Chapter 23 Clara #2
The tiny sting came anyway, pricking the inside of my ribs. I pasted on a grin. “Fine. I’ll just go dazzle the entire population of Star Harbor without you.”
“Try not to get arrested,” he said dryly.
I grabbed my coat from the hook and shrugged it on, stuffing my hands into the sleeves. “No promises.”
At the door I paused and glanced back.
He was watching me, one hand rubbing absently at the seam where his prosthetic met his skin, the other hanging loose at his side. His face was neutral, but his eyes were not.
My heart kicked once, hard.
“Think about it,” I said, voice softer. “The Lantern, I mean. Kit’s dragging Hayes. It’ll be loud and ridiculous. You two can complain about it together.”
Something flickered across his expression at my brother’s name, some kind of internal calculation. Then his mouth flattened. “Thanks for the invite,” he said, which was clearly Wes-speak for fuck no.
I nodded and lifted a shoulder like it didn’t matter. “Okay. Don’t wait up for me.”
“I won’t,” he said automatically.
We both knew he would.
I opened the door, winter air rushing in, sharp and clean. As I stepped out onto the porch, I could feel his gaze between my shoulder blades, hot and heavy, following me all the way to Kit’s waiting car.
The Lantern was humming when we walked in.
Warm light spilled over scuffed floors, catching on old ship wheels and brass lanterns hung along the walls.
Somebody had strung fairy lights over the bar like constellations, and the smell of beer, fried food, and cheap citrus slices wrapped around us as we pushed through the door.
A three-piece band was wedged into the corner—guitar, upright bass, and a guy with a fiddle who looked like he’d been born on that little stage.
The music rolled across the room, something low and bluesy that made the windows shiver in their frames.
Out past the glass, the lake was a dark, restless shape, snow piled along the shore like the rim of a world.
Kit hooked her arm through mine and steered us toward a high-top near the back. Hayes trailed behind us, his sharp eyes assessing the room. He nodded toward the bar and was swallowed by the crowd.
Kit and I squeezed around a sticky table under a framed newspaper clipping of the Lady of the Dunes. Kit jutted her chin toward the faded newspaper clipping over my shoulder. “Of course she had a secret baby. Women like that always have secret babies. It’s practically a requirement.”
Hayes walked up and set the drinks down with a clink—two ciders and something brown in a rocks glass for himself. “No father listed,” Kit said, shaking her head. “That part just . . . makes me mad. What if he got to peace out of the story and she had to carry the whole scandal by herself?”
I wrapped my fingers around my glass, icy condensation slick under my palm. “That would have been peak small-town shame,” I said. “Hide the girl. Hide the baby. Slap a ring on her finger and pretend the timeline math checks out. Or . . . maybe he didn’t know?”
Hayes’s panicked gaze flicked between our faces. “Did I miss something? Who’s got a secret baby?”
Kit grinned like she was going to give him a hard time but chose mercy instead.
“The Lady,” I offered. “All kinds of drama are shaking out. We think her engagement to William was to save face.”
“Or to shut her up,” Kit muttered, picking at the paper coaster. “Feels very on brand for the patriarchy.”
The band slid into a new song, something faster that sent a little ripple through the crowd. I leaned into my brother. “We want to figure out who the father is . . . and what happened to the baby.”
A chill walked over my skin that had nothing to do with the cold by the windows. “My money is on the farmhand,” I said quietly.
The one who looks exactly like you.
Hayes patted a hand on the table. “Well, good luck with that.” Our brother was dragged into a conversation with the table next to us, and I sighed in relief.
Kit shuddered theatrically before leaning in to whisper. “Seriously, every time I see that photo, I want to throw salt over my shoulder. Dude is Hayes with a sepia filter.”
“Which means our family is likely tangled up in all this,” I whispered back.
I took a sip of cider, the sweetness sitting heavy on my tongue. “So our brother might be a great-great-grandchild of the Lady’s secret affair or the guy who ruined her life. No big deal.”
Kit snorted. “Explains a lot about his curse, honestly. You’d be pissed, too, if your family tree started with a scandal and a cover-up.”
The curse.
It hung between us even when we dressed it up as a joke. Hayes’s endless streak of bad luck. Weird accidents and annoying inconveniences. The way the Lady’s story spiraled through everything in this town like a thread nobody could quite pull free.
When Hayes turned back, we both straightened and pretended to be talking about anything else.
I took another sip, letting the cider burn a slow path down my throat, and tried—really tried—to focus on the band, on the chatter, on Kit waving at someone across the room like a human lighthouse.
It worked for about thirty seconds.
A guy in a flannel shirt and decent jeans stepped up to the table, all easy smiles and faint beer breath.
I’d seen him around—maybe he worked at the hardware store or ran charters in the summer, but I couldn’t place it.
He was pleasantly handsome in a way that did absolutely nothing to my heart rate.
“Hey,” he said, looking at me and then flicking an acknowledging nod at the other two. “I’m Nate.”
Kit’s eyes lit up like someone had just dropped a plot twist in her lap. “Nate, this is Clara,” she said, far too innocently. “She was just saying how she needed to dance or she was going to combust.”
“I literally wasn’t,” I protested.
