Promise Me This: a friends to lovers, slow burn romance (Wilder Family Book 3)

Chapter 8

The stunning ability of a writer to distract themselves with complete and utter bullshit was one of the most fascinating aspects of my job.

For instance, I didn’t really like to cook. I could follow a recipe like a champ and rarely burned things, but the sheer mess involved in creating a big meal never felt like a worthwhile trade-off. Instead, I preferred to support the local economy by ordering takeout and buying foods that required little more than being reheated.

Back in New York, it was very common for Sage and me to have cereal for dinner because if it’s good enough for breakfast, why wasn’t it good enough for dinner?

All of this prior history was probably why my daughter was stunned to come home from school to find me in the kitchen, making a very elaborate dinner. She stood rooted in the middle of the kitchen, her backpack slowly sliding off onto the floor.

“Mom,” she said slowly. “Are you having a mental breakdown?”

My hands paused their stirring movement, and I glanced down at the bowl of potato mixture for the twice-baked potatoes. “No, why?”

Sage glanced slowly around the kitchen. There was a roast in the Crock-Pot, chocolate chip cookies cooling on a rack, and fancy salad fixings ready to be mixed on the counter, and it had to be said, the house smelled amazing.

I chose to focus on that and not the heaping pile of dishes and bowls and utensils overloading the sink.

“You’re cooking a huge dinner,” she pointed out.

I whistled. “You’re quick, kid.”

She rolled her eyes. “Is it like, Thanksgiving?”

“Just thought I’d make you and Ian a nice big dinner. We haven’t had one since we moved in. You had a lot of homework this week, and he, you know, has hardly been home because of work.” There was some potato mixture on the side of my finger. Bringing my hand to my mouth, I licked it off and hummed. “A little more salt,” I murmured.

I added that, and a handful more of sharp cheddar, and then started scooping the mixture into the hollow potato skins on the baking sheet.

“He was home last night,” she pointed out. “That was fun.”

“It was.”

She walked past me, then hung her backpack on the hook in the hallway off the kitchen. “I like him,” she said simply.

Watching them play catch in the yard did strange, strange things to me. In truth, I hadn’t thought about Ian’s possible role in Sage’s life beyond the fact that he was my friend, and I wanted to make sure she was comfortable being in a shared space with him.

Certain things stayed buried in deep, dark places out of sheer self-preservation. There was a musty graveyard in my brain where all my secret yearnings were covered in six feet of worm-filled dirt, and the headstones were carved with various words that I refused to label because it was scary to want them too badly.

Things like a big family and a father who loved her and a husband who gave me butterflies and the kind of happiness that comes from feeling like the best version of yourself with someone else beside you.

Watching them like that…

I blew out a sharp breath and tried not to think about the things it unearthed.

After a kiss on my cheek, Sage disappeared to her room to do homework, and I kept cooking like a maniac. While the potatoes were in the oven, I sliced up pears for the salad and mixed the dressing in a small glass bowl. The clock ticked closer to five, and with the salad ready, I cleaned some of the larger mixing bowls, then loaded the dishwasher with as many of the smaller items as I could fit.

I’d just started a quick cycle when the sound of Ian’s truck had me straightening from where I was setting the table. It was so painfully domestic, the likes of which I’d never even pretended to want while growing up.

This was what my mom did—she cleaned the house and kept laundry shuffling and made simple, hearty meals that were ready to eat when my dad got home from a hard day’s work. It’s what she’d always wanted, and I didn’t begrudge her that, but it wasn’t the thing I’d dreamed of doing.

Ian walked in the door—dark brown shirt today—and he drew up short when he saw the set table. In the middle of the table was a serving platter from his cabinet holding a steaming, tender roast, thick, fragrant gravy in a ceramic serving bowl, the twice-baked potatoes cooling on a plate, the layer of gooey cheese on top perfectly melted and bubbly.

His brows lowered. “You okay, Keaton?”

“Why is everyone asking me that?”

The grin that split his mouth was quick and potent but disappeared quickly. He set his hands on his hips and studied the dinner waiting to be consumed, the three beautiful place settings, complete with fancy-ass folded napkins.

Then his dark eyes locked onto mine, like he was searching for something in my face. “I won’t ask you about your word count,” he started, and my eyes narrowed slightly. “But this looks delicious, even if it was a procrastination technique.”

With a scoff, I chucked a hand towel at him. He caught on a laugh.

