. In the minute he’s gone, I put on a kettle of water, prep cups with tea bags, and get out forks and small plates.

Riain bursts back through the door, pushing it closed with a swooping gesture. “It’s freaking snowing,” he exclaims as he
bounds to the kitchen. Then he presses his freezing chest against my back. I shriek and jump away, leaving him laughing and
trying not to drop the take-out bag. I rescue it quickly, peeling back the little cloud sticker while I admire the cream-colored
cloud with Cami’s logo. There are the cutest tiny, pink and yellow origami birds flittering about on the sky-blue bag. I know
Cami and Serena just redesigned all the paper products. I have to remember to mention it with my thanks in the morning and
apologize for bailing on lunch.

I pour the boiling water from the kettle over tea bags, drop in a spoon of sugar, two spoons for me, and a bit of cream. As I’m
moving the cake slices to the plates, I feel Riain come back into the kitchen. I turn and he pulls his sweater over my head. I
slide my arms into the sleeves and I’m grateful for the warmth. Riain stays shirtless and helps bring everything over to the
table.

When we’re seated, I scoop a bit of cheesecake and it’s halfway to my mouth when he stops me with a sound. “That one’s
mine,” he says, holding up his own forkful for me to sample. And so we feed each other, and I find it funny and romantic at the
same time. I’m mid-giggle when he notices the tea tags. “Barry’s, huh.”

I know my face flushes. “It’s your Ma’s influence,” I tell him. “From all those cups of tea at the pub when I really just wanted
to try the ale.”

“We tried the ale.” He reminds me. I don’t need the reminder, though. I’d hated the thick, dark beer he snuck out for us. But I’d
drunk it anyway, so he’d think I was cool, and I threw it up later while Madison held my hair.

I make a face. “You picked the worst one for us all to try!”

“I know,” he says. “It was awful. I like it now, though. It makes me smile.”
 Chapter 12

~Riain ~

I’ve been delighted to be here in Morgan’s little sanctuary this evening. It’s filled with shades of sand, the blues and aquas of
the sea, and scattered glints of gold. It suits her perfectly. She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met, and watching her tease
and play along with me like we used to do as kids fills me with a warmth I’ve only ever felt with my parents. She’s fierce and
works endlessly for what she wants. Not to mention, just the thought of her makes me hard as fuck.

I hate to leave her, but I need to help Ma close up the pub. When I say it out loud, Morgan is quick to her feet, offering to help. I
considered taking her with me and having to return her to the apartment. It would be late and maybe she’d be sleepy on the way
home and need to be tuck—

No. I shut down that very selfish train of thought. Morgan has to work early in the morning, and I’m pretty sure she said she’s
pulling the Saturday shift. So I help clear the table, pull on my boots, and tug my sweater over Morgan’s head. Her nipples are
hard and reddened. I don’t know it that’s from my mouth earlier, or from rubbing the fibers of the sweater. I kiss them each
gently, her slight gasp almost changing my mind about leaving.

But I do hold her against me for a long moment. “Thank you, Morgan.” She looks up at me in question. “For letting me in
tonight.”

“No,” she answers. “Thank you. For letting me in and telling me the true reason you left.”

I squeeze her and leave before I can’t.

***

I stop back into Cloud Nine the next morning after drooling over Morgan’s workout with Lucius. I’m sure I scowled at him
between the moments I spent watching Morgan move. I don’t know how she can be so cheery with him after what she told me
happened.

I specifically want to chat with Cami about Serena, who technically works for Kaiden, Cami’s husband. I’d met them both at a
charity function a few months before I got the news about Da and headed back to town. Serena’s the marketing guru who helped
Cami turn the bakery her father considered a hobby into a thriving business with both walk-in traffic and more internet orders
than she can keep up with from townsfolk and many of the neighboring cities. Cami had told me they have a delivery truck at a
local body shop being wrapped now so they can offer more catering services.

The cashier is busy with a line of customers, but Cami peeks around from the kitchen and waves me over, wiping her hands on
a towel tucked into her apron. Her black mane is pulled up in some kind of fancy bun on top of her head, her face is flushed,
and she has a tiny smudge of flour on her cheek. Her eyes smile at me, the blue so deep one could almost sink into them and
happily drown.
“Thank you for checking on Morgan last night.” her voice is so low I doubt anyone else can hear. “I had a last minute order I
had to finish, and I couldn’t shake loose. Mads said you texted her from Morgan’s phone.” Her face flushes even more, so I
assume Madison had passed along the “turning this back off now” innuendo I’d sent.

“It was my pleasure.” I say, and it comes out a little rough with the memory of Morgan in my lap squeezing the life out of my
cock fresh in my mind.

Cami giggles.

I clear my throat and state my business. “I was hoping you would share Serena’s services with me. Or maybe can she
recommend someone.”

Cami's surprised for a second, but she goes into business owner mode immediately. She gets a card from her office and hurries
it back to me. She gives me a few bullet points on steps Serena has worked on with her. “Are you looking to expand the pub?”
She asks.

“I’d like to reopen for lunch, but I need to get the word out and re-work the menus,” I tell her. “I’m going to need to hire a
barback to help do some of the running and nightly cleanup, and someone else who can work directly with Da to learn his
recipes.”

“Oh, talk to Lucius.” Cami suggests. “He has a protege who is graduating from high school in the fall. Rafe is super
responsible, and he’ll be able to recommend a friend for your barback position.” I must’ve made a face at the mention of
Lucius because Cami looks confused for a moment. But she continues. “What kind of kitchen experience are you thinking
about?”

I laugh. “Oh, Da would have a fit if someone came in and tried to run his kitchen, so someone young who is willing to work his
way. Someone who will accept a lowly public title in exchange for a little more pay on the side.”

Cami laughs and I swear it’s like hearing some magical woodland fairy sound. I shake my head to dispel the notion. Everyone
seems to worship the ground she walks on. I know I felt enveloped in welcome from the minute she discovered we were from
the same town. “...know some chefs much surlier than your father!” She recounts a story of an outlandishly churlish European
chef who ruled his kitchen with fear and incredibly sharp knives. She has me laughing with her description of a near-stabbing
incident.

She looks up and waves over a man about my age in chinos and a polo. “Have you met Tom Hilton?” she asks and introduces
us. “Tom owns the bookshop next door.”

A timer goes off in the back, and Cami steps away, promising to check with the local community college for someone fresh out
of their basic culinary classes who might fit my description.

Tom has been to the pub and asks about my parents. We talk a little about some of the medical challenges Da has been dealing
with. He seems familiar with the medical scene, and I learn he has a young son on the autism spectrum. He checks his watch
and announces he has a shipment arriving and has to go. There’s still a line at the counter, but I see the cashier slide over a take
out bag and a coffee.

