Chapter 23 Janie
TWENTY-THREE
Janie
I walk into my bedroom and lean against my dresser, my hand flat against the cool, waxed wood for support.
The house is quiet, just the tick of pipes and the faint white noise of the noise machine outside of Beckett's room. All of it intensifies the feeling of being trapped with the storm still rolling through my body.
Sleep right now is impossible. My skin tingles, and my pulse thrums low and hot between my legs. I’m soaked with want, every nerve replaying how close he came.
His face was inches from mine. His breath ghosted across my mouth.
My pussy throbs when I think about the way his eyes dropped to my lips like he was starving.
And then, he stopped.
I grip the edge of the dresser until my knuckles ache. Why did he pull back? Why can’t I stop wanting him, anyway?
I drop onto the edge of the mattress, my thighs pressing together, desperate and restless. My body doesn’t care about the lie I told or the secret I kept. It only remembers him leaning in, heat radiating between us, promising what could have been if he’d just closed that last inch.
“Dammit,” I whisper into the dark, dragging both hands through my hair. The echo of him lingers everywhere, a ghost I can’t banish, no matter how much I try.
I flop back against the pillows. My skin is too tight, my heartbeat too loud in my ears. I can still smell him—sandalwood and pine—lingering on my couch, in my living room. In my mind.
Rolling over doesn’t help. Neither does staring at the ceiling. My body remembers his nearness like a phantom limb, aching for what was just out of reach.
I push up, feet hitting the cool floor. Three steps to the window, two back. Moonlight glints off the framed photo of Beckett, gap-toothed and grinning. Our son. Warren’s son.
The bathroom will have to be my refuge. I twist the faucet, watching steam curl up from the tub. In the mirror, my reflection is flushed and I look more tired than I feel.
I flick off the overhead light, strike a candle, and pour lavender Epsom salt into the water. The scent fills the air as the water rises. If I can’t lose myself in him, maybe I can burn it out of me this way.
I slide into the scalding water.
My body trembles, and it’s not from the heat. It’s Warren, the brush of his knee against mine, the shift of his shoulders as he leaned toward me, the breath between us when we almost kissed.
I sink deeper, water lapping at my collarbone.
He walked away.
But the truth is sharper. He didn’t look like a man who wanted to leave. He looked like a man barely holding himself back.
My fingers drift across my stomach, sliding lower into the water. I imagine his hands instead of mine, his mouth at my neck, his voice murmuring my name.
“This is dangerous,” I breathe, even as a low ache pulses inside me, insistent and unrelenting.
Not the bath. Not the touch. The wanting. Wanting Warren after everything curls low in my stomach, recklessly, as if I’ve set a match to something I can’t put out.
Yet here I am, trembling in a cooling bath, my body alive with the thought of him inside me.
I know better. But hope is a stubborn thing, burrowing beneath my skin, impossible to dislodge.
Morning sunlight spills across the park, turning dewdrops into diamonds on the cool morning grass. I sip my coffee, watching Beckett tear across the field with a pack of neighborhood kids.
His high, bright, and completely uninhibited laughter carries on the crisp air.
I pull out my phone to touch base with Gemma. She left Savannah yesterday to fly back to San Antonio for Thanksgiving, so she's probably elbows-deep into helping her mom get everything ready.
"Hey, Phantom of Palm Beach," she answers as I tug my sweatshirt tighter around me.
I wave at Beckett as he looks over from the top of the climbing wall to see if I see him.
"Phantom?"
"You've sent me to voicemail for the last two days. Are you going to tell me about the fair, or do I need to drag it out of you?"
I sink back into the bench. "I'm sorry. I do have a job during the day, Lady. There's nothing to tell."
"What evs. You texted me that the three of you went to the fair together with twenty-five emojis. 'Nothing to tell' doesn't warrant that many emojis."
Her laugh fills my ear as I chew on my thumbnail.
Heat crawls up my neck. "I'm serious. Nothing happened. It was just a nice night. I guess I was in a good mood."
"Your voice goes up when you lie. Dead giveaway."
I watch Beckett change direction, legs pumping as he swings higher on the swing, now.
"Look, nothing happened, but more of that slightly better I told you about. It honestly was just a fun night. Almost like we were a family."
"Mmm hmm," she hums into the phone, like she doesn't believe me.
"And last night, we almost kissed."
"Almost?"
"He leaned in, and I thought it was about to go down, and then he stopped and said he had to go."
Gemma sighs. "That man has more restraint than a monk."
The memory of Warren’s conflicted face flashes through my mind. “The weird thing is, even though nothing happened, and I know he’s fighting it, I can picture it.”
