Chapter 14
“Okay, what’d you do this week? I haven’t talked to you in forever.”
Paloma gestured through the screen, then took a sip of her iced tea. She was in the Eastern Time Zone, happily settled in the panhandle of Florida, so she’d had more of her workday than I had so far.
“Plotting,” I said. “I really like it. I think I’ll be ready to send a full pitch and a first chapter to Cora and my editor next week.”
“Oh she’s a bad bitch,” she said, smacking her hand on the surface of her desk. “I knew you had it in you.”
“Bea helped so much. Thank you for passing along her info.”
“Fucking Bea. I should start giving her a cut of my royalties because I think my brain would’ve self-destructed by now if it wasn’t for her.”
I laughed. “What about you? Don’t humble me too badly.”
“I’ve written thirty thousand words this week. I think my arms are going to fall off.”
I rolled my eyes. “I feel so sorry for you.”
Paloma snickered. “I know you do. Your words will come, just gotta trust the process.”
Eyeing the stack of scribbled notebook pages, I set my chin in my hands and sighed. “I am. It’s so different, though, you know? I’ve only ever had to plot out one protagonist, one major set of issues, one trauma, one journey through the story. Now I’m balancing two, and it’s not easy.”
“Still going with the story we talked about last week?” she asked. She wasn’t looking at her screen anymore, so I knew she was multitasking.
“Yeah. I like the stalker idea. It keeps me in that suspense world that I like, and my hero is a guy she used to hate, but he’s the only one who makes her feel safe now. That takes some mental adjustment for her. I think it keeps the tension in two places in the story that way.” I flipped a few pages. “Still trying to figure out how to reveal his background, though.”
She hummed. “Narrator-kept secret? Or does the reader know, and it’s just your heroine who needs to figure it out?”
“Such excellent questions,” I said gravely.
Paloma laughed. “You’ll figure it out eventually.”
“I know.” I rubbed my forehead and sighed. “I’m almost plotted through the climax.”
She popped her eyebrows up. “You’re making good progress. Usually, it takes you a solid month to outline everything.”
“I’m telling you, I did that one prompt, and the whole story just unrolled in my head.”
“Tell me about your guy again.”
Tugging the notebook closer, I rattled off some notes. “Jack Briggs. Thirty-six. Gruff. Protective. A little obsessive when he finally lets someone in. Has some abandonment issues stemming from his childhood.”
“Hot.”
I laughed. “Yeah?”
She grinned. “Let me guess, dark hair, dark eyes, big strapping muscles.”
Did my eye twitch? She’d have noticed if it did because even though we didn’t check in weekly, Paloma was probably the longest friendship in my life besides Ian. There would be no broad-shouldered, dark-haired heroes with excellent facial hair and dark, heavily lashed eyes in any of my books, thank you very much. Not if I could help it.
“Nope,” I said decisively. “Going for a blond guy this time.”
Her eyebrows climbed high on her forehead. “Blond, huh? That’s a … choice.”
“Yup. Gray eyes. A tatt on his forearm, one on his back she doesn’t know about. Tall, wiry muscular. Like swimmer’s build.”
Paloma hummed, tapping her chin and narrowing her heavily lined eyes in a way that I did not like. “This is interesting.”
“Stop reading into it. It just sounded hot, okay?”
“Fine.” She waggled a finger at the screen. “And if the powers that be don’t like the idea?”
I sighed heavily through my nose. “It is a shift in my brand, so I can understand if they say no. But I’m excited about it. So I think I’d try self-publishing it.” When her eyes widened, I gave her a look. “I know how much work it is, but you do both, so you know all the things. You can help a poor thriller author like me figure it out.”
At the helpless flutter of my eyelashes, she snorted. “I’ve been doing this for years, and I still don’t have it figured out. But yes, I can help if they pass on it. Romanceland is a wonderful place to be. I can’t wait for you to join me.”