“Dinner will be ready in five,” I told him.

He notched his fingers to his temple in a salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

I shook my head and yelled up the stairs for Sage. For as much shit as they both gave me, the dinner disappeared with groans of delight and effusive thanks.

Sage talked about school and the few friends she was making in her grade. Ian let us do most of the talking, but if we asked him a question, he’d answer.

“What do you miss about London?” Sage asked.

“The architecture.” He tilted his head. “And the pastries.”

I smiled. “Not the people? I’ve heard everyone’s so nice over there.”

The edge of his jaw worked on a bite of food. “They are. But you know me, people aren’t really … my thing.”

“You don’t say,” I replied.

At my dry tone, he rolled his eyes.

“What about New York?” he asked her. “I’m sure you miss some stuff too.”

“The pizza.” She sighed. “All the food, really. It’s not that the restaurants here aren’t good, but sometimes you just want Chinese delivered at midnight, you know?”

With a quirked brow that said he’d never done such a thing, Ian sat back in his chair when he’d cleaned his second plate, then rubbed his flat belly.

“Careful, Harlow. You keep this up, and I’ll get used to dinners like this.”

“Don’t,” Sage and I responded at the same time. We looked at each other and started laughing.

She licked the tines of her fork, and then sat back like Ian had. “That was good, Momma.”

“Glad to hear it because we have a lot of leftovers. It’ll probably be dinner tomorrow, too.”

Ian and Sage cleaned up the kitchen, and from my seat on the couch, I watched over the edge of my book that I was pretending to read.

It was better having him around. In all my overthinking before we moved in, I’d only spent a small amount of time worrying about whether this would wreck our friendship. It was so easy with him. It always had been. And now, with the benefit of our years apart, it felt like we could manage the ease differently. Manage it in a healthy way that worked for both of us. So even if I could understand why he’d pulled away, the seed of fear got swept away so quickly for me.

The justification was buried in the comfort level we had around each other. My soul knew his, and in the occasional moments he’d glance over at me on the couch and smile, I could admit he knew mine too.

While she washed the dishes, he dried, and when he said something that made Sage laugh, my ribs squeezed at their easy camaraderie. When I was her age, all I wanted out of life was my freedom, to be something different from what my parents expected of me. Ian had been my only safe place in the world.

When they’d finished cleaning up the kitchen, Sage curled up next to me on the couch, and I wrapped my arm tight around her shoulders. Ian toed off his work boots and sank back on the couch, then stretched his long legs out with a groan. A white fluffy blanket was tucked under his arm, and I eyed it. He’d give it up if I asked, which is why I decided not to ask.

“Movie?” Sage asked hopefully.

“Is your homework done?”

She nodded. “And I already got a head start on my book report for next week.”

“Go ahead,” Ian said. “Your mom will be asleep in less than fifteen minutes if you start one.”

“I will not.”

Sage giggled, rearranging herself to see the screen better as she flipped through streaming options to find something.

Twenty minutes later, I fell asleep to Remember the Titans, and stayed that way as they both went to bed at the end of the movie. I woke up in the middle of the night, covered in the fluffy white blanket that had been under his arm.

“And how is the new living situation helping your writer’s block? You said he was your best friend growing up, right?”

It was very lucky that Bea, my author coach, could not see me. I was sitting on a blanket on an actual bale of hay in Ian’s barn, with my laptop next to me.

Zero words written.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. I’d written 457, then deleted them with very purposeful strikes of the delete key before moving locations.

I’d tried the couch and the cute little desk in my bedroom. I’d tried the beautiful kitchen table and the rocking chair on the front porch. Even the coffee shop was beginning to feel a bit like a squatter’s situation because I was just sitting there with my one cup of coffee and hair laden with a bit too much dry shampoo and the white fuzzy blanket I’d brought from the house. When the baristas gave me wide-eyed looks, I decided a break was necessary.

I sighed. “It’s … not. I mean, I’m happier. Definitely less stressed.”

My parents were still quietly disapproving of the move to Ian’s. I could see it in their faces when I picked up Sage on the days they got her from school so I could work until dinner. And not just in their faces but in the complete lack of interest in how it was going living here.

“And you don’t think that’s helpful? To be less stressed?”

“I do.” I leaned back against a wooden support beam and blew a raspberry between my lips. “And I know that thinking is a good portion of this job, but there aren’t any ideas that are making my brain light up, you know?”

