CHAPTER TWO | THE MORNING AFTER
Copyright & Disclaimer
This story is inspired by true events. Certain names, characters, locations, details, and circumstances have been changed, fictionalized, or combined for creative purposes. Any resemblance to actual persons or events beyond those that inspired the story is coincidental.
© 2026 Shamar Phillips. All rights reserved.
Too Much Like Love
I enjoyed waking up to the sound of rain tapping against my window the next morning. The warmth of the cottage dancing with the chill from outside was a nice touch too. I didn’t realize how long I’d slept until I rolled over and woke the screen on my phone. It was after 10 AM, and I had four missed calls from people back home, just checking in.
The smoky scent of bacon in the air caught my attention more than any missed call, however. The unmistakable aroma caressed my nose and made my tummy grumble like a drum. But since I hadn’t done any shopping of my own yet, I didn’t let my taste buds get too excited.
When I finally made it downstairs for the day, I was surprised to find Shamar in the kitchen cooking up a feast. There was more food on the wooden island than there was in most homes these days.
He was standing at the glossy black, cast-iron range cooker that was wedged between shaker cabinets with wooden countertops, wearing noise-cancelling headphones, a white tank, and those damn sweatpants.
Mm. Mm. Mm.
Not wanting to startle him while his back was turned, I waited at the kitchen entrance until he turned around to add more bacon to its already overflowing pile before I waved. When he saw me standing there, he waved his pan and spatula over the food like a pastor giving his blessing, and I knew right then and there that he and I were going to get along just fine.
“Sleeping beauty awakes.” He placed his pan on the stove and removed his headphones.
“She does.” I blushed. “Munchies?”
“Breakfast. Come in and have a seat.”
He was so serious, but in such a charming way. I don’t know how to explain it—straightforward and stern. An alpha male with a heart the same size and sweetness as James’s giant peach. He pulled out my chair for me and made sure my cocoa was hot. I felt like I was spending Sunday morning with my dad again, and that warmed me more than any cocoa ever could.
“I don’t know how you like your eggs, but I like mine scrambled hard, so that’s what we got.”
I stared at him with quiet fascination as he filled my breakfast tray to capacity: bacon, eggs, sausage, French toast, fried potatoes, cheesy grits, and a side of freshly chopped fruit.
“That’s fine. I don’t like runny eggs either,” I said.
“Cool. I wanted to make sure you had something to eat when you finally got up. I’m heading out in a few to pick up things we might need for the storm. And I need more blunt wraps. It’s supposed to get gritty the next few days.”
A nasty storm was my kryptonite. My parents were vacationing in Florida when Hurricane Charley hit, and got stuck in traffic trying to get back home to my sister and me.
I was 13 at the time; Trinity was 18. She became my sole caretaker after they were killed, and we had lived together ever since. I didn’t know how I was going to survive being over 9,000 miles away from her during a storm, so even though I didn’t fully know the man living under the same roof as me, I was glad to have someone there.
“You good?”
He sat across from me at the table with a breakfast tray even fuller than mine. His eyes were red, glossy, and low, so I knew he had smoked. And even though his gaze was full of concern for why I had suddenly gone quiet, the chinky-ness of his eyes turned that same concern into something sexier.
“I’m worried,” I said.
“About?”
I kept my eyes on the tray in front of me. The stillness I felt, remembering the call about my parents, had a hold on me so tight that I lost my appetite. Shamar nibbled at a piece of bacon while waiting for my response, but just like the night before, when I took too long to reply, he took the initiative.
“You worried about the storm?”
I nodded. “My parents were killed by Hurricane Charley, so anytime the weather’s bad, I start freaking out. I haven’t been away from my sister during a storm since I was 13.”
My confession clearly reminded him of something. He got a peculiar look on his face, set his strip of bacon back on his tray, and leaned back in his chair like he’d gone down memory lane. I thought he would say I was being dramatic or tell me I needed to get over it like my last boyfriend had. But when he finally spoke again, I was shocked.
“I lived in North Port during Charley. I was in middle school at the time.”
His tone was even but carried an underlying chill that gave me goosebumps.
“The eye of the storm sat over my house for what felt like a long ass time. I swear I could see our roof lifting, and I just kept saying, Please be over. Please be over. No lie, that was one of the scariest moments of my life. You could hear the wind screaming like it was mad, trying to get inside. Me, my brothers and sisters, and my mom were all in the living room, huddled together, wondering if that was the last time we would see each other. I’m surprised we even made it through. South Florida was down for a long time after that storm. Shit, some parts of it never recovered.”
Listening to him recap the moments of surviving one of Florida’s most dangerous hurricanes brought tears to my eyes. I kept imagining my parents and how scared they must have been; trapped inside a car with nowhere to go but into each other’s arms.
