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In the deafening silence of my bedroom, the only sounds were the ticking of the ornate clock on the wall and the occasional car passing by in the distance.
With a heavy sigh, I laid back on the bed, still fully clothed. Staring at the ceiling, my mind swirled with thoughts of Paisley, the festival, and the lies I'd told. The weight of it all pressed down on me, making my eyelids heavy.
And despite the turmoil in my mind, sleep began to claim me. Perhaps it was exhaustion, or maybe it was the hope that tomorrow would be a new day, a chance to set things right.
But for now, as I drifted off, I clung to the memories of her—her smile, her touch, her voice—hoping that, somehow, they would guide me back.
27
PAISLEY
The suffocating weight of betrayal pressed down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. Tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, the early morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, painting the room in dappled gold. I hadn’t slept a wink. Every time I closed my eyes, images of Austin on that stage, speaking confidently, proudly, filled my mind. The applause, the cheers—it all seemed so distant, yet so piercingly sharp.
I pulled myself upright, feeling a familiar ache in my temples, the remnants of last night's fever. Sickness and heartache were a terrible combination, and my body ached from both.
I wondered, not for the first time, if coming here had been a mistake. Benjamin had been eager to whisk me back to New York, where life was predictable, where I knew the rules. But I’d chosen to stay, to take a chance on something that felt real and raw. Benjamin’s wealth had always been a looming shadow over our relationship. I felt like a bird in a gilded cage, adored but never truly free. I didn’t want the confines of his money, the feeling of being owned.
But Austin? The revelations from last night played on a loop in my head. He was the mayor, and the owner of the vineyard I worked at. The man I’d begun to fall for, who seemed so genuine and grounded, was hiding layers of truths. I forced myself out of bed, feeling my head spin slightly. My body protested every movement, but I needed something to soothe my throat, and maybe my soul. I made my way to the kitchen, the chill of the floor biting at my bare feet. Reaching for the kettle, I filled it and set it on the stove, the hiss of the gas a comforting background noise.
As the water bubbled and steamed, I reached for a tea bag—chamomile, for comfort. I’d always found solace in small rituals, and making tea was one of them. The rhythmic motions, the scent of the herbs, they all served to ground me.
I turned to take a mug from the cabinet, and my gaze landed on the drawing I’d done of Austin. It stood propped against the wall, his eyes piercing, his lips slightly parted as if caught in a candid moment. The memory of that evening, when I’d asked him to pose with the wine, shirtless and carefree, was still so fresh. My hand traced the lines of his face on the canvas, and I could almost feel the warmth of his skin.
I felt a sharp sting in my eyes, and before I knew it, tears were cascading down my cheeks. The kettle whistled loudly, echoing my internal turmoil. I quickly turned off the stove, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. I didn’t want to cry over this. I didn’t want to feel this hurt, this confusion.
I took a deep breath, steadying myself as I poured the steaming water into the mug, watching as the tea bag began to color the water a soft, golden hue.
Just as I was about to take a sip, there was a knock on my door. My heart leaped into my throat. Could it be Austin? Or maybe Benjamin, come to tell me he’d been right all along? The possibilities raced through my mind as I took hesitant steps toward the door.
I pressed my ear to the wood, trying to catch any sound from the other side, but all was silent. My hand hovered over the doorknob, hesitating. Taking a deep breath, I prepared myself for whatever—or whoever—was on the other side.
My hand was still over the doorknob when another soft knock sounded. Frustration gnawed at me; I wanted the space to heal and think. But I couldn't ignore the door forever. Taking a steadying breath, I twisted the knob and pulled the door open.
There stood Austin, his deep blue eyes looking tired, and there was an unmistakable weight to his shoulders. He held a bouquet of vibrant wildflowers in one hand and a bag that smelled distinctly of pastries in the other.
"I—" he began, but I quickly interrupted.
"What the hell, Austin?" My voice wavered with hurt and anger, but I tried to keep it steady.
"I know," he said, swallowing hard. "I messed up. But please, let me explain."
I felt a twinge in my chest seeing him there, so vulnerable. I wanted to slam the door, to shield myself from any further pain he might cause. But those eyes—the same eyes that had stared back at me from the canvas—pleaded with me.
Against my better judgment, I sighed, stepping aside to let him in. "Fine," I muttered. "But make it quick."
He walked in, setting the flowers and food on the kitchen counter. "Thank you," he whispered, running a hand through his disheveled hair.
The silence that stretched between us was thick with tension. He looked so tired, and I hated that even now, after everything, a part of me wanted to go to him, to comfort him.
"Paisley," he began, his voice hoarse, "I am so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. I never wanted to lie to you."
I scoffed. "So why did you?"
He hesitated for a moment, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Because... I didn't want you to see me differently. Everywhere I go in this town, I'm the mayor, the owner of the vineyard. Everyone knows me, expects something from me. With you... it was different. It felt... real. Genuine. I didn't want to lose that."
I could feel the anger bubbling up inside me. "So you thought lying was the best way to ensure that?"
"I know it sounds stupid," he admitted, his eyes searching mine. "I just... I wanted to be 'Austin' with you. Not 'Mayor Austin' or 'Vineyard Owner Austin.' Just Austin."