“That Gracie!” he exclaims as he comes back by. “She sure is a blessing.”

“Can I tag along?” I ask. It’s an unexpected impulse and I’m as surprised as he is. “Sure thing,” he says. “I could use some
company.”

I spend the rest of the morning helping Tom rearrange displays and talking about the ins and out of running a small-town
business. He seems hesitant at first, but the more comfortable he gets, the more he opens up.

I learn his late wife, Lydia, had been in my graduating class at school. I’m pretty sure I remember her being shy and studious,
often in the library shushing my boisterous group of friends. I feel a stab of sadness hearing about the cancer that took her so
young, but at least he laughs when I tell him my memory of her. They’d met at UMaine in a library and media studies class.
Then they’d come back to her hometown where she’d spent a few years as the librarian at the elementary school and he’d
taught middle school science. Then she fell in love with the idea of opening a bookstore of her own, and Bearberry Bookshelf
was born.

I leave with a complimentary copy of the latest thriller for my help and the odd feeling that I’d made a new friend. I haven’t had
friends since I left this town. I’ve had colleagues, but not friends. It felt even odder not to have bonded over beer and sports,
but I liked that it was more... Real.
 Chapter 13

~ Morgan ~

I’m pulling on the spare jeans I keep in my locker for days like this when we come back completely soaked through when I get
Madi’s text to meet at Kelley’s for dinner. Something about Serena wanting to see it in action that I didn’t understand. I see
there’s a million messages in the group chat I’ve missed. I sigh. It’s been a long, cold day.

I jump when Angela comes in from the dispatch office. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs when she sees she startled me. She peers back
around at the front door.

She isn’t usually here this late. “Everything okay?” I ask.

“Just waitin' for you,” she says. “James left earlier, and I didn’t want you to walk out alone.” I finish pulling on a pair of thick
socks, flexing my almost frozen toes. It feels good to be dry.

Angela’s phone buzzes, and she almost drops it. She checks the screen, and I see her blink fast like she’s trying not to cry. Her
hands are shaking.

“Ang.”

She looks at me. Yes, those are tears pooling in her big gray eyes. “Okay,” she whispers. “I was actually hopin' you’d walk me
out.”

“What’s going on?” She starts to speak but stops. It seems like she can’t get words out. Then she sighs and holds out her phone
to me.

It’s open to a text thread and the most recent message says, “I know where you work, and I’ll be there soon.”

I scan the preceding texts, and I’m horrified at the barely veiled threats dated this last week.

“Bitch, you can’t hide from me.”

“She’s mine. You can’t keep her from me.”

“I’m going to find you."

“You’ll be sorry you left.”

“Angie! Holy shit!” I look up at her. One hand is wrapped tight around her stomach and the other is covering her mouth. I leap
up and wrap my arms around her. She sags against my shoulder and sobs rip through her. We stand there like that for a long
time.

“Have you been handling this on your own?” I ask when she finally steps back. She nods.

“Oh, Ang! This is serious.”

I pull on my boots while I fish my phone out of my bag. Lucius is still speed dial 1. He answers on the second ring. “Mads is
just blow drying her hair,” he says in way of greeting, like he thought I may have tried her first.

“Good, you haven’t left yet. Can you come to the office?”

“What’s—”

“Now, Luce?”

“On my way.” I know he hears the urgency in my tone. “Do you need me to stay on the line?” he asks.

“Maybe.”

I hear him call to Madison over the noise of the hair dryer that he had to go to the office for a sec and for her to wait for him.
Keys jingle and I hear him lock the door, which is rare for him. I can hear his feet hit the dock as he rushes.

“Anyone inside with you?” He asks in a low growl.

“Just me and Ang, as far as I know.”

“Where are you?”

“Locker room.”

“Lock that door. I’m here. I’m putting the phone in my pocket. Don’t hang up.”

I reach around Ang and push the locker room door closed, turning the handle to close it silently, and I turn the lock button. We
stand there together, hearing the front door open and heavy steps pacing through the offices.

“Mo?” Lucius is back on the phone.

“Yeah?”

“You’re all clear.”

I realize I’ve been holding my breath and gulp in a huge lungful of air. I open the door and immediately hand over Angela’s
phone. His eyes spring to hers. “You don’t go anywhere alone,” he says, and she nods. “Does Kaiden know?”

Angela shakes her head. “I didn't say anythin’ to anyone,” she whispers.

Lucian doesn’t touch her, but he crouches so their faces are aligned. “You aren’t alone here, Ang. You’re our friend. We’re your
people.” She nods as a fresh bout of tears flow.
“Zip up your coats, ladies. It’s a cold walk to Kelley’s.”

I hold Angela’s hand as we leave the office. Madison meets us at the door of The Starlet, and we rush down the dock and into
the warmth of the pub.

Serena and Cami are already seated in one of the booths and Kaiden is walking back from the bar with a pint in one hand and
two glasses of white wine in the other. He sets them all on the table, eyeing our faces. Lucius motions him away and I watch as
Luce hands over Angela’s phone and they talk very briefly. Then Lucius goes to the bar, and Kaiden steps into the hall with his
phone to his ear.

Cami is asking Angela if she’s staying for dinner, but Ang tells her she’s already late getting home to Kaylee.

I feel the moment Riain looks my direction. Our eyes meet from across the room, and heat floods through my body. I’m drawn
over without thinking until I’m standing in front of him with the bar between us. “Hi,” he says softly. All the tension from the
day slides out of me at that one word, and I sink onto the empty bar stool next to me.

Riain places a cider in front of me and answers the call of one of the regulars arriving down the bar. He’s back quickly, and I
ask him to pack up some hot stew and soda bread to send home with Angela. He says he’ll bring it out to me and reaches
across the bar and gives my hand a squeeze. And then he’s gone again, pouring pints for the musicians setting up in the corner,
then disappearing into the kitchen.

I head back to the table. Kaiden has finished his call and is sitting with his arm on the back of the booth with Cami tucked into
his side. Lucius pushes one steaming mug into Angela’s hands then places the other in front of Madison, who has settled at the
opposite end. I see concern on all of their faces, so someone has filled them in.

I’m surprised my brain is still functioning enough to notice Lucius slip Angela’s phone and a set of keys to a dark-haired man
I’ve never seen before. The man tucks them into his coat and heads back out the front door.

Ma Kelley comes over with warm hugs for everyone. She presses a sturdy carryout bag into Angela’s hands with a whisper
about apple cake slices. Ang is getting all teary again. I slump down next to Madison, and she grabs my hand under the table. I
know we’ll have to talk eventually, but I’m grateful it isn’t going to be tonight. Our heads tip together, and it’s tempting to just
close my eyes right there.