She hummed. Even though this was only my second phone call with Bea, it felt a bit more like author therapy this time, instead of a “get to know you” chat like the first had been.

“Have you talked this out with Ian? I know you didn’t have the option of bouncing ideas off anyone living at your parents’.”

“Not yet,” I admitted. “I don’t know why I haven’t. It feels like giving someone a scary peek behind the curtain, and they realize that I’m not actually the Wizard of Oz, I’m a neurotic almost thirty-five-year-old woman who walks around in a T-shirt and her underwear, eating cookie dough out of a tube while he’s at work.”

I glanced down at my bare legs. I wasn’t in my underwear, but the threadbare shorts disappeared under my shirt, so I might as well have been.

At my analogy, she laughed. “Do you really think he’ll care what he finds behind the curtain?”

“No.” My eyes pinched shut, thinking about white blankets and permission to use sparkly paint and pizza served on paper towels while we moved boxes. “He won’t care at all.”

“Being in a supportive environment is no small thing, and if your friend has proven to support you, even if it means tough love on his part, I think this is the best place for you.” She paused. “The words will come, but maybe you need to shake things up a little. And I don’t mean the physical location where you’re writing. I don’t think that’s your problem. Try to write out of your genre, if that’s a place you’re getting stuck.”

I snorted. “Oh great, now what? Aliens and monsters?”

She made a slight humming noise. “Not necessarily, but those could fit too, depending on your mood.”

“My mood,” I said glumly. “I don’t even know.”

She paused. “Okay, let’s try a different angle. All the authors I work with notice a lot. You pay attention to things happening around you because you damn well know that ideas can come from anywhere. What have you been noticing lately?”

I closed my eyes and thought about the big dinner I made. Cleaning up dishes and kid’s laughter. A game of catch in the backyard. Fuzzy white blankets and movie nights.

“Partnerships,” I said unthinkingly. “Teamwork. Having someone with you to help you through the hard.”

Bea made a soft noise of comprehension. “Understandable.”

“That doesn’t help me with my words, though.”

“Maybe not just yet. What about your writing setup? Have you switched things up? Try dictation?”

I snorted. “Almost broke my ankle. Me and nature and trying to write do not mix.”

She laughed at that. “Fair enough.”

My fingers drummed absently at the edge of my laptop. “Did I mention I tried writing in his barn today?”

“You did not.” Her voice was brimming with amusement. “But if it works, embrace it.”

I tweaked a piece of hay and spun it between two fingers. “I saw this story online about a romance writer who kept bringing cars into a tire shop because she was getting good words in their waiting room. Neighbors and her whole family, everyone’s cars. Maybe I should try that next.” I plucked a piece of hay. “Damn if I wouldn’t borrow everyone’s I know in order to make it happen.”

A truck approaching the house made me glance out the open barn door. I winced because Ian would probably think I’d lost it. Again.

Not that I’d done any more gourmet cooking in the past couple of days. That particular tear had only lasted one meal, thank goodness. But it was nice to know I could still pull together something on par with Sheila Wilder’s skills.

“Please let me know how that pans out,” she said on a laugh. “In the meantime, based on your answer about the things you’ve been noticing, I will email you a list of writing prompts. Don’t overthink them. No one will look at what you come up with, so don’t self-edit either. But that’s your homework before we speak again, okay? Work through all the prompts in the next week.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She chuckled.

Just as we disconnected the call, a big hand hooked on the barn door and pulled it open. Ian’s head poked through the opening, his eyes widening when he saw me sitting there. I waved a pathetic little oh don’t mind me sitting in your barn with my computer wave.

“It’s just me. No criminals are raiding your barn.”

“Pretty sure you’re the one who worries about things like that, not me.” He tucked his hands in his pockets and ambled toward me.

What a sight he was,I thought. Objectively, Ian Wilder was a good-looking son of a bitch. A weak stream of sunlight poured through the middle of the barn, dust motes dancing in the air, and when he passed through that sunlight, it bounced off his hair and bone structure in a way that had me shaking my head.

“What?” he asked.

“You.” I gestured vaguely. “All you’re missing is a cowboy hat and some glistening abs, and you could be on the cover of a book.”

He snorted, but the slightest wash of pink tinged the tips of his cheekbones.