Running my finger along the edge of a book beside my computer, I twisted my lips in a thoughtful frown.
“What else?” she asked. “You decide on your dark moment yet?”
I pushed back in my chair and stretched my arms over my head. “That’s what I’m working on. I still can’t decide if it’s too cliché or not to have the climax be that she suspects he’s the stalker for a while.”
Paloma tugged her hair tie out and dug her fingers into her hair as she shook it out. “I like it. You’ve never done it before, and it’s a good relationship test. Makes her question everything that came before and if she was overlooking things because she was attracted to him.” My friend clucked her tongue and wrapped her hair back up. “The sex feelings make everything complicated.”
Well, that had me squirming in my chair. And I’d done such a good job shoving my own teeny tiny little sex thoughts into the forbidden portion of my brain. The part that I locked down with deadbolts and chains and iron walls. “Mm-hmm.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.” She leaned in closer to the screen. “You’re thinking thoughts and don’t want to say them out loud. Spill it. Now.”
“You know, you’re very bossy sometimes.” I tapped my laptop camera. “Oh shoot, my connection is cutting out.”
“No, it’s not, you coward. Tell me about your sex thoughts,” she yelled.
“Did you get new eyelash extensions? I like them.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
My phone buzzed with a text from my mom. I held it up so she could see it. “Gotta go! My mom is texting.”
“You don’t even like talking to your mom. Harlow, don’t you dare?—”
I disconnected the video call with a grin. She’d blow up my DMs immediately. Paloma and I shared an agent. She’d connected us about five or so years earlier. Writing was a solitary job, and because I didn’t do events or signings or conferences out of my desire to keep my private life private, I hadn’t formed many close friendships with other authors.
Other than some surface-level social media “friendships,” Paloma was about it, and she didn’t even know everything about Ian. She knew I was living with him and knew he and I had been friends growing up, but that was about it.
If I told her about the prompt and The Thoughts (caps necessary because they felt incredibly significant), she’d take that shit and run with it like an Olympic sprinter. If it were a book she was writing—because her stuff did err spicier than mine—she’d have us banging by chapter two or three. It would be a journey of erotic self-discovery, and friendship would be a loose thread that tied us together. And that was not any sort of story that could play out realistically for Ian and me.
Not telling Paloma about The Thoughts was a boundary for my own mental health.
“Speaking of boundaries,” I muttered, turning over my phone to check the text from my mom.
Mom: Your sister and her family are coming for lunch on Sunday, and since it’s right by your birthday, why don’t you and Sage come too. I’m making casserole and a salad. Your sister will bring my cinnamon cake.
“By all means, let’s make Rachel’s favorite cake on my birthday,” I muttered.
I eyed my calendar, and even though we didn’t have anything planned on Sunday, I still would’ve loved if she’d asked. Most people might not have thought anything of it, but when you’d lived separate from any sort of family for well over a decade, this type of balancing act required a bit of careful handling.
Folding my arms onto the kitchen table, I sank my forehead onto my arms with a groan.
Before I could lift my head and formulate a response to her text, the sound of a truck had me sitting up. Ian’s truck.
He was home early.
I’d avoided being alone with him since The Thoughts, and it did help. When we weren’t alone, I could distract myself with things like my daughter. My job. And not thinking things I shouldn’t be thinking.
In fact, I’d emphatically not thought about him the other day when I snuck some alone time in the shower after everyone had left the house. So I was emphatically not worried about being alone with Ian before Sage was home from school.
Liar, a voice whispered in the back of my head.
Okay, fine, I was a little worried. That was an unfortunate side effect of The Thoughts. It gave me a little clarity on why Ian had done his own avoiding when we first moved in. There was always a lingering fear that something would change the dynamic of our relationship. But the worst possible outcome of that dynamic change was me losing him entirely.
The Thoughts needed to stay away. And if they did, then the fear would dissipate too.