Old Man Jenson’s fiddle plays a long soulful note and slides into a sad song of lost love that I recognize but I don’t quite
remember the words.

Kaiden’s phone pings with a message a few minutes later and Lucius is at Angela’s elbow escorting her out. I make the call me
sign and Angela nods in understanding.

By the time I’ve soaked the last dredges of stew up with soft bits of bread, I get Angela’s message that she’s home, the
babysitter has gone, and Kaylee is excited to try apple cake for the first time. I look over at Kaiden, and he nods to me. I know
he must have someone watching Angela’s place and I let myself relax the rest of the way.

Lucius presses me to talk about having to take out the sled to pull some teenagers from the other side of the Millpond where
they’d gotten stuck on the thin ice. They were lucky to just be wet and shivering. No one fell under, no one got frostbite. They
all got a reminder that it wasn’t late enough for the lake to be solid and a stern list of the safety rules they’d broken. They were
escorted safely back to their borrowed car, and we took bets on whether they would ever tell their parents what happened.

Riain takes a break and walks me out to my car which was still in the next lot over from this morning. He hugs me super tight,
tells me to text him when I get home, gives me a kiss on the top of my head, and waits until I pull out of the lot.
Another random document with
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a chalice in his hands, what it is intended to symbolise, so these
military operations, apart from their immediate object, are quite
regularly traced, in the mind of the general responsible for the
campaign, from the plans of earlier battles, which we may call the
past experience, the literature, the learning, the etymology, the
aristocracy (whichever you like) of the battles of to-day. Observe that
I am not speaking for the moment of the local, the (what shall I call
it?) spatial identity of battles. That exists also. A battle-field has
never been, and never will be throughout the centuries, simply the
ground upon which a particular battle has been fought. If it has been
a battle-field, that was because it combined certain conditions of
geographical position, of geological formation, drawbacks even, of a
kind that would obstruct the enemy (a river, for instance, cutting his
force in two), which made it a good field of battle. And so what it has
been it will continue to be. A painter doesn’t make a studio out of any
old room; so you don’t make a battle-field out of any old piece of
ground. There are places set apart for the purpose. But, once again,
this is not what I was telling you about; it was the type of battle which
one follows, in a sort of strategic tracing, a tactical imitation, if you
like. Battles like Ulm, Lodi, Leipzig, Cannae. I can’t say whether
there is ever going to be another war, or what nations are going to
fight in it, but, if a war does come, you may be sure that it will include
(and deliberately, on the commander’s part) a Cannae, an Austerlitz,
a Rosbach, a Waterloo. Some of our people say quite openly that
Marshal von Schieffer and General Falkenhausen have prepared a
Battle of Cannae against France, in the Hannibal style, pinning their
enemy down along his whole front, and advancing on both flanks,
especially through Belgium, while Bernhardi prefers the oblique
order of Frederick the Great, Lenthen rather than Cannae. Others
expound their views less crudely, but I can tell you one thing, my boy,
that Beauconseil, the squadron commander I introduced you to the
other day, who is an officer with a very great future before him, has
swotted up a little Pratzen attack of his own; he knows it inside out,
he is keeping it up his sleeve, and if he ever has an opportunity to
put it into practice he will make a clean job of it and let us have it on
a big scale. The break through in the centre at Rivoli, too; that’s a
thing that will crop up if there’s ever another war. It’s no more
obsolete than the Iliad. I must add that we are practically condemned
to make frontal attacks, because we can’t afford to repeat the
mistake we made in Seventy; we must assume the offensive, and
nothing else. The only thing that troubles me is that if I see only the
slower, more antiquated minds among us opposing this splendid
doctrine, still, one of the youngest of my masters, who is a genius, I
mean Mangin, would like us to leave room, provisionally of course,
for the defensive. It is not very easy to answer him when he cites the
example of Austerlitz, where the defence was merely a prelude to
attack and victory.”
The enunciation of these theories by Saint-Loup made me happy.
They gave me to hope that perhaps I was not being led astray, in my
life at Doncières, with regard to these officers whom I used to hear
being discussed while I sat sipping a sauterne which bathed them in
its charming golden glint, by the same magnifying power which had
swollen to such enormous proportions in my eyes while I was at
Balbec the King and Queen of the South Sea Island, the little group
of the four epicures, the young gambler, Legrandin’s brother-in-law,
now shrunken so in my view as to appear non-existent. What gave
me pleasure to-day would not, perhaps, leave me indifferent to-
morrow, as had always happened hitherto; the creature that I still
was at this moment was not, perhaps, doomed to immediate
destruction, since to the ardent and fugitive passion which I had felt
on these few evenings for everything connected with military life,
Saint-Loup, by what he had just been saying to me, touching the art
of war, added an intellectual foundation, of a permanent character,
capable of attaching me to itself so strongly that I might, without any
attempt to deceive myself, feel assured that after I had left Doncières
I should continue to take an interest in the work of my friends there,
and should not be long in coming to pay them another visit. At the
same time, so as to make quite sure that this art of war was indeed
an art in the true sense of the word:
“You interest me—I beg your pardon, tu interest me enormously,” I
said to Saint-Loup, “but tell me, there is one point that puzzles me. I
feel that I could be keenly thrilled by the art of strategy, but if so I
must first be sure that it is not so very different from the other arts,
that knowing the rules is not everything. You tell me that plans of
battles are copied. I do find something aesthetic, just as you said, in
seeing beneath a modern battle the plan of an older one, I can’t tell
you how attractive it sounds. But then, does the genius of the
commander count for nothing? Does he really do no more than apply
the rules? Or, in point of science, are there great generals as there
are great surgeons, who, when the symptoms exhibited by two
states of ill-health are identical to the outward eye, nevertheless feel,
for some infinitesimal reason, founded perhaps on their experience,
but interpreted afresh, that in one case they ought to do one thing, in
another case another; that in one case it is better to operate, in
another to wait?”
“I should just say so! You will find Napoleon not attacking when all
the rules ordered him to attack, but some obscure divination warned
him not to. For instance, look at Austerlitz, or in 1806 take his
instructions to Lannes. But you will find certain generals slavishly
imitating one of Napoleon’s movements and arriving at a
diametrically opposite result. There are a dozen examples of that in
1870. But even for the interpretation of what the enemy may do,
what he actually does is only a symptom which may mean any
number of different things. Each of them has an equal chance of
being the right thing, if one looks only to reasoning and science, just
as in certain difficult cases all the medical science in the world will be
powerless to decide whether the invisible tumour is malignant or not,
whether or not the operation ought to be performed. It is his instinct,
his divination—like Mme. de Thèbes (you follow me?)—which
decides, in the great general as in the great doctor. Thus I’ve been
telling you, to take one instance, what might be meant by a