When I couldn’t listen to any more of the story, I shot up from the table and ran toward the stairs. But Shamar was right behind me.
He grabbed my hand before I made it onto the first step and pulled me back to him. The look in his eyes was so full of sorrow that I turned and fell into his arms like he’d been a safe space all my life. Normally, it was Trinity who stood in his place. But since she was all the way on the other side of the world, I clung to him instead.
“I’m sorry,” he said while hugging me.
“It’s fine,” I cried. “My trauma isn’t your problem to solve. You should be enjoying your vacation, not listening to some strange woman crying about the wickedness from her past.”
“I am enjoying my vacation,” he said. “Sometimes, having things in common is actually good for healing.”
He held me for a few moments longer before guiding me back to the kitchen table. We didn’t talk about my parents or Charley anymore after we sat down again. He simply pointed to the food, then at me, and told me to eat.
After stuffing my belly until it swelled, I went to the office at the back of the cottage and sat down with my laptop and the frozen margarita he made to calm my nerves. He had gone out for storm supplies, so that gave me some time alone on the quest to finish my novel. But after a few sips of the margarita, my mind drifted off to the feeling of him holding me and the scent of his cologne left on my skin.
I wanted more of that TLC feeling. It had been a long time since I had it. My last relationship was two years prior, and even then, I didn’t get that feeling. You know… the peaceful feeling that comes at the end of the day when you’re alone, secluded away from the world and all its craziness. The feeling of comfort and warmth on a cold, cloudy day.
I trailed my fingers along the places his cologne lingered and imagined he was still there. It felt like he was, and I couldn’t wait for him to return. Call me crazy or foolish, but I knew there was something between us. My superstitions about love and things falling into place exactly when they were supposed to had me wondering if our double booking was really a coincidence.
A few hours later, he was back, and I had just finished my word count for the day. I didn’t even know he was back because he didn’t bother me when he got in; he was too busy unloading his haul from the markets he’d gone to.
I loved that he understood the inner workings of being a writer, because had he interrupted my groove before I finished getting my thoughts onto the pages, I might have fallen back into the cage of writer's block.
“You need some help?”
He was soaked from the rain, but still a sight to see. The bulge peering through the front of his joggers caught my attention before I realized he’d answered, leaving me flushed when he caught me looking.
“Nah.” He smirked before turning around to finish unpacking. “How was writing?”
“Good,” I nervously replied. “I finished a chapter. That’s more than what I’ve been doing at home.”
“What’s different about being home?”
I loved the way he asked questions. Not that he asked questions, but the literal way he made a simple question feel so mysterious and important. It made me feel seen and heard in a way that I was ashamed to admit turned me on.
“It’s quiet,” I shrugged. “My sister and I share a house with her two kids. It gets loud and busy most days, so I can’t concentrate.”
“Write at night. That’s what I do.”
“I’m not a night owl,” I chuckled. “I can barely keep my eyes open past 11.”
I was having a grand old time watching him do simple tasks like putting away groceries, making sure there were batteries in the flashlights, and there was water and gas for the generator in case the power went out—manly things my dad used to take care of when he was still alive.
Not once did he make me feel like I was on my own or that he wouldn’t look out for me because I was essentially a stranger to him. Including me in his survival plans was second nature.
“You never told me how bad it’s gonna get,” I reminded him. “Or was I just not paying attention?”
After putting away the last of his haul, he turned to give me his undivided attention. That same sly smirk he had when he caught me staring at his bulge was present, and even sexier than it was when he caught me. I thought he was going to make fun of my perversion or use it as a way to ease his way inside, but he was still too cool for school, and knew all the right ways to keep me on my toes.
“I asked around. The locals said it’s supposed to get nasty. They said it should last about 3 to 4 days, so I made sure I got everything we might need until it’s over.”
He moistened his lips while giving me the deepest look of seduction I had ever seen on anyone. The butterflies in my stomach because of his gaze almost knocked me clear off my stool and right onto his manhood. I was so engulfed in his flame, I thought for sure he’d heard the moan that escaped my lips. But he continued on like he heard nothing.
“I’m gonna go take a shower; get out of these wet clothes.” He brushed his hand along my thigh as he passed. “When I’m done, I’m gonna smoke and eat that whole box of pizza. I got you one with pepperoni, since I didn’t have your number to ask what you liked.”
He put a slight emphasis on not having my number, like it was something he should have already had. I couldn’t help but smile because… who did he think he was? Being all smooth and charming and sweeping me off my feet without even trying? By the time my wheels stopped churning about the man I loved to read from cover to cover, I had forgotten all about being terrified of the storm.
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