“Picture what?”
My throat goes dry. “Warren. Not just as Beckett’s dad. As… mine too. Like he belongs with us. Shit. I'm a goner.”
The words crack something open in me, equal parts longing and terror.
“That terrifies you,” Gemma says softly.
“Of course it does.” I rub my pointer finger along the corrugated sleeve of my coffee cup.
“Because if I’m wrong, if I let myself believe he wants more than just showing up for Beckett, then I’m not the only one who gets crushed.
Beckett will too. And Blake…” I trail off, shaking my head.
“There’s a lot more at stake than my heart. ”
Across the field, Beckett runs after another child on the field.
Gemma's voice softens. "Janie, you deserve to live again.
You're only twenty-seven. You've been in survival mode for years.
Let yourself take a leap. Maybe you need to be the one to push.
Based on what you're saying, I think he wants it, but you're going to have to make the move.
If it fails, then you pick yourself up and you'll survive. "
"What if I'm reading it all wrong?" The words come out as a whisper. "You're hearing all of this through my lens. Maybe I'm crazy."
"You're definitely crazy. I stand by my advice. Go for it and see what happens."
"I have to go. We're heading to Mom's to help with Thanksgiving prep for tomorrow."
"Is Warren still coming?"
"Oh, yeah. God help us."
I hang up and tuck the phone into my pocket, calling out to Beckett.
"Time to go, buddy! Mimi's waiting!"
He races toward me, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. Warren's eyes.
Mom's kitchen smells like sage and butter. I came over yesterday to help her get most of this ready, but we have a few day-of things to prepare.
I whisk the gravy, trying not to watch the door while everyone bustles around me.
"Janie, those potatoes need mashing." Mom points with a wooden spoon. Her apron reads Kiss the Cook, faded from a hundred washings.
I abandon the gravy and grab the potato masher. "On it."
Beckett races through the kitchen, Emma and Tyler at his heels. "Mom! Tyler's got a new space game upstairs!"
"That's great, Becks. No running in the house," I yell after him.
The kids disappear in a thunder of footsteps. Dad turns up the football game, settling into his recliner with a contented sigh. Blake and Cile set the table, arguing playfully about the proper way to fold napkins.
The doorbell rings. My heart slams against my ribs.
"I'll get it!" Mom calls, wiping her hands on her apron.
I keep mashing, harder than necessary, potato bits flying.
"Warren!" Mom's delighted voice floats from the entryway. "Happy Thanksgiving, you handsome turkey! So glad you could join us."
I don't look up, but I sense him. The air changes when he walks into the house.
"Happy Thanksgiving. Margaret, you're looking lovely as always." His deep voice wraps around me. "Something smells amazing."
"Such a charmer." Mom squeezes his arm. "Just in time to taste-test my cranberry sauce."
I finally glance up. Warren stands in worn jeans and a navy sweater, holding a bottle of wine. His eyes find mine instantly.
"Hey," he says softly.
"Hey." The masher pauses in my hand.
"Those potatoes surrender yet?" A smile plays at the corner of his mouth.
"Nearly." I return to mashing, grateful for something to do with my hands.
Dinner begins with Dad's theatrical carving of the turkey. Warren sits across from me, between Blake and Tyler's empty chair. Beckett rushes in with the other kids, climbing into his seat beside me.
"Warren! Did you see the new space game?" Beckett beams.
"Not yet, but I'd love to after dinner." Warren passes the cranberry sauce our way.
"It's really hard. There's a space dragon," Beckett's hands spread wide.
Warren leans forward. "A dragon, huh? Is he friendly or does he eat space ships?"
"Both!" Beckett giggles.
The meal unfolds easily. Warren helps Emma scoop potatoes, laughs at Dad’s terrible jokes, and even asks Mom about her garden. He slides into the rhythm of us as if he’s always been here.
Except not with me. Not really.
When I pass him the gravy, his touch finds me in that narrow space, featherlight, gone too fast—yet my body locks tight like he branded me.
Beneath the tablecloth, I nudge my toes against his ankle. His eyes snap to mine, widening slightly. But he doesn’t move away.
Heat rushes up my throat as I keep the contact, hidden from everyone else. Reckless. Dangerous. And more alive than I’ve felt in years.
"More turkey, Warren?" Mom offers.
"Thank you, Margaret." His voice remains steady while our ankles press together.
After pumpkin pie, Blake leans back in his chair. "Hey Becks, want to have a sleepover with Emma and Tyler tonight? We're building a fan fort."
Beckett bounces in his seat. "Yes! What's a fan fort? Can I, Mom? Please?"