reconnaissance on the eve of a battle. But it may mean a dozen
other things also, such as to make the enemy think you are going to
attack him at one point whereas you intend to attack him at another,
to put out a screen which will prevent him from seeing the
preparations for your real operation, to force him to bring up fresh
troops, to hold them, to immobilise them in a different place from
where they are needed, to form an estimate of the forces at his
disposal, to feel him, to force him to shew his hand. Sometimes,
indeed, the fact that you employ an immense number of troops in an
operation is by no means a proof that that is your true objective; for
you may be justified in carrying it out, even if it is only a feint, so that
your feint may have a better chance of deceiving the enemy. If I had
time now to go through the Napoleonic wars from this point of view, I
assure you that these simple classic movements which we study
here, and which you will come and see us practising in the field, just
for the pleasure of a walk, you young rascal—no, I know you’re not
well, I apologise!—well, in a war, when you feel behind you the
vigilance, the judgment, the profound study of the Higher Command,
you are as much moved by them as by the simple lamps of a
lighthouse, only a material combustion, but an emanation of the
spirit, sweeping through space to warn ships of danger. I may have
been wrong, perhaps, in speaking to you only of the literature of war.
In reality, as the formation of the soil, the direction of wind and light
tell us which way a tree will grow, so the conditions in which a
campaign is fought, the features of the country through which you
march, prescribe, to a certain extent, and limit the number of the
plans among which the general has to choose. Which means that
along a mountain range, through a system of valleys, over certain
plains, it is almost with the inevitability and the tremendous beauty of
an avalanche that you can forecast the line of an army on the
march.”
“Now you deny me that freedom of choice in the commander, that
power of divination in the enemy who is trying to discover his plan,
which you allowed me a moment ago.”
“Not at all. You remember that book of philosophy we read
together at Balbec, the richness of the world of possibilities
compared with the real world. Very well. It is the same again with the
art of strategy. In a given situation there will be four plans that offer
themselves, one of which the general has to choose, as a disease
may pass through various phases for which the doctor has to watch.
And here again the weakness and greatness of the human elements
are fresh causes of uncertainty. For of these four plans let us
assume that contingent reasons (such as the attainment of minor
objects, or time, which may be pressing, or the smallness of his
effective strength and shortage of rations) lead the general to prefer
the first, which is less perfect, but less costly also to carry out, is
more rapid, and has for its terrain a richer country for feeding his
troops. He may, after having begun with this plan, which the enemy,
uncertain at first, will soon detect, find that success lies beyond his
grasp, the difficulties being too great (that is what I call the element
of human weakness), abandon it and try the second or third or
fourth. But it may equally be that he has tried the first plan (and this
is what I call human greatness) merely as a feint to pin down the
enemy, so as to surprise him later at a point where he has not been
expecting an attack. Thus at Ulm, Mack, who expected the enemy to
advance from the west, was surrounded from the north where he
thought he was perfectly safe. My example is not a very good one,
as a matter of fact. And Ulm is a better type of enveloping battle,
which the future will see reproduced, because it is not only a classic
example from which generals will seek inspiration, but a form that is
to some extent necessary (one of several necessities, which leaves
room for choice, for variety) like a type of crystallisation. But it
doesn’t much matter, really, because these conditions are after all
artificial. To go back to our philosophy book; it is like the rules of logic
or scientific laws, reality does conform to it more or less, but bear in
mind that the great mathematician Poincaré is by no means certain
that mathematics are strictly accurate. As to the rules themselves,
which I mentioned to you, they are of secondary importance really,
and besides they are altered from time to time. We cavalrymen, for
instance, have to go by the Field Service of 1895, which, you may
say, is out of date since it is based on the old and obsolete doctrine
which maintains that cavalry warfare has little more than a moral
effect, in the panic that the charge creates in the enemy. Whereas
the more intelligent of our teachers, all the best brains in the cavalry,
and particularly the major I was telling you about, anticipate on the
contrary that the decisive victory will be obtained by a real hand to
hand encounter in which our weapons will be sabre and lance and
the side that can hold out longer will win, not simply morally and by
creating panic, but materially.”
“Saint-Loup is quite right, and it is probable that the next Field
Service will shew signs of this evolution,” put in my other neighbour.
“I am not ungrateful for your support, for your opinions seem to
make more impression upon my friend than mine,” said Saint-Loup
with a smile, whether because the growing attraction between his
comrade and myself annoyed him slightly or because he thought it
graceful to solemnise it with this official confirmation. “Perhaps I may
have underestimated the importance of the rules; I don’t know. They
do change, that must be admitted. But in the mean time they control
the military situation, the plans of campaign and concentration. If
they reflect a false conception of strategy they may be the principal
cause of defeat. All this is a little too technical for you,” he remarked
to me. “After all, you may say that what does most to accelerate the
evolution of the art of war is wars themselves. In the course of a
campaign, if it is at all long, you will see one belligerent profiting by
the lessons furnished him by the successes and mistakes, perfecting
the methods of the other, who will improve on him in turn. But all that
is a thing of the past. With the terrible advance of artillery, the wars
of the future, if there are to be any more wars, will be so short that,
before we have had time to think of putting our lessons into practice,
peace will have been signed.”
“Don’t be so touchy,” I told Saint-Loup, reverting to the first words
of this speech. “I was listening to you quite eagerly.”
“If you will kindly not fly into a passion, and will allow me to speak,”
his friend went on, “I shall add to what you have just been saying
that if battles copy and coincide with one another it is not merely due
to the mind of the commander. It may happen that a mistake on his
part (for instance, his failure to appreciate the strength of the enemy)
will lead him to call upon his men for extravagant sacrifices,
sacrifices which certain units will make with an abnegation so
sublime that their part in the battle will be analogous to that played
by some other unit in some other battle, and these will be quoted in
history as interchangeable examples: to stick to 1870, we have the
Prussian Guard at Saint-Privat, and the Turcos at Frœschviller and
Wissembourg.”
“Ah! Interchangeable; very neat! Excellent! The lad has brains,”
was Saint-Loup’s comment.
I was not unmoved by these last examples, as always when,
beneath the particular instance, I was afforded a glimpse of the
general law. Still, the genius of the commander, that was what
interested me, I was anxious to discover in what it consisted, what
steps, in given circumstances, when the commander who lacked
genius could not withstand the enemy, the inspired leader would take
to re-establish his jeopardised position, which, according to Saint-
Loup, was quite possible and had been done by Napoleon more than
once. And to understand what military worth meant I asked for
comparisons between the various generals whom I knew by name,