Nate smiled, unfazed. “We should probably prevent spontaneous combustion, then.” He held out a hand. “You want to?”
Hayes’s brows went up before shaking his head. “I’m getting another drink.” He slid off his stool and sauntered away.
“Go have fun.” Kit laughed. “I’ll guard your drink. And your honor.”
I hesitated for half a breath.
I was here. I was dressed like a person who existed outside of sweatpants. I had spent an entire day trying not to replay a kiss with a man I technically had no business thinking about that way.
I could dance with someone who wasn’t him.
“Sure,” I said, sliding off the stool. “Why not.”
Nate’s palm was solid and a little rough as he led me toward the dance floor, weaving through tables and groups. The band shifted into something mid-tempo and swaying, couples already moving in that small-town way where everyone instinctively knew the steps, even if there weren’t any.
He settled one hand at my waist, took my other in his, and started to move.
Technically, there was nothing wrong with it.
His hold was polite. Appropriate. Not too close, not too far. He smelled like bourbon and store-bought cologne, the kind that came in a gift set with a matching bodywash. His rhythm was decent.
It did absolutely nothing to me.
My body swayed because the music told it to. My feet moved because muscle memory kicked in. My mind, unfortunately, had no interest in staying here.
It slipped sideways, back to how it felt to dance with Wes in his quiet living room.
Nate’s thumb brushed a vague pattern at the small of my back.
Wes’s thumb had dragged slow and possessive along the waistband of my jeans, like he wanted to memorize every inch of skin between layers, like he wanted me closer even when there was no space left.
Nate’s chest bumped mine lightly with each step, solid but forgettable.
Wes’s chest had been a wall, heat and muscle and that familiar broadness I’d known for years compressed into a new, devastating arrangement. He had held me like he didn’t want a single millimeter of distance. Like space between us was an insult.
“Am I stepping on you?” Nate asked, leaning in a little to be heard.
“Um.” I blinked up at him. “No, sorry. You’re good. I’m . . . a little out of practice.”
He smiled, easy and kind. “You’re doing fine.”
Fine.
Wes hadn’t made me feel fine.
Wes had swayed with me like I was the only thing in the world that made sense for a stolen handful of seconds. Like he’d forgotten about his leg, his fear, and the storm in his own head.
My throat tightened.
Nate twirled me lazily, one hand still in mine. I went with it, letting my body spin, letting my hair fan out, letting the room blur into fairy lights and faces. When I settled back into his frame, the contact felt . . . muted. Like turning down the volume on a song that should have been loud.
Somewhere near our table, Kit whooped, the sound bright and piercing through the din. She laughed, head tipped back, all teeth and reckless joy.
I wished I could drag my feelings into that brightness and leave them there.
Nate swayed to the music. “You’re from here, right?”
“Kind of.” I shrugged. “I grew up here, then left. Came back with my tail between my legs.”
He chuckled. “Sounds like there’s a story there.”
A humorless laugh escaped my nose. “You have no idea,” I muttered.
His hand pressed a little firmer at my waist. “Well, for what it’s worth, you look like you belong here.”
The words were nice. He was nice. The music was good, the bar was warm, the town was exactly itself.
My heart was such a traitor.
The song wound down. Nate loosened his hold and stepped back, still smiling. “Thanks,” he said. “You want another drink?”
“I’m good,” I said, because he deserved better than being my human control group. “Maybe later. I promised Kit I’d come rescue her if she flirted with the bartender again.”
He laughed. “Fair enough. See you around?”
“Yeah,” I said. “See you.”
I slipped away before guilt could turn into pity on either of our faces, weaving back through the bodies to the safety of my sister.
At the table, Kit gave me a hopeful look. “Well?”
“He was nice,” I said, grabbing my drink.
“Nice,” she repeated with a groan. “Tragic.”
My phone buzzed on the sticky tabletop.
Wes
How’s the dazzling going? Anyone blinded yet or just mildly inconvenienced?
Heat pricked at the back of my neck. My lips tugged up before I could stop them, the smile sneaking out so fast I had to duck my head and pretend to study my cider.
“Who’s that?” Kit singsonged.
“No one,” I lied, thumbs already moving.
Me
One guy survived the experience and can still see colors. I think I’m losing my touch.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Wes
Doubtful. Star Harbor just isn’t ready for your full wattage yet.
My chest did a stupid little squeeze. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning like a teenager and locked my phone, tucking it under my palm before Kit could snatch it.
Out on the floor, couples swayed closer as the band slid into something slow and dirty. Hands skimmed hips. Heads tucked into necks. I watched a woman laugh as her partner spun her, trusting him completely to catch her.
My mind drifted back to Wes as he swayed with me in the dark like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to enjoy it. To the tiny, careful way his hand had flexed at my waist when he’d forgotten to be afraid.
Maybe Hayes wasn’t the only Darling who was cursed. Maybe I was cursed too—cursed to want the one man in this town I absolutely, unequivocally should not.
A man who had my brother’s trust.
A man who was still piecing himself back together.
A man whose kiss had somehow ruined every other touch.
Then it dawned on me, Wes’s body worked just fine. It was his confidence that had taken the hit.
A reckless little thought whispered.
If I could remind him he still knew how to move to music . . . what else could I remind him of?