Which was why I didn’t attempt to straighten my messy ponytail or worry that the ripped sleeves on my T-shirt showed the strappy edge to my light purple bra. He certainly wasn’t going to notice.
Had Ian ever thought Thoughts about someone? I found myself wondering. He didn’t date seriously in high school—even though female notice of him grew exponentially with the growth spurt he’d had in eighth grade and the time he’d spent in the weight room sophomore and junior year.
He’d gone on casual dates. I knew he made out with his fair share of girls later in high school, and even though he never admitted it, I was about eighty percent sure that he lost his V-card at seventeen to Constance McKenzie in the bed of his truck because I found a sleeping bag and some cheap battery-operated candles back there and gave him shit about it for months.
If he was thinking things, I never knew about them. But in all the years we’d spent apart, he must’ve had some sort of relationship. He was too good, too handsome not to.
Who was she? Some chic Londoner with impeccable style and a cute accent? She probably called him love or darling and had excellent time management skills and never would’ve gone three days testing the limits of a good dry shampoo.
My face must’ve betrayed my questions because he walked in the door and froze. “What?”
I blinked. “What?”
“You look serious. Or pissed off, I can’t tell.”
Black shirt today, and damn him, it looked really good. What asshole had the unmitigated gall to create the Henley? It wasn’t fair. It clung to shoulders and chests and arms and had those little buttons that showed just the tiniest glimpse of collarbone and chest that shouldn’t have been so appealing.
“I’m not pissed off,” I said absently, tearing my eyes away from the fucking buttons. “I’m just … thinking.”
“Ahh. Get some good work done today?”
Whenever he asked, the genuine interest was so clear in his eyes. It wasn’t a flippant how was your day? Yet paired with The Thoughts, and the lack of other people around us, and the black Henley, it was all too much.
“My hero has blond hair,” I blurted. “And gray eyes.”
Ian paused, tilting his head. “Okay. That’s good, right?”
“Yup. Super-hot. Everyone loves blond heroes.”
He did one of those laughs—a short exhale, just a quiet puff of amusement that wasn’t even really a full laugh. “Noted.”
My eyes slammed shut because I sounded insane. “What are you doing home so early? I didn’t expect you until after five.”
Ian scratched the edge of his jaw, then tugged one of the chairs away from the table so he could take a seat. “I wanted to talk to you about something before Sage got home,” he said.
Shit.
Dammit.
He knew about The Thoughts.
Frantically, I tried to remember if I’d left my computer open at any point, where he might’ve read my prompt.
“Okay,” I said quietly. “What about?”
This was serious. Ian could hardly look at me. He’d braced his forearms on the table, his hands clasped together. “You know the last thing I want to do is upset the routine we’ve got going here. I love having you and Sage at the house.”
My hands started trembling, so I kept them under the table. He saw. He definitely saw. Did he notice me staring at his happy trail like it was the actual happiest thing I’d seen in a long time?
And then, oh gawd and then I thought about some of the things I’d written. About his big fingers and the way they slid easily between my legs. Her legs, I corrected frantically in my head. Her legs. The fictional person who didn’t exist and wasn’t me, and it didn’t matter how easily fingers slid because of how turned on she was because she was not me.
“I might have done something this morning,” he continued, finally raising his gaze to mine. “Overstepped a little. And I shouldn’t have.”
My lungs locked down, and no matter how hard I tried to suck in a full breath, it was like trying to breathe through an opening the size of a pinhead.
Fucking fuck a duck, this was it. I was screwed.
“Okay,” I whispered. “What did you do?”
Ian clenched his jaw, and beneath the dark hair of his beard, I saw the muscles bunch.
But before he could answer, the door to the house burst open, and Sage rushed in, her eyes wide and cheeks flushed with excitement. “Mom, I’m starting on the indoor flag football team! We have practice next week!”
I was out of my chair in an instant, standing just as she flung herself into my arms. “What? How?” I asked. “I thought they didn’t let girls on the team?”