which of them had most markedly the character of a leader, the gifts
of a tactician; at the risk of boring my new friends, who however
shewed no signs of boredom, but continued to answer me with an
inexhaustible good-nature.
I felt myself isolated, not only from the great, freezing night which
extended far around us and in which we heard from time to time the
whistle of a train which only rendered more keen the pleasure of
being where we were, or the chime of an hour which, happily, was
still a long way short of that at which these young men would have to
buckle on their sabres and go, but also from all my external
obsessions, almost from the memory of Mme. de Guermantes, by
the hospitality of Saint-Loup, to which that of his friends, reinforcing
it, gave, so to speak, a greater solidity; by the warmth also of this
little dining-room, by the savour of the well-chosen dishes that were
set before us. They gave as much pleasure to my imagination as to
my appetite; sometimes the little piece of still life from which they
had been taken, the rugged holy water stoup of the oyster in which
lingered a few drops of brackish water, or the knotted stem, the
yellow leaves of a bunch of grapes still enveloped them, inedible,
poetic and remote as a landscape, and producing, at different points
in the course of the meal, the impressions of rest in the shade of a
vine and of an excursion out to sea; on other evenings it was the
cook alone who threw into relief these original properties of our food,
which he presented in its natural setting, like a work of art; and a fish
cooked in wine was brought in on a long earthenware dish, on which,
as it stood out in relief on a bed of bluish herbs, unbreakable now but
still contorted from having been dropped alive into boiling water,
surrounded by a circle of satellite creatures in their shells, crabs,
shrimps and mussels, it had the appearance of being part of a
ceramic design by Bernard Palissy.
“I am jealous, furious,” Saint-Loup attacked me, half smiling, half in
earnest, alluding to the interminable conversations aside which I had
been having with his friend. “Is it because you find him more
intelligent than me; do you like him better than me? Well, I suppose
he’s everything now, and no one else is to have a look in!” Men who
are enormously in love with a woman, who live in the society of
woman-lovers, allow themselves pleasantries on which others, who
would see less innocence in them, would never venture.
When the conversation became general, they avoided any
reference to Dreyfus for fear of offending Saint-Loup. The following
week, however, two of his friends were remarking what a curious
thing it was that, living in so military an atmosphere, he was so keen
a Dreyfusard, almost an anti-militarist: “The reason is,” I suggested,
not wishing to enter into details, “that the influence of environment is
not so important as people think....” I intended of course to stop at
this point, and not to reiterate the observations which I had made to
Saint-Loup a few days earlier. Since, however, I had repeated these
words almost textually, I proceeded to excuse myself by adding: “As,
in fact, I was saying the other day....” But I had reckoned without the
reverse side of Robert’s polite admiration of myself and certain other
persons. That admiration reached its fulfilment in so entire an
assimilation of their ideas that, in the course of a day or two, he
would have completely forgotten that those ideas were not his own.
And so, in the matter of my modest theory, Saint-Loup, for all the
world as though it had always dwelt in his own brain, and as though I
were merely poaching on his preserves, felt it incumbent upon him to
greet my discovery with warm approval.
“Why, yes; environment is of no importance.”
And with as much vehemence as if he were afraid of my
interrupting, or failing to understand him:
“The real influence is that of one’s intellectual environment! One is
the man of one’s idea!”
He stopped for a moment, with the satisfied smile of one who has
digested his dinner, dropped his eyeglass and, fixing me with a
gimlet-like stare:
“All men with similar ideas are alike,” he informed me, with a
challenging air. Probably he had completely forgotten that I myself
had said to him, only a few days earlier, what on the other hand he
remembered so well.
 I did not arrive at Saint-Loup’s restaurant every evening in the
same state of mind. If a memory, a sorrow that weigh on us are able
to leave us so effectively that we are no longer aware of them, they
can also return and sometimes remain with us for a long time. There
were evenings when, as I passed through the town on my way to the
restaurant, I felt so keen a longing for Mme. de Guermantes that I
could scarcely breathe; you might have said that part of my breast
had been cut open by a skilled anatomist, taken out, and replaced by
an equal part of immaterial suffering, by an equivalent load of
longing and love. And however neatly the wound may have been
stitched together, there is not much comfort in life when regret for the
loss of another person is substituted for one’s entrails, it seems to be
occupying more room than they, one feels it perpetually, and
besides, what a contradiction in terms to be obliged to think a part of
one’s body. Only it seems that we are worth more, somehow. At the
whisper of a breeze we sigh, from oppression, but from weariness
also. I would look up at the sky. If it were clear, I would say to myself:
“Perhaps she is in the country; she is looking at the same stars; and,
for all I know, when I arrive at the restaurant Robert may say to me:
‘Good news! I have just heard from my aunt; she wants to meet you;
she is coming down here.’” It was not in the firmament alone that I
enshrined the thought of Mme. de Guermantes. A passing breath of
air, more fragrant than the rest, seemed to bring me a message from
her, as, long ago, from Gilberte in the cornfields of Méséglise. We do
not change; we introduce into the feeling with which we regard a
person many slumbering elements which that feeling revives but
which are foreign to it. Besides, with these feelings for particular
people, there is always something in us that is trying to bring them
nearer to the truth, that is to say, to absorb them in a more general
feeling, common to the whole of humanity, with which people and the
suffering that they cause us are merely a means to enable us to
communicate. What brought a certain pleasure into my grief was that
I knew it to be a tiny fragment of the universal love. Simply because I
thought that I recognised sorrows which I had felt on Gilberte’s
account, or else when in the evenings at Combray Mamma would
not stay in any room, and also the memory of certain pages of
Bergotte, in the agony I now felt, to which Mme. de Guermantes, her
coldness, her absence, were not clearly linked, as cause is to effect
in the mind of a philosopher, I did not conclude that Mme. de
Guermantes was not the cause of that agony. Is there not such a
thing as a diffused bodily pain, extending, radiating out into other
parts, which, however, it leaves, to vanish altogether, if the
practitioner lays his finger on the precise spot from which it springs?
And yet, until that moment, its extension gave it for us so vague, so
fatal a semblance that, powerless to explain or even to locate it, we
imagined that there was no possibility of its being healed. As I made
my way to the restaurant I said to myself: “A fortnight already since I
last saw Mme. de Guermantes.” A fortnight which did not appear so
enormous an interval save to me, who, when Mme. de Guermantes
was concerned, reckoned time by minutes. For me it was no longer
the stars and the breeze merely, but the arithmetical divisions of time
that assumed a dolorous and poetic aspect. Each day now was like
the loose crest of a crumbling mountain, down one side of which I
felt that I could descend into oblivion, but down the other was borne
by the necessity of seeing the Duchess again. And I was continually
inclining one way or the other, having no stable equilibrium. One day
I said to myself: “Perhaps there will be a letter to-night;” and on
entering the dining-room I found courage to ask Saint-Loup:
