The Agreement

SLOANE

The drive to Spring Lake was two hours and seventeen minutes of slow torture.

I counted every minute because there was nothing else to do.

Dad drove, humming along to a seventies soft-rock playlist like this was the montage scene in a rom-com. Victoria harmonized beside him, hand on his thigh, both of them lost in their own bubble of soon-to-be-newlywed energy. In the back of the Range Rover, Chase and I occupied opposite corners like opposing armies respecting a ceasefire line—the empty middle seat our DMZ.

He wore a plain black tee and gray joggers. Headphones in. Eyes closed. Jaw locked so tight I could see the muscle flicker. Every few minutes his knee bounced—restless, caged energy he couldn’t burn off in the confined space.

I scrolled I*******m without seeing anything, pretending the ocean glimpses flashing past the window didn’t exist. Pretending his presence didn’t take up more oxygen than it should.

When we finally pulled into the driveway, the sun was melting into the horizon, painting the water liquid gold. The beach house was obscene—gray shingles, crisp white trim, wraparound porch dripping with hanging ferns, private boardwalk to the sand, infinity-edge pool that looked like it belonged in a magazine spread. Three stories of effortless wealth.

Victoria clapped once as Dad killed the engine. “Isn’t it perfect?”

“Perfect,” I echoed, deadpan.

Chase grunted, grabbed his duffel from the trunk, and headed inside like he was already mentally mapping escape routes.

The interior smelled like sea salt, lemon cleaner, and money. Open-plan living room with white shiplap, nautical blues and creams, massive kitchen island, French doors spilling straight onto the deck and pool.

Victoria gave the tour with real-estate-agent enthusiasm.

“Master suite is ours upstairs,” she said, gesturing. “Guest room with queen bed, another with twins, and a loft with a pull-out sofa.”

She stopped at the top landing, smile turning apologetic.

“But… tiny issue.”

Dad rubbed his neck. “Rental company overbooked. They gave away the twin room to a last-minute wedding party that actually showed up.”

My stomach dropped like I’d missed a step.

Victoria waved it off. “It’s fine! The loft is barely big enough for the sofa bed. The guest room has that big queen. We thought you two could share it. Plenty of room. You’re young. You’ll manage one weekend.”

Chase’s duffel hit the hardwood with a dull thud.

“Share,” he repeated. Voice dangerously flat.

“Yes, sweetheart,” Victoria said, all sugar. “It’s just sleeping. Put pillows down the middle if you want. Like in the movies.”

I stared at her. “You’re serious.”

Dad chuckled—nervous. “Come on, Sloane. One weekend. Bonding, remember?”

Chase’s gaze sliced to mine. Dark. Unreadable. But the tendon in his neck stood out.

I forced a smile that felt like swallowing glass. “Sure. Bonding.”

Victoria beamed. “Wonderful! Unpack, freshen up. Sunset beach walk, then dinner on the deck. It’s going to be *perfect*.”

She floated downstairs with Dad, already debating rosé vs. sauvignon blanc.

Chase and I stood frozen outside the guest-room door like convicts waiting for sentencing.

He spoke first. “I’ll take the loft. You get the bed.”

“And let them think they won?” I said. “No. I want them to realize forcing proximity doesn’t magically make us besties.”

He studied me for a long beat—eyes narrowed, calculating.

Then he reached past me—arm brushing my shoulder, close enough I felt the heat off his skin—and pushed the door open.

Queen bed. Crisp white duvet. Ocean-view window. One nightstand. One lamp. No couch. No escape.

He looked back at me.

“Pillow wall?” he asked.

I exhaled hard through my nose. “Pillow wall.”

---

Mom and Dad—sorry, *Victoria and Dad*—had already wandered far down the beach, hand in hand, silhouettes shrinking into the dusk while Chase and I had barely managed fifteen steps.

The wind was relentless, shoving my hair across my face in salty strands. I brushed it away once, twice, three times—then gave up.

Before I could try again, Chase moved.

His hand lifted. Fingers caught the stray lock gently, tucking it behind my ear.

Knuckles grazed my cheekbone.

Lingered.

His fingertips rested against the side of my neck—just long enough to feel my pulse jump under his touch.

I froze.

He smelled like clean soap, faint sunscreen, and something warmer, darker—pure male that made my stomach clench.

“What are you doing?” I whispered.

His eyes dropped to my mouth, then back up. Slower this time.

“Fixing your hair,” he murmured, voice rougher than usual. “You looked like a mess.”

“I’m not a mess.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “You are.”

The words landed soft. Not cruel. Something else entirely.

Something that made my breath catch.

Dad’s voice broke the moment—“Hey!”—waving from farther down the sand.

We both jerked apart and quickened our pace to catch up.

The rest of the walk passed in silence while they laughed and held hands ahead of us. Then Dad turned back.

“You two seemed… close back there,” he said, grinning. “Walls finally cracking?”

“Trust me,” I muttered, “you’re not as shocked as I am.”

Victoria smiled over her shoulder. “See? The beach house has a magical bonding effect.”

“Right,” I said flatly.

A few minutes later Victoria headed back to start dinner. Chase muttered something about needing a shower and peeled off toward the house.

---

The deck table was set like a magazine shoot: split lobster tails steaming in garlic butter, grilled corn glistening with herb butter, arugula-tomato salad, warm sourdough, chilled white wine sweating in an ice bucket.

Chase and I sat across from each other.

He’d changed into a fitted charcoal tee that stretched across his shoulders and black board shorts slung low on his hips. Bare feet. Sleeves. Miracles do happen.

I’d swapped hoodie-and-sweats for soft pink pajama shorts and matching tank. Comfortable. Cute. Not trying.

“Pink,” he said the second he sat, eyes flicking over me.

“Didn’t think you owned anything that wasn’t black or gray.”

“Didn’t think you owned sleeves,” I shot back.

His mouth twitched—almost a smile. “Disappointed?”

“Relieved. My eyes needed the break.”

Dad and Victoria appeared, carrying the last dishes.

“You two getting along?” Dad asked, hopeful.

“You missed it,” I said smoothly. “We were. Just now. Chase was actually complimenting my pajamas.”

Victoria fumbled a plate. Chase’s eyes snapped to mine—sharp, surprised, then narrowing.

Dad’s brows shot up. “Really?”

“Really,” I said sweetly, holding Chase’s stare. “He said, and I quote, ‘Pink suits you, Sloane. Very unexpected.’”

Chase’s jaw flexed. But a flicker of amusement danced in his eyes—dark, dangerous, intrigued.

“I said that, did I?” he drawled slowly.

“Word for word.”

“I don’t remember being that… articulate.”

“You were *very* articulate.”

“Was I?”

“Extremely.”

Dad grinned, settling into his chair. “I’m impressed. You two are making real progress.”

Victoria started passing lobster. “I was worried this weekend might feel tense, but look at you—already making an effort.”

“We’re trying,” Chase said, eyes never leaving mine. Voice low. Deliberate. “Sloane’s very… motivating.”

The word *motivating* rolled off his tongue like a threat wrapped in velvet.

“As is Chase,” I replied evenly. “Full of surprises.”

“Like complimenting your pajamas?” Dad asked, amused.

“Among other things.”

Victoria beamed. “See? This was exactly what we needed.”

I smiled back—tight, polite.

But inside, something twisted.

Because Chase Hartley wasn’t full of surprises at all.

He was exactly as predictable, as infuriating, as magnetic as I’d feared.

And the worst part?

The pillow wall we’d agreed to build suddenly felt paper-thin.

And the weekend had barely started.