Her arms were so tight around my middle, I laughed when I couldn’t take a full breath. I kissed the top of her head, my eyes pricking with happy tears when I got a look at her face as she finally pulled back. Sage’s eyes were glossy, bright with excitement, and overwhelmed with emotion.
As she tried to compose herself, my eyes drifted to Ian, and he sat back in his chair, legs spread, smile pleased. It deepened as I held his stare.
He was so happy too.
A million little wings exploded in the pit of my stomach, fluttering and flapping dangerously because it felt like such a family moment that it almost knocked me to my knees.
I broke the stare and cupped Sage’s face in my hands. “I’m so happy for you, honey. What happened?”
She looked over at the man sitting quietly at the table. “Ian happened.”
My mouth hung open. “What?”
“That’s what I was going to tell you,” he said quietly. Then he stood, holding out his fist toward Sage. “Congrats, kiddo. You’re going to do great. Now you’ve got to prove to him it was the right call.”
She nodded frantically. “I will.” Sage unwound her arms from around my stomach and walked to him, bypassing the fist and going straight for a hug. Her eyes were pinched shut as he laughed and gently set his big hands on her back and patted a little awkwardly.
I covered my mouth to hide my smile.
“Thank you,” Sage said. “You either scared the shit out of him or used all my notes or something.”
“Sage,” I said.
Ian tried to cover his laugh with a cough as Sage pulled away, tucking her hair behind her ears as she gave me an apologetic look. “Sorry. I’m just so excited.” She bounced up and down, letting out a little scream. “I need to go … run around the house or something!”
I shook my head with a grin. “Go for it. Do you have a practice schedule for me?”
“Coach said he’d email it today,” she said over her shoulder, taking the steps two at a time as she pounded up the stairs.
As soon as I heard her bedroom door slam, I whirled. “What did you do?”
He held his hands up. “I didn’t threaten him.”
I crossed my arms. “Then why does Sage think you scared the shit out of him?”
Ian grimaced.
And the proverbial light bulb clicked on over my head. “This is why you were worried you’d overstepped?”
He nodded. “I didn’t…” He paused, reconsidering his words. “I was just going to stand in the hallway for support because she was so nervous about talking to him.”
I sighed. “I knew I should have pushed harder to email him or call or something first.” Then I narrowed my eyes. “Was he mean to her?”
“No,” he answered cautiously. “He wasn’t mean. But her nerves got the best of her, and she was fumbling her words. He was a little dismissive, maybe.”
“Teachers are pretty overloaded, in general,” I said. “So what did you do?”
I sat back down at the table while he told me what happened. When he said the part about the handshake, I rolled my lips together to keep my smile hidden.
“What a man thing to do,” I said under my breath.
Ian exhaled harshly. “Was I supposed to just stand there? I don’t know what the fuck you’re supposed to do with a kid who’s worked so damn hard to get a chance and then one bout of nerves gets the best of her.”
“There’s a balance.” I shrugged. “Sometimes the best thing you can do for your kids is let them do the hard thing and have it not go well. That’s how they learn. And sometimes you step in when an adult isn’t playing it straight. I don’t always do it right either, but it’s usually a gut instinct. And it sounds like you followed yours.”
His gut instinct was to be overprotective of my daughter, which, you know, didn’t help The Thoughts. Not like he could know that, though.
He sighed, tipping his head back. “I just wanted her to have her chance.”
“Sounds like you got it for her,” I said quietly.
“I think my brother got it for her because the coach had the balls to ask, if we’re being honest.”
I laughed. “Fair enough. Does she know about that yet?”
“Doesn’t sound like it.”
“Do you want to tell her?” I asked.
He gave me a brief look. “No, you can do it. I’m not trying to make it about me.”
“You care about her. That’s not making it about you,” I told him. Ian took his seat again, emitting a weary sigh. I nudged his foot with mine. “Remember my sixteenth birthday?”