“You don’t happen to have had any news from Paris?”
“Yes,” he replied gloomily; “bad news.”
I breathed a sigh of relief when I realised that it was only he who
was unhappy, and that the news came from his mistress. But I soon
saw that one of its consequences would be to prevent Robert, for
ever so long, from taking me to see his aunt.
I learned that a quarrel had broken out between him and his
mistress, through the post presumably, unless she had come down
to pay him a flying visit between trains. And the quarrels, even when
relatively slight, which they had previously had, had always seemed
as though they must prove insoluble. For she was a girl of violent
temper, who would stamp her foot and burst into tears for reasons as
incomprehensible as those that make children shut themselves into
dark cupboards, not come out for dinner, refuse to give any
explanation, and only redouble their sobs when, our patience
exhausted, we visit them with a whipping. To say that Saint-Loup
suffered terribly from this estrangement would be an understatement
of the truth, which would give the reader a false impression of his
grief. When he found himself alone, the only picture in his mind
being that of his mistress parting from him with the respect which
she had felt for him at the sight of his energy, the anxieties which he
had had at first gave way before the irreparable, and the cessation of
an anxiety is so pleasant a thing that the rupture, once it was certain,
assumed for him something of the same kind of charm as a
reconciliation. What he began to suffer from, a little later, was a
secondary and accidental grief, the tide of which flowed incessantly
from his own heart, at the idea that perhaps she would be glad to
make it up, that it was not inconceivable that she was waiting for a
word from him, that in the mean time, to be avenged on him, she
would perhaps on a certain evening, in a certain place, do a certain
thing, and that he had only to telegraph to her that he was coming for
it not to happen, that others perhaps were taking advantage of the
time which he was letting slip, and that in a few days it would be too
late to recapture her, for she would be already bespoke. Among all
these possibilities he was certain of nothing; his mistress preserved
a silence which wrought him up to such a frenzy of grief that he
began to ask himself whether she might not be in hiding at
Doncières, or have sailed for the Indies.
It has been said that silence is a force; in another and widely
different sense it is a tremendous force in the hands of those who
are loved. It increases the anxiety of the lover who has to wait.
Nothing so tempts us to approach another person as what is keeping
us apart; and what barrier is there so insurmountable as silence? It
has been said also that silence is a torture, capable of goading to
madness him who is condemned to it in a prison cell. But what a
torture—keener than that of having to keep silence—to have to
endure the silence of the person one loves! Robert asked himself:
“What can she be doing, never to send me a single word, like this?
She hates me, perhaps, and will always go on hating me.” And he
reproached himself. Thus her silence did indeed drive him mad with
jealousy and remorse. Besides, more cruel than the silence of
prisons, that kind of silence is in itself a prison. An immaterial
enclosure, I admit, but impenetrable, this interposed slice of empty
atmosphere through which, despite its emptiness, the visual rays of
the abandoned lover cannot pass. Is there a more terrible
illumination than that of silence which shews us not one absent love
but a thousand, and shews us each of them in the act of indulging in
some fresh betrayal? Sometimes, in an abrupt relaxation of his
strain, Robert would imagine that this period of silence was just
coming to an end, that the long expected letter was on its way. He
saw it, it arrived, he started at every sound, his thirst was already
quenched, he murmured: “The letter! The letter!” After this glimpse of
a phantom oasis of affection, he found himself once more toiling
across the real desert of a silence without end.
He suffered in anticipation, without a single omission, all the griefs
and pains of a rupture which at other moments he fancied he might
somehow contrive to avoid, like people who put all their affairs in
order with a view to a migration abroad which they never make,
whose minds, no longer certain where they will find themselves living
next day, flutter helplessly for the time being, detached from them,
like a heart that is taken out of a dying man and continues to beat,
though disjoined from the rest of his body. Anyhow, this hope that his
mistress would return gave him courage to persevere in the rupture,
as the belief that one will return alive from the battle helps one to
face death. And inasmuch as habit is, of all the plants of human
growth, the one that has least need of nutritious soil in order to live,
and is the first to appear upon what is apparently the most barren
rock, perhaps had he begun by effecting their rupture as a feint he
would in the end have grown genuinely accustomed to it. But his
uncertainty kept him in a state of emotion which, linked with the
memory of the woman herself, was akin to love. He forced himself,
nevertheless, not to write to her, thinking perhaps that it was a less
cruel torment to live without his mistress than with her in certain
conditions, or else that, after the way in which they had parted, it was
necessary to wait for excuses from her, if she was to keep what he
believed her to feel for him in the way, if not of love, at any rate of
esteem and regard. He contented himself with going to the
telephone, which had recently been installed at Doncières, and
asking for news from, or giving instructions to a lady’s maid whom he
had procured and placed with his friend. These communications
were, as it turned out, complicated and took up much of his time,
since, influenced by what her literary friends preached to her about
the ugliness of the capital, but principally for the sake of her animals,
her dogs, her monkey, her canaries and her parrokeet, whose
incessant din her Paris landlord had declined to tolerate for another
moment, Robert’s mistress had now taken a little house in the
neighbourhood of Versailles. Meanwhile he, down at Doncières, no
longer slept a wink all night. Once, in my room, overcome by
exhaustion, he dozed off for a little. But suddenly he began to talk,
tried to get up and run, to stop something from happening, said: “I
hear her; you shan’t ... you shan’t....” He awoke. He had been
dreaming, he explained to me, that he was in the country with the
serjeant-major. His host had tried to keep him away from a certain
part of the house. Saint-Loup had discovered that the serjeant-major
had staying with him a subaltern, extremely rich and extremely
vicious, whom he knew to have a violent passion for his mistress.
And suddenly in his dream he had distinctly heard the spasmodic,
regular cries which his mistress was in the habit of uttering at the
moment of gratification. He had tried to force the serjeant-major to
take him to the room in which she was. And the other had held him
back, to keep him from going there, with an air of annoyance at such
a want of discretion in a guest which, Robert said, he would never be
able to forget.
“It was an idiotic dream,” he concluded, still quite breathless.
All the same I could see that, during the hour that followed, he was
more than once on the point of telephoning to his mistress to beg for
a reconciliation. My father had now had the telephone for some time
at home, but I doubt whether that would have been of much use to
Saint-Loup. Besides, it hardly seemed to me quite proper to make
my parents, or even a mechanical instrument installed in their house,
play pander between Saint-Loup and his mistress, ladylike and high-
minded as the latter might be. His bad dream began to fade from his
memory. With a fixed and absent stare, he came to see me on each
of those cruel days which traced in my mind as they followed one
after the other the splendid sweep of a staircase forged in hard metal
on which Robert stood asking himself what decision his friend was