Why was it so terribly endearing when a handsome man blushed at the smallest of compliments? Maybe because it meant that he wasn’t a douchebag. The hot ones who knew they were hot wouldn’t blush. They’d preen and puff out their chest and smirk, thinking it was all so incredibly attractive.

It wasn’t. Excessive smirking was a giant red flag in my book. Immediate no.

Ian didn’t do any of those things. No preening or puffing, and he only smirked when the situation demanded it. He might be bigger now, with more muscles covering his tall frame, might’ve grown into his features in a really pleasing way, but at his core, he was still the same quiet kid who didn’t like to waste his daily word count on strangers. He saved all those words for the people who meant the most to him.

“You hiding?” Ian hopped up onto the bale of hay next to mine, his arm brushing against my own. “It’s not very exciting in here.”

“Speak for yourself. It’s got atmosphere.”

He pointed at the laptop. “You going to turn this into your new office?”

“Maybe.” I slid my computer onto my lap, mainly to cover my thighs because it really did look like I wasn’t wearing anything underneath my AC/DC shirt. “I just finished a call with my writing coach,” I told him.

Ian was quiet. “You don’t sound very inspired.”

Inexplicably, a woolly ball of emotion crept up my throat, lodging somewhere in the middle. “What if I can’t do this anymore?” I whispered. I’d never actually said it out loud. “I know I shouldn’t define so much of my self-worth on this hunk of machinery, on my ability to fill a document with words, but…”

“But you do,” he finished.

Slowly, I nodded. “I’ve always wanted to tell stories. And I can’t admit it to many people, but I’ll feel like I failed myself if I give up on doing that. If I have to get a job somewhere else because my brain decided it was done coming up with more books.” I sniffed, trying again to swallow past that obstruction in my throat. “Like I’d have to say goodbye to this big piece of who I am if I can’t do it.”

For a few minutes, Ian didn’t talk. He took a deep inhale, his frame brushing more fully against mine. His skin was so warm, and I closed my eyes while I waited for him to answer.

When he did, the sound of his voice was deep and rumbly, and I felt it behind my breastbone. “What if I woke up tomorrow, and my hands didn’t work. I couldn’t make things anymore, right? Does it negate what I’ve already created because I have to shift my focus?”

“No, of course not.” I sighed because I knew what he was trying to do. “But that’s different?—”

“Why? Because your brain isn’t a part of your body? Maybe it needs to rest for a couple of years. Maybe it needs a change. Maybe you need to stop being so fucking hard on yourself and talk to yourself like you’d talk to me.”

With my chest locked in a ruthless vise, I could do nothing but stare over at him.

Eventually, Ian turned, his eyes holding mine steady. The light in the barn made them more golden than usual, bright striations cutting through the deep brown that I’d never noticed before.

“How would you talk to me right now, Harlow? If I were the one struggling.”

But my voice didn’t work. If I tried to answer him, I’d cry, and based on the look on his face, he already had his answer.

I’d tell him to give himself grace.

I’d tell him that the things he’d created were amazing and beautiful, and having to do something else for a while didn’t make them less amazing or beautiful.

I’d tell him I was proud of him, no matter what he did.

My shoulders sagged, and just for a moment, I leaned my weight against his. “Dammit, Ian,” I whispered.

He laughed, a slow roll of sound under his breath, and I wanted to wrap myself up in it like it was a warm, fuzzy white blanket.

“I know I can’t be saying anything that other people haven’t already told you,” he said.

I straightened, and my side felt cold when it wasn’t touching his skin. “Yeah, but somehow you’ve always said things in a way that I can actually hear it. It’s so annoying.”

“I’m sure it is.” He nudged me with his shoulder. “You making another big dinner tonight?”

“Hell no. I filled my cooking quota for three months with that, buddy.”

“Worth asking.” He hopped off the hay and studied me for a moment. “You staying in here?”

I nodded. “For a little while, yeah.”

“I gotta head back to the site. Just forgot something at the house.”

“Thanks for the pep talk, Wilder.” I smiled a little, making sure he could see just how much I appreciated him. “I don’t hate being here, you know.”

He laughed again. “Good. I don’t hate having you here.”

Then he walked out, and I exhaled slowly, sinking back against the column again.

Briefly, I wondered if I should be worried at how much I already seemed to depend on him. But I wiped that thought away and opened my phone to check on the email from Bea.

The subject had me narrowing my eyes.

NSFW prompts. Do not open if children are present.