His eyes searched mine and then he nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
“I thought my parents were going to throw me a party, or do something a little bit bigger that year, and when the day came, and nothing happened, I couldn’t get up the nerve to ask, you marched in the house and told my mom what I wanted.”
Ian swallowed, the thick line of his throat moving as he did. “Pretty sure she’s hated me ever since.”
I thought about the girl who’d sat in Ian’s car in the driveway, crying because she always felt just a little bit like a burden in her own house, too nervous to ask my parents if we had anything special planned for my birthday. And I thought about the boy who wiped my tears, listened to me melt down about how it would probably always be like this, how they’d never change, and I’d probably end up alone and making my own birthday cake because they didn’t care.
“My mom doesn’t hate you,” I said. “But I don’t think she understands you either. The way you always took care of me. It didn’t make sense to her,” I added quietly.
The way you still take care of me.I left it unsaid though, because suddenly, an admission like that didn’t feel so inconsequential anymore.
Ian’s eyes held mine, just a touch longer than was comfortable, and then he looked away, just before my pulse shot off like a rocket. “Your birthday’s coming up.”
“Thirty-five,” I said smoothly. “Wasn’t that part of my freak-out that day?”
“Might’ve been,” he murmured in a deep, rumbling voice that I felt in my chest bone. The vibration of it was soothing and low, like if I laid my head against it when he spoke, it might lull me to sleep.
“It sounded so old to me back then.” I shook my head with a slight laugh. “Like this was the age you have everything figured out. And I can’t tell you how much I don’t. Every single day, I feel like I’m winging it. Constantly looking around for someone adultier than me who has all the answers.”
Ian smiled a little. “I don’t think adultier is a word.”
“It should be.” I cocked an eyebrow. “You knew what I meant, didn’t you?”
He didn’t answer, simply gave me one of those looks again with a hint of a smile in his eyes, and I sat back with a grin.
From the second-floor landing, Sage yelled down the stairs. “Mom? Can I sleep over at Aunt Rachel’s tonight?”
“Did they invite you, or are you inviting yourself?” I yelled back.
There was a telling beat of silence.
“They invited me. You should have a message from Aunt Rachel saying it’s okay.”
With a sigh, I flipped my phone over and saw a text waiting from my sister. I blew out a slow breath as I thought it through. “Yeah, that’s fine. Pack some clean pajamas and don’t forget your toothbrush!”
The excited pounding of her footsteps had me laughing under my breath. I raked my hands through my ponytail, careless of what mess it left behind. “You don’t have to apologize to me about what you did, Ian.”
“No?”
I shook my head. “You’ve always done this. It’s in your nature. And I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have benefit from it than my daughter.” I stood, and heedless of The Thoughts or the fears that came with them, I laid my hand on his shoulder—the muscles warm and solid under my palm—and leaned down to drop a kiss on the top of his head.
This close, I could smell his shampoo, the soap he used on his skin. Even after a day of work, Ian smelled clean and masculine and wonderful. Where his hand sat on the table, his fingers curled into a fist, and I slowly backed away.
His eyes tracked my every movement.
“Thank you,” I told him, squeezing my hand and then walking away.
He sat at the table, unmoving, as I left the room to go talk to Sage, and my heart didn’t stop hammering in my chest until I was safely upstairs. That hand clenching into a fist—something I’d normally imagine as a helpless gesture that screamed of restraint—flashed behind my eyes, and I struggled to get my pulse under control. The thought of being in a house with him all night … just the two of us, loomed big and dangerous if I didn’t get my shit under control.
My phone dinged again just as I hit the second floor, and instead of a message from Rachel, it was Poppy. The muscles in my back and shoulders went slack with relief when I read it.
Poppy: Any chance you want to join me and Ivy for a couple of drinks tonight? Cameron’s going out and she doesn’t feel like sitting home alone.
Me: YES. Please. Tell me when and where.