going to take.
 At length she wrote to ask whether he would consent to forgive
her. As soon as he realised that a definite rupture had been avoided
he saw all the disadvantages of a reconciliation. Besides, he had
already begun to suffer less acutely, and had almost accepted a grief
the sharp tooth of which he would have, in a few months perhaps, to
feel again if their intimacy were to be resumed. He did not hesitate
for long. And perhaps he hesitated only because he was now certain
of being able to recapture his mistress, of being able to do it and
therefore of doing it. Only she asked him, so that she might have
time to recover her equanimity, not to come to Paris at the New Year.
Now he had not the heart to go to Paris without seeing her. On the
other hand, she had declared her willingness to go abroad with him,
but for that he would need to make a formal application for leave,
which Captain de Borodino was unwilling to grant.
“I’m sorry about it, because of your meeting with my aunt, which
will have to be put off. I dare say I shall be in Paris at Easter.”
“We shan’t be able to call on Mme. de Guermantes then, because
I shall have gone to Balbec. But, really, it doesn’t matter in the least,
I assure you.”
“To Balbec? But you didn’t go there till August.”
“I know; but next year they’re making me go there earlier, for my
health.”
All that he feared was that I might form a bad impression of his
mistress, after what he had told me. “She is violent simply because
she is too frank, too thorough in her feelings. But she is a sublime
creature. You can’t imagine what exquisite poetry there is in her. She
goes every year to spend All Souls’ Day at Bruges. ‘Nice’ of her,
don’t you think? If you ever do meet her you’ll see what I mean; she
has a greatness....” And, as he was infected with certain of the
mannerisms used in the literary circles in which the lady moved:
“There is something sidereal about her, in fact something bardic; you
know what I mean, the poet merging into the priest.”
I was searching all through dinner for a pretext which would
enable Saint-Loup to ask his aunt to see me without my having to
wait until he came to Paris. Now such a pretext was furnished by the
desire that I had to see some more pictures by Elstir, the famous
painter whom Saint-Loup and I had met at Balbec. A pretext behind
which there was, moreover, an element of truth, for if, on my visits to
Elstir, what I had asked of his painting had been that it should lead
me to the comprehension and love of things better than itself, a real
thaw, an authentic square in a country town, live women on a beach
(all the more would I have commissioned from it the portraits of the
realities which I had not been able to fathom, such as a lane of
hawthorn-blossoms, not so much that it might perpetuate their
beauty for me as that it might reveal that beauty to me), now, on the
other hand, it was the originality, the seductive attraction of those
paintings that aroused my desire, and what I wanted above anything
else was to look at other pictures by Elstir.
It seemed to me, also, that the least of his pictures were
something quite different from the masterpieces even of greater
painters than himself. His work was like a realm apart, whose
frontiers were not to be passed, matchless in substance. Eagerly
collecting the infrequent periodicals in which articles on him and his
work had appeared, I had learned that it was only recently that he
had begun to paint landscapes and still life, and that he had started
with mythological subjects (I had seen photographs of two of these in
his studio), and had then been for long under the influence of
Japanese art.
Several of the works most characteristic of his various manners
were scattered about the provinces. A certain house at Les Andelys,
in which there was one of his finest landscapes, seemed to me as
precious, gave me as keen a desire to go there and see it as did a
village in the Chartres district, among whose millstone walls was
enshrined a glorious painted window; and towards the possessor of
this treasure, towards the man who, inside his ugly house, on the
main street, closeted like an astrologer, sat questioning one of those
mirrors of the world which Elstir’s pictures were, and who had
perhaps bought it for many thousands of francs, I felt myself borne
by that instinctive sympathy which joins the very hearts, the inmost
natures of those who think alike upon a vital subject. Now three
important works by my favourite painter were described in one of
these articles as belonging to Mme. de Guermantes. So that it was,
after all, quite sincerely that, on the evening on which Saint-Loup told
me of his lady’s projected visit to Bruges, I was able, during dinner,
in front of his friends, to let fall, as though on the spur of the moment:
“Listen, if you don’t mind. Just one last word on the subject of the
lady we were speaking about. You remember Elstir, the painter I met
at Balbec?”
“Why, of course I do.”
“You remember how much I admired his work?”
“I do, quite well; and the letter we sent him.”
“Very well, one of the reasons—not one of the chief reasons, a
subordinate reason—why I should like to meet the said lady—you do
know who’ I mean, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. How involved you’re getting.”
“Is that she has in her house one very fine picture, at least, by
Elstir.”
“I say, I never knew that.”
“Elstir will probably be at Balbec at Easter; you know he stays
down there now all the year round, practically. I should very much
like to have seen this picture before I leave Paris. I don’t know
whether you’re on sufficiently intimate terms with your aunt: but
couldn’t you manage, somehow, to give her so good an impression
of me that she won’t refuse, and then ask her if she’ll let me come
and see the picture without you, since you won’t be there?”
“That’s all right. I’ll answer for her; I’ll make a special point of it.”
“Oh, Robert, you are an angel; I do love you.”
“It’s very nice of you to love me, but it would be equally nice if you
were to call me tu, as you promised, and as you began to do.”
“I hope it’s not your departure that you two are plotting together,”
one of Robert’s friends said to me. “You know, if Saint-Loup does go
on leave, it needn’t make any difference, we shall still be here. It will
be less amusing for you, perhaps, but we’ll do all we can to make
you forget his absence.” As a matter of fact, just as we had decided
that Robert’s mistress would have to go to Bruges by herself, the
news came that Captain de Borodino, obdurate hitherto in his
refusal, had given authority for Serjeant Saint-Loup to proceed on
long leave to Bruges. What had happened was this. The Prince,
extremely proud of his luxuriant head of hair, was an assiduous
customer of the principal hairdresser in the town, who had started life
as a boy under Napoleon III’s barber. Captain de Borodino was on
the best of terms with the hairdresser, being, in spite of his air of
majesty, quite simple in his dealings with his inferiors. But the
hairdresser, through whose books the Prince’s account had been
running without payment for at least five years, swollen no less by
bottles of Portugal and Eau des Souverains, irons, razors, and
strops, than by the ordinary charges for shampooing, haircutting and
the like, had a greater respect for Saint-Loup, who always paid on
the nail and kept several carriages and saddle-horses. Having
learned of Saint-Loup’s vexation at not being able to go with his
mistress, he had spoken strongly about it to the Prince at a moment
when he was trussed up in a white surplice with his head held firmly
over the back of the chair and his throat menaced by a razor. This
narrative of a young man’s gallant adventures won from the princely
captain a smile of Bonapartish indulgence. It is hardly probable that
he thought of his unpaid bill, but the barber’s recommendation
tended to put him in as good a humour as one from a duke would
have put him in a bad. While his chin was still smothered in soap, the
leave was promised, and the warrant was signed that evening. As for
the hairdresser, who was in the habit of boasting all day long of his
own exploits, and in order to do so claimed for himself, shewing an
astonishing faculty for lying, distinctions that were pure fabrications,
having for once rendered this signal service to Saint-Loup, not only
did he refrain from publishing it broadcast, but, as if vanity were
obliged to lie, and when there was no scope for lying gave place to
modesty, he never mentioned the matter to Robert again.
All his friends assured me that, as long as I stayed at Doncières,
or if I should come there again at any time, even although Robert
were away, their horses, their quarters, their time would be at my
disposal, and I felt that it was with the greatest cordiality that these
young men put their comfort and youth and strength at the service of
my weakness.
“Why on earth,” they went on, after insisting that I should stay,
“don’t you come down here every year; you see how our quiet life
appeals to you! Besides you’re so keen about everything that goes
on in the Regiment; quite the old soldier.”
 For I continued my eager demands that they would classify the
different officers whose names I knew according to the degree of
admiration which they seemed to deserve, just as, in my schooldays,
I used to make the other boys classify the actors of the Théâtre-
Français. If, in the place of one of the generals whom I had always
heard mentioned at the head of the list, such as Galliffet or Négrier,
one of Saint-Loup’s friends, with a contemptuous: “But Négrier is one
of the feeblest of our general officers,” put the new, intact, appetising
name of Pau or Geslin de Bourgogne, I felt the same joyful surprise
as long ago when the outworn name of Thiron or Febvre was sent
flying by the sudden explosion of the unfamiliar name of Amaury.
“Better even than Négrier? But in what respect; give me an
example?” I should have liked there to exist profound differences
even among the junior officers of the regiment, and I hoped in the
reason for these differences to seize the essential quality of what
constituted military superiority. The one whom I should have been
most interested to hear discussed, because he was the one whom I
had most often seen, was the Prince de Borodino. But neither Saint-
Loup nor his friends, if they did justice to the fine officer who kept his
squadron up to the supreme pitch of efficiency, liked the man.
Without speaking of him, naturally, in the same tone as of certain
other officers, rankers and freemasons, who did not associate much
with the rest and had, in comparison, an uncouth, barrack-room
manner, they seemed not to include M. de Borodino among the
officers of noble birth, from whom, it must be admitted, he differed
considerably in his attitude even towards Saint-Loup. The others,
taking advantage of the fact that Robert was only an N.C.O., and
that therefore his influential relatives might be grateful were he
invited to the houses of superior officers on whom ordinarily they
would have looked down, lost no opportunity of having him to dine
when any bigwig was expected who might be of use to a young
cavalry serjeant. Captain de Borodino alone confined himself to his
official relations (which, for that matter, were always excellent) with
Robert. The fact was that the Prince, whose grandfather had been
made a Marshal and a Prince-Duke by the Emperor, with whose
family he had subsequently allied himself by marriage, while his
father had married a cousin of Napoleon III and had twice been a
Minister after the Coup d’Etat, felt that in spite of all this he did not
count for much with Saint-Loup and the Guermantes connexion, who
in turn, since he did not look at things from the same point of view as
they, counted for very little with him. He suspected that, for Saint-
Loup, he himself was—he, a kinsman of the Hohenzollern—not a
true noble but the grandson of a farmer, but at the same time he
regarded Saint-Loup as the son of a man whose Countship had
been confirmed by the Emperor—one of what were known in the
Faubourg Saint-Germain as “touched-up” Counts—and who had
besought him first for a Prefecture, then for some other post a long
way down the list of subordinates to His Highness the Prince de
Borodino, Minister of State, who was styled on his letters
“Monseigneur” and was a nephew of the Sovereign.
Something more than a nephew, possibly. The first Princesse de
Borodino was reputed to have bestowed her favours on Napoleon I,
whom she followed to the Isle of Elba, and the second hers on
Napoleon III. And if, in the Captain’s placid countenance, one caught
a trace of Napoleon I—if not in his natural features, at least in the
studied majesty of the mask—the officer had, particularly in his
melancholy and kindly gaze, in his drooping moustache, something
that reminded one also of Napoleon III; and this in so striking a
fashion that, having asked leave, after Sedan, to join the Emperor in
captivity, and having been sent away by Bismarck, before whom he
had been brought, the latter, happening to look up at the young man
who was preparing to leave the room, was at once impressed by the
likeness and, reconsidering his decision, recalled him and gave him
the authorisation which he, in common with every one else, had just
been refused.
If the Prince de Borodino was not prepared to make overtures to
Saint-Loup nor to the other representatives of Faubourg Saint-
Germain society that there were in the regiment (while he frequently
invited two subalterns of plebeian origin who were pleasant
companions) it was because, looking down upon them all from the
height of his Imperial grandeur, he drew between these two classes
of inferiors the distinction that one set consisted of inferiors who
knew themselves to be such and with whom he was delighted to
spend his time, being beneath his outward majesty of a simple, jovial
humour, and the other of inferiors who thought themselves his
superiors, a claim which he could not allow. And so, while all the
other officers of the regiment made much of Saint-Loup, the Prince
de Borodino, to whose care the young man had been recommended
by Marshal X——, confined himself to being obliging with regard to
the military duties which Saint-Loup always performed in the most
exemplary fashion, but never had him to his house except on one
special occasion when he found himself practically compelled to
invite him, and when, as this occurred during my stay at Doncières,
he asked him to bring me to dinner also. I had no difficulty that
evening, as I watched Saint-Loup sitting at his Captain’s table, in
distinguishing, in their respective manners and refinements, the
difference that existed between the two aristocracies: the old nobility
and that of the Empire. The offspring of a caste the faults of which,
even if he repudiated them with all the force of his intellect, had been
absorbed into his blood, a caste which, having ceased to exert any
real authority for at least a century, saw nothing more now in the
protective affability which formed part of its regular course of
education, than an exercise, like horsemanship or fencing, cultivated
without any serious purpose, as a sport; on meeting representatives
of that middle class on which the old nobility so far looked down as
to believe that they were flattered by its intimacy and would be
honoured by the informality of its tone, Saint-Loup would take the
hand of no matter who might be introduced to him, though he had
failed perhaps to catch the stranger’s name, in a friendly grip, and as
he talked to him (crossing and uncrossing his legs all the time,
flinging himself back in his chair in an attitude of absolute
unconstraint, one foot in the palm of his hand) call him “my dear
fellow.” Belonging on the other hand to a nobility whose titles still
preserved their original meaning, provided that their holders still
possessed the splendid emoluments given in reward for glorious
services and bringing to mind the record of high offices in which one
is in command of numberless men and must know how to deal with
men, the Prince de Borodino—not perhaps very distinctly or with any
clear personal sense of superiority, but at any rate in his body, which
revealed it by its attitudes and behaviour generally—regarded his
own rank as a prerogative that was